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The 


Haverf ordlan 


Volume  36 


Haverford  College 
1914  -  1915 


O  J 


THE    HAVERFORDIAN 


f  YosHio  NiTOBE.  1915,  Editor-in-Chief 

ASSOCIATE  EDITORS 
F.  M.  MoRLEY,  1915  K.  P.  A.  Taylor.  1915 

E.  M.  Pharo,  1915  D.  B.  Van  Hollen,  1915 

E.  C.  Bye,  1916 

BUSINESS  MANAGER 
Albert  G.  Garrigues,  1916 

Price,  per  year $1.00  Single  Copies $0.15 

The  Haverfordian  is  published  on  the  first  of  each  month  during  College  year.  Its  purpose 
is  to  foster  the  literary  spirit  among  the  undergraduates  and  to  provide  an  organ  for  the  discussion  of 
questions  relative  to  college  life  and  policy.  To  these  ends  contributions  are  invited,  and  will  be  con- 
sidered solely  on  their  merits.  Matter  intended  for  insertion  should  reach  the  Editor  not  later  than  the 
fifteenth  of  the  month  preceding  the  date  of  issue. 

Entered  at  the  Haverford  Post-Office,  for  transmission  through  the  mails  as  second-class  matter. 

VOL.  XXXVI.  HAVERFORD,  PA  ,  MARCH,  1914  No.  1 


Jfor  tf)E  ?2inbergrabuatE 

MR.  DOUGLAS  WAPLES,  under  whose  leadership  and  foresight 
The  Haverfordian  has  reached  a  higher  level  than  it  has  ever 
attained,  has  so  admirably  stated  the  policy  of  this  magazine 
that  it  will  be  unnecessary  to  do  so  again.  It  is  for  us,  as  Lincoln  express- 
ed it,  "to  be  dedicated  here  to  the  unfinished  work  which  they  have  thus 
far  so  nobly  advanced." 

The  first  and  most  important  step  in  the  furtherance  of  the  new  policy 
is  the  support  of  the  men  now  at  college.  What  can  you  do  to  help  your 
magazine?     The  answer  is  simple;  contribute  at  least  one  manuscript. 

The  Haverfordian  publishes  any  article  of  general  interest  that  is 
clearly  written.  Clear  writing  necessitates  clear  thinking,  and  anyone 
can  think  clearly  on  a  subject  which  he  knows  thoroughly.  Every  one  of 
you  is  steeped  in  at  least  one  subject.  Write  us  a  paper  on  that  subject, 
whatever  it  may  be. 

Some  at  college  think  that  The  Haverfordian  is  only  for  short 
stories  and  imaginative  writing.  We  want  short  stories  and  imaginative 
efforts,  but  we  also  want  thoughts  and  facts. 

The  Haverfordian  is  not  for  the  literati,  it  is  for  every  one  of  you. 
There  is  something  which  you  know,  which  the  others  do  not  know  but 


4  The  Haverfordian 

wish  to  know.  "Write  it  cleari}'^  and  it  will  be  interesting  and  therefore 
published. 

Those  who  read  The  Haverfordian  prefer  to  read  thoughts  and  facts 
amateurishly  wT-itten  rather  than  sentimentalities  and  imagination 
crudely  expressed.  In  the  one  they  at  least  get  an  idea,  in  the  other  they 
get  nothing  at  all. 

Finall}',  bear  in  mind  that  this  is  yotu"  magazine  and  the  forum  for 
the  expression  of  your  ideas.  The  Haverfordian  is  one  of  your  big 
opportunities  at  college.     Are  you  taking  advantage  of  it? 

Snnobations! 

The  Haverfordian  has  started  the  innovation  of  short  introductory 
notes  to  guide  the  casual  reader,  hoping  that  these  notes,  though  perhaps 
detracting  from  the  "  dignity' '  of  the  magazine's  make-up,  may  add  inter- 
est to  its  pages. 

The  Haverfordian  with  this  issue  starts  a  section  devoted  to  drama. 
We  would  like  if  possible  to  review  new  plaj's,  but  on  account  of  our  situa- 
tion and  the  time  it  takes  for  the  magazine  to  be  printed  this  is  impossible. 
Therefore  our  policy  is  to  -write  comments  on  actors,  pla>'wrights  and  plays 
rather  than  the  criticism  of  staged  productions  themselves. 

"When  there  is  a  publication  of  special  interest  to  Haverfordians,  there 
will  be  a  book  review.  At  other  times  we  hardly  think  it  will  be  of  suffi- 
cient interest  to  continue  this  department.  The  undergraduate  criticism 
is  of  interest  to  editors  alone;  The  Haverfordian  is  for  the  college. 

The  editorial  is  mth  this  number  moved  to  the  front.  We  woidd  not 
feel  justified  in  this  change  excepting  for  the  fact  that  henceforth  the 
editorials  will  be  as  brief  as  is  consistent  with  good  writing. 

All  these  innovations  are  in  the  form  of  experiments,  and  we  ask  your 
indulgence  until  we  get  fully  under  way. 


i5ationaIt«m  in  ^rt 

By  William  Henry  Chamberlin,  '17 

This  article  is  the  first  piece  of  work  appearing  in  the  Haverfordian  by  a 
member  of  the  Class  of  1917. 

THE  general  tendency  at  the  present  time  is  to  depreciate  all  purely 
national  influences  as  narrowing  in  an  artistic  sense.  We  hear 
a  great  deal  about  "the  international  mind" ;  and  the  impression 
is  given  that  the  truly  great  genius  rises  above  all  racial  and  patriotic 
influences  and  creates  art  which  appeals  to  the  whole  world  as  much  as  to 
his  own  particular  country.  While  there  is  a  great  deal  of  truth  in  these 
contentions,  the  importance  of  the  debt  which  art  owes  to  race  sympathy 
and  feeling  cannot  be  underrated.  It  is  the  purpose  of  this  article  to 
investigate  the  nature  and  extent  of  this  debt. 

Let  us  first  turn  to  the  Scandinavian  peninsula.  The  climate  of 
Norway  and  Sweden,  through  its  very  bleakness  and  ruggedness,  en- 
courages a  strong  and  vigorous  life,  mentally  and  physically,  among  the 
natives ;  and  these  two  countries  have  exerted  an  influence  upon  Europe 
which  is  quite  disproportionate  to  their  scanty  population  and  meagre 
material  resources.  Passing  over  writers  of  less  fame,  we  come  to  Henryk 
Isben  and  August  Strindberg,  two  of  the  foremost  of  the  modem  European 
dramatists.  The  most  distinctive  features  of  the  Norwegian  landscape, 
the  sea,  the  fiords,  the  glaciers,  the  tiny  farms  crouched  on  the  mountain 
sides,  appear  in  very  many  of  Ibsen's  works,  notably  "Brand,"  "Peer 
Gynt' '  and  "  The  Lady  from  the  Sea."  Certainly  the  omission  of  this  rich 
coloring  would  rob  these  works  of  much  of  their  charm.  Strindberg  is 
chiefly  known  for  the  savage  pessimism  which  fills  his  later  works.  But 
some  of  his  finest  creations,  such  as  "Easter,"  " Midsummertide"  and 
"The  Stone  Man,"  are  little  more  than  folk  stories  in  their  plots.  The 
psychological  influence  of  the  northern  climate  is  harder  to  analyze,  but 
it  may  safely  be  said  that  the  combination  of  virility  and  sadness  which 
inspired  the  Berserkr  outbursts  of  the  old  Vikings  finds  its  modern  vent  in 
the  scathing  satire  of  Ibsen  and  the  abysmal  gloom  of  Strindberg. 

Italy  is,  of  all  countries,  the  most  removed  from  Norway  and  Sweden, 
both  in  its  scenery  and  in  the  character  of  its  inhabitants,  but  here,  too, 
the  influence  of  nationalism  is  unmistakable,  although  it  finds  expression 
in  a  very  different  way.  The  soft  and  melodious  verse  of  Tasso  and  the 
florid  arias  of  Verdi  are  well  suited  to  the  sunny  skies  and  mild  climate 
which  every  one  associates  with  Italy.  Nor  is  the  enthusiasm  for  this 
typically  national  poetry  and  music  confined  to  the  cultured  and  educated 
clsses.     Franz  Liszt,  the  great  composer,  describes  his  emotion  at  hear- 


6  The  Haverfordian 

ing  the  gondoliers  of  Venice,  three  centuries  after  the  ill-fated  Tasso's 
death,  sing  the  opening  verses  of  the  poet's  masterpiece,  "Jerusalem 
Delivered."  The  enthusiasm  of  the  whole  Italian  nation  for  Verdi's 
romantic  operas  is  too  well  known  to  need  further  comment.  The  deeper 
and  more  serious  side  of  the  Italian  character  is  found  in  the  stately 
measures  of  "The  Divine  Comedy,"  while  southern  malioe  and  gayety 
sparkle  through  every  page  of  Boccaccio's  "Decamerone." 

We  now  come  to  Spain,  the  coimtry  of  Toledo  blades,  rich  vineyards, 
"Carmen"  and  the  Cid.  As  yet  this  country  has  not  produced  any  rec- 
ognized masterpieces  of  classic  music.  But  the  spirit  of  the  people  has 
found  a  most  effective  means  of  expression  in  their  numerous  and  richly 
colored  provincial  dances,  which  have  been  a  source  of  inspiration  to  many 
composers  of  different  nationalities.  The  Russian,  Rimsky-Korsakow,  is 
especially  fond  of  Spanish  themes.  These  dances  present  a  truly  Moorish 
combination  of  fire  and  grace. 

Hungary  and  the  Balkan  States  resemble  Spain  in  the  character  of 
their  music.  Liszt  has  used  many  of  the  spirited  Hungarian  dance  themes 
in  his  famous  rhapsodies,  and  Brahms  is  more  widely  known  through  his 
Hungarian  dances  than  through  his  more  serious  symphonic  works.  The 
Hungarian  airs  are  typical  of  the  nation  in  their  spirited  and  martial 
gayety. 

The  m.usic  of  the  great  German  composers,  Beethoven,  Bach,  Schu- 
mann and  Wagner,  like  the  literature  of  Goethe  and  Schiller,  is  too  uni- 
versal in  its  message  to  be  called  genuinely  national.  We  should  rather 
look  for  the  voice  of  the  German  people  in  their  patriotic  songs,  such  as 
"The  Watch  on  the  Rhine."  But  it  cannot  be  gainsaid  that  the  depth, 
sincerit}'  and  restrained  power  which  are  so  apparent  in  the  music  of  Bee- 
thoven and  Schumann  are  extremely  representative  of  the  character  of  the 
German  nation. 

French  literature  and  music  are  decidedly  less  national  than  those  of 
any  other  European  covmtry.  This  is  probably  due  to  the  fact  that 
French  intellectual  life  is  largely  centered  in  Paris,  the  most  cosmopolitan 
city  in  the  world.  There  is  nothing  in  the  novels  of  Flaubert  and  the  music 
of  Saint-Saens  which  could  not  have  been  written  just  as  well  if  the  artist 
had  been  a  citizen  of  any  other  civilized  country.  And  yet,  even  in  the 
art  work  of  cosmopolitan  France,  there  would  be  serious  gaps  if  the 
national  element  were  completely  eliminated.  Who  would  wish  to  miss 
the  indescribably  Parisian  flavor  which  Balzac  infuses  into  so  many  of  his 
novels?  And  there  is  a  pecuHar  form  of  wit,  subtle  and  delicate,  but  sharp 
and  deadly  as  a  rapier  thrust,  which  no  other  nation  possesses  and  which 
may  well  be  called  pre-eminently  Gallic. 


Nationalism  in  Art  7 

By  far  the  richest  field  for  an  investigation  of  this  sort  is  presented  in 
the  great  Russian  Empire.  Ivan  Turgeniev,  probably  the  most  distin- 
guished of  the  Russian  writers  of  the  last  century,  voiced  the  spirit  of  the 
majority  of  his  countrymen  in  two  sweeping  sentences :  "  Without  nation- 
alism there  is  neither  art,  nor  truth,  nor  life;  there  is  nothing.  The  man 
who  has  no  fatherland  is  a  cipher,  is  worse  than  a  cipher."  Of  course  this 
is  a  greatly  exaggerated  estimate  of  the  necessity  of  nationalism.  Turgen- 
iev's  own  works  would  never  have  attained  their  worldwide  celebrity  if 
their  appeal  had  not  been  more  than  national.  But  his  opinion  is  none  the 
less  significant  in  its  revelation  of  the  intensely  patriotic  feeling  which 
pervades  almost  every  phase  of  Russian  art.  And  we  shall  not  have  to 
seek  far  for  the  reasons  for  this  feeling.  From  time  immemorial  the  Rus- 
sian has  been  denied  an  active  voice  in  the  government  of  his  country. 
Only  in  recent  years  has  even  a  semblance  of  constitutional  monarchy 
been  established  in  the  great  icebound  empire.  The  knout,  the  prison, 
Siberia,  the  gallows  have  hitherto  effectively  repressed  all  movements 
which  tended  to  give  the  country  a  larger  share  of  political  and  industrial 
freedom.  And  this  stem  tyranny  has  been  so  effective  in  crushing  all 
independence  of  thought,  that,  up  to  the  beginning  of  the  nineteenth 
century,  Russia  had  contributed  practically  nothing  to  the  world's 
store  of  music  and  literature.  But  the  great  forward  movement  which 
swept  over  all  of  Europe  during  the  last  century  had  a  very  marked  effect 
upon  Russia.  A  group  of  exceptionally  gifted  authors  and  musicians 
sprang  up;  and  these  men,  denied  all  political  expression,  were  forced  to 
confine  their  patriotic  feelings  to  their  art.  So  we  find  Tschaikowsky,  the 
most  famous  of  the  Russian  composers,  eagerly  using  folk  melodies  in  his 
most  important  compositions,  and  Tolstoy  and  Turgeniev  dwelling  with 
indescribable  fondness  upon  the  minutest  details  of  everyday  Russian 
life.  This  expression  of  patriotism  in  art  is  very  common  in  despotic 
monarchies,  and  finds  a  close  analogy  in  the  so-called  "Golden  Age"  of 
Roman  poetry,  which,  as  every  one  knows,  followed  immediately  upon  the 
transformation  of  the  Roman  republic  into  an  empire.  But  the  influence 
of  Russian  character  upon  Russian  art  has  a  far  deeper  and  more  important 
side. 

The  long  period  of  Tartar  conquest  and  the  succeeding  centuries  of 
domestic  tyranny  have  helped  to  form  in  the  Slavonic  mind  an  irresisti- 
ble tendency  towards  gloom  and  pessimism.  In  no  country  in  the  world 
is  suicide  so  common,  not  only  among  the  ignorant  and  oppressed  peas- 
ants, but  also  among  the  educated  classes.  Many  of  Turgeniev' s  novels 
lead  up  to  suicide,  not  as  to  a  tragedy,  but  as  to  a  logical  and  natural  end- 
ing.    The  deep-seated  national  gloom  appears  in  every  page  of  Vostevo- 


3  The  Haverfordian 

sky's  sombre  novel,  "Crime  and  Pvmishment."  Even  in  Tolstoy,  the 
most  optimistic  of  the  Russian  writers,  there  is  a  morbid  tendenc}'  to 
enlarge  upon  the  tragic  side  of  life.  This  tendency  is  especially  noticea- 
ble in  his  two  famous  problem  novels,  "War  and  Peace"  and" Resurrec- 
tion." 

In  music  Russia  holds  a  very  high  place  among  the  nations  of  the 
world.  Tschaikowsky,  Rubinstein,  Glinka,  RaschmaninofE  and  Arensky, 
to  mention  only  a  few  of  the  more  distingmshed  names,  form  a  group  of 
composers  unsurpassed  by  those  of  any  other  country  except  Germany. 
And  the  Russian  music  is  peculiar  in  its  personal  quality.  It  is  almost 
always  subjective  and  emotional;  very  seldom  objective  and  intellectual. 
This  intense  emotionalism  is  one  of  the  most  important  elements  in  the 
popularity  of  Tschaikowsky' s  "  Pathetique' '  symphony.  Needless  to 
say,  this  emotionalism  is  almost  invariably  of  a  bitterly  pessimistic  charac- 
ter. The  last  movement  of  the  "Pathetique"  has  been  appropriately 
called  "  suicide  music."  And  the  same  composer,  in  WTiting  to  his  closest 
friend  about  his  Fourth  Symphony,  says:  "  In  this  work  I  have  attempted 
to  convey  my  impression  of  the  absolutely  hopeless  struggle  of  man  with 
fate."  This  sentence  may  well  be  called  the  keynote  of  the  Russian 
national  character  and  philosophy. 

Poland,  the  most  romantic  and  ill-fated  country  in  Europe,  has 
produced  only  one  artistic  genius  of  the  first  renown,  the  piano  composer, 
Frederic  Chopin.  But  in  his  numerous,  rich  and  widely  diverse  creations 
we  find  the  poetic  expression  of  almost  all  the  leading  PoHsh  racial  charac- 
teristics. All  the  pride  and  sadness,  the  strength  and  weakness,  the  past 
glory  and  present  misery  of  Poland  are  expressed  with  the  utmost  feeling 
and  beauty  in  the  music  of  the  most  gifted  of  her  sons.  Of  course  so  large 
and  talented  a  nation  as  Poland  has  produced  other  artists  of  more  or  less 
ability:  the  poets  Mickiewicz,  Slowacki  and  Krasinski,  and  the  modem 
novelist  Sienkiewicz  are,  perhaps,  the  most  distinguished  of  the  Polish 
writers.  Overdeveloped  individualism  has  been  the  cause  of  Poland's 
downfall  as  a  nation;  the  people,  although  above  the  general  average  of 
courage  and  mentality  individually,  have  always  been  incapable  of 
vigorous  collective  action.  The  same  trait  has  operated  no  less  power- 
fully, although  less  unfavorably,  upon  their  music  and  literature.  It  has 
given  richness,  color  and  variety  at  the  expense,  perhaps,  of  genuine 
power  and  classic  simplicity. 

Even  the  frigid  cHmate  of  remote  Finland  has  given  birth  to  one  of  the 
foremost  modem  composers  in  Sibelius.  While  some  of  the  works  of  this 
northem  genius  are  really  worldwide  in  their  spirit,  others  are  richly  and 


Nationalism  in  Art  9 

strongly  colored  by  the  associations  and  influences  of  his  entire  life  in  the 
little  Russian  province. 

Having  thus  briefly  glanced  at  the  influence  of  nationalism  upon  the 
art  work  of  the  different  European  countries,  we  naturally  become  inter- 
ested in  the  probable  effect  of  this  same  influence  upon  American  litera- 
ture and  music.  It  is  utterly  impossible,  however,  to  forecast  the  nature 
and  extent  of  this  influence  until  we  gain  some  idea  of  the  shape  which 
our  national  character  is  destined  to  assume.  At  present  we  are  under- 
going an  immense  process  of  flux  and  change.  Millions  of  immigrants, 
widely  different  in  character,  ideals  and  customs,  are  pouring  into  our 
shoers.  Even  a  superficial  investigation  of  the  population  of  any  of  our 
great  cities  would  reveal  the  most  opposed  racial  traits:  the  solid  strength 
of  the  Teuton,  the  vivacity  of  the  Latin,  the  patience  and  tenacity  of  the 
Hebrew,  the  melancholy  and  introspection  of  the  Slav.  This  great 
heterogeneous  mass  has  yet  to  be  welded  into  a  compact  whole.  The 
future  must  reveal  what  sort  of  a  civilization  will  be  forged  out  of  such 
diverse  materials. 

A  less  favorable  omen  for  the  future  of  American  art  is  the  mad  wave 
of  materialism  which  is  now  sweeping  over  the  country  and  threatening  to 
engulf  its  higher  and  nobler  ideals  in  the  abyss  of  commercialism.  This 
materialism  finds  its  most  tangible  expression  in  the  general  demand  that 
the  schools  and  colleges  shall  abandon  the  old  ideas  of  classical  education 
and  substitute  courses  in  plumbing  and  bricklaying  for  the  study  of  Greek 
and  Latin.  The  evil  effects  of  such  a  substitution  upon  the  literary  and 
artistic  future  of  the  nation  cannot  be  overestimated.  It  may  be  said, 
without  any  fear  of  exaggeration,  that,  if  the  study  of  Latin  should  be 
generally  abolished,  the  writing  of  correct  English  would,  within  twenty 
years,  become  the  exception  rather  than  the  rule.  But  let  us  hope  that 
this  craze  for  industrial  education  will  prove  to  be  only  a  passing  fad,  and 
that  the  old  classical  ideals  of  truth  and  beauty  will  soon  regain  their 
former  pre-eminence.  Certainly  the  works  of  Poe,  Emerson,  Lowell, 
Hawthorne  and  Thoreau  demonstrate  the  great  possibilities  of  American 
literature;  and  we  have  every  reason  to  believe  that,  when  our  national 
life  has  adjusted  itself  to  saner  and  more  natural  conditions,  they  will  find 
worthy  successors. 

As  yet  there  is  no  genuine  American  folk  music.  The  negro  and 
Indian  melodies,  which  the  Bohemian  Dvorak  introduces  into  his  famous 
"New  World' '  symphony,  while  beautiful  in  themselves,  have  no  signif- 
icance in  revealing  the  American  national  characteristics.  But  we  must 
remember  that  this  country  is  still  very  young,  and  that  a  national  folk 
music  takes  centuries  to  develop. 


10  The  Haverfordian 

Among  the  American  composers  of  orchestral  and  piano  music,  Mac- 
Dowell,  who  died  a  few  years  ago  in  New  York,  is  the  only  one  who  has 
attained  more  than  a  local  reputation.  His  rich,  sombre  music  closely 
resembles  that  of  the  Norwegian  Grieg,  and  gives  every  prospect  of  a 
future  school  of  gentiinely  American  music. 

In  conclusion,  a  few  words  concerning  the  value  and  importance  of 
distinctively  national  art  will  not  be  out  of  place.  Between  the  radical 
assertion  of  Schopenhauer,  that  patriotism  has  no  place  in  art  and  the 
equally  radical  assertion  of  Turgeniev  that  virility  in  art  is  dependent 
upon  nationalism,  there  is  clearly  a  middle  ground  of  truth  and  modera- 
tion. Let  us  grant  that  the  greatest  in  philosophy,  literature,  painting 
and  music  is  beyond  and  above  national  limitations;  let  us  admit  that 
race  friendship  and  hostility  can  have  no  beneficial  effect  upon  art;  even 
so  the  influence  of  race  characteristics  and  traditions  has  been  a  valuable 
factor  in  the  artistic  development  of  every  nation.  Bacon,  one  of  the 
greatest  English  philosophers,  said  on  one  occasion:  "The  human  mind 
is  not  a  dry  light."  No,  the  mind  of  man  is  not  a  colorless  calctdating 
machine ;  and  it  is  well  for  art  that  it  is  not.  Even  the  noblest  creations 
of  the  human  intellect  derive  a  part  of  their  charm  from  their  emotional 
shading;  and  national  feeling  is  neither  the  least  noble  nor  the  least 
important  of  the  emotions. 


By  Eugene  M.  Pharo,  '15 

A  white  rose  shone,  oh  pure  and  dear 
White  rose  that  called  from  afar! 

My  soul  bowed  low  in  tremuluous  fear 
And  named  the  rose  for  its  star. 

A  red  rose  rustled,  so  warm  and  near 
[My  soul  and  what  of  thy  star?] 

My  soul  laughed  once,  and  withered  and  sere, 
The  white  rose  wept  from  afar. 


By  Leonard  Blackledge  Lippmann,  '14 

Mr.  Lippmann,  who  is  one  of  our  oldest  contributors,  has  here  favored  us  with 
one  of  the  strangest  stories  ever  printed  in  these  pages. 

VERY  gradually  the  blackness  cleared  away  and  out  of  the  confusion 
came  a  voice,  as  if  from  a  great  distance : 
"  I  am  afraid  that  I  can  hold  out  no  hope.   She  has  been  sink- 
ing rapidly  and  it  can  only  be  a  question  of  hours." 

What  did  it  mean?  Who  was  ill?  Where  was  I?  Hesitatingly  my 
hand  moved  along  the  rumpled  coverlet  until  it  was  arrested  by  contact 
with  a  smooth  cold  surface.  Slowly  I  opened  my  eyes  and  attempted  to 
realize  my  surroundings.  All  about  me  was  whiteness;  the  glazed  white- 
ness of  polished  enamel,  and  heavy  in  the  air  was  the  antiseptic  odor  of  a 
drug.  Wearily  I  closed  my  eyes  and  tried  to  think,  and  even  as  I  did  so 
the  phantoms  of  memories  crowded  in  upon  me  in  a  mad,  unreasoning 
confusion.  Only  one  thing  I  grasped  clearly — I  had  been  sick,  very  sick. 
And  then  came  again  the  memory  of  those  words,  "  I  can  hold  out  no 

hope it  can  only  be  a  question  of  hours."     That  sentence,  then, 

must  have  been  spoken  aboui;  me:  I  was  to  die  here  in  an  hour,  perhaps  in  a 
minute !  Once  more  my  weary  eyes  strained  through  the  whiteness  until, 
miles  and  miles  away,  at  the  other  side  of  the  room  they  found  what  they 
sought.     Infinitesimally  small  was    the   group    there  in    the  distance. 

A  nurse  (was  she? I  half  remembered) — if  she  was,  then  the  man 

beside  her,  stooping  over  the  little  table,  must  be  the  doctor.  And  he  had 
said  that  I  must  die.  A  fierce  wave  of  blinding  hatred  had  its  origin  deep 
in  my  being  and  swept  on  to  my  brain.  I  was  to  die,  to  die.  At  some  time 
I  would  simply  cease  to  be;  my  heart  would  stop — that  very  heart  that 
even  at  the  time  seemed  to  fill  the  universe  with  the  thunder  of  its  beat- 
ing. I  would  have  screamed  aloud  in  my  horror,  but  that  my  voice  came 
only  as  the  very  shadow  of  a  whisper,  and  the  very  effort  made  me  relax 
into  the  pillows  with  sharp  pains  searing  paths  of  fire  through  my  eye- 
balls, and  tearing  at  my  head.  I  was  helpless  and  must  meet  this  final 
terror  alone. 

And  with  the  realization  of  my  impotency  came  a  new  mood.  Grad- 
ually the  pain  vanished  and  I  became  calm.  1  must  look  this  thing  the 
face.  Far,  far  away  I  saw  my  hand  lying  idle  upon  the  coverlet.  It 
seemed  strangely  thin,  and  bone  and  vein  stood  out  in  bas-relief.  Was  the 
other  the  same?  Slowly  I  dragged  them  together  and  was  startled. 
When  had  I  done  this  very  thing  before;  or  was  it  that  the  act  called  to 


12  The  Haverfordian 

life  a  memory?  Then  I  remembered  and  was  strangely  pleased.  It  was 
Gustave  Dora's  "  Prajdng  Hands  "  that  I  had  brought  to  mind;  an  old  en- 
graving, that  I  had  seen  years  before  and  then  forgotten.  Where  had  it 
been,  where  was  it  now  ? — The  idea  trailed  away  to  nothingness  as  bit  by 
bit  the  bedclothes  began  to  seem  more  and  more  familiar.  There  were 
mounds  and  depressions,  and  whiteness  above  all.  Mountains,  mountains, 

snow A  new  noise  came  to  my  ears,  other  than  the  s\\'ish  of  the 

nurse's  skirt.  It  was  the  crackle  of  a  fire,  a  fire  that  was  burning  at  a 
great  distance  from  me.  And  as  the  fact  crowded  itself  into  my  conscious- 
ness an  odor  came  to  me  through  the  drugged  air,  an  odor  clear  and  pun- 
gent, of  burning  leaves.  They  were  burning  leaves  in  the  street,  and  if  so 
I  had  been  sick  a  long  time,  for  my  last  distinct  memory  was  of  cloudless 
blue  skies  and  summer  waters.  I  could  think  more  easily  now.  Still 
could  be  heard  the  crackle  of  the  blaze,  and  very,  very  faintly  came  the 
far-off  rumble  of  traffic  in  the  street  below.  A  gong  rang  jarringly  and  I 
could  almost  see  the  tram  that  even  now  must  be  disappearing  far  down 
the  street.  Cabs  must  be  hurrpng  past,  and  women,  and  men — boys  too, 
perhaps.  Did  the}'^  know,  I  wondered,  that  on  the  other  side  of  the  win- 
dow with  the  white  curtain  another  boy  was  dj-ing?  Would  they  look 
up,  half  fearftil,  and  hasten  on?  Would  they,  perhaps,  have  pity? 
Some  day  they  too 

A  great  surge  of  self-compassion  filled  my  being  and  tears  rose  to  my 
eyes.  I  was  so  young,  so  cruelly,  helplessly  young.  Were  there  not 
others,  old,  weak,  who  had  lived  their  lives?  And  now  they  would  live 
mine.  Borrowed  time.  They  were  wilfully  robbing  me  of  my  life,  and 
I — I  was  too  weak  to  stop  them. 

Once  more  came  the  odor  of  leaves  and  brought  wdth  it  a  sense  of 
peace.  Burning  leaves  meant  barren  trees  and  the  death  of  Summer. 
And  now  I,  too,  must  die,  die  with  the  leaves  and  become  ashes  with 
them.  I  did  not  care,  for  I  was  very  tired  and  it  would  be  rest,  sleep, 
darkness.  Sooner  or  later  I  would  have  gone  the  way  that  all  of  us  must 
go.     Darkness,  but  in  that  darkness  perhaps  a  hand. 

I  ceased  to  feel  all  sorrow  for  m^'self,  but  a  great  pity  came  over  me 
for  my  mother.  She  would  be  quite  alone  now  and  she  would  miss  me  so. 
No  more  would  my  head  rest  in  her  lap,  no  longer  could  her  fingers  hnger 
lovingly  through  my  hair.  Once  more  they  might,  but  then  I  would  not 
know.  We  had  been  very  happy  together,  she  and  I,  but  it  would  be  all 
over  very  soon.  Would  she  remember  me  most  as  I  was  now,  or  when  as  a 
baby  I  lay  against  her  bosom?  The  words  of  an  old  Ixdlaby  came  to  me 
across  the  years: 


The  Awakening  13 

"Sleep,  baby,  sleep. 
The  shepherd  watches  the  sheep, 
The  .big  round  moon  is  the  shepherdess, 
The  little  stars  are  the  lambs,  I  guess. 
Sleep,  baby,  sleep." 
Thousands  of  memories  came  crowding  in  upon  me;  memories  that 
had  lain  dormant  since  early  childhood;  and  amongst  them  were  words 
that  I  wished  unspoken;  deeds  that  I  wished  undone.     It  was  too  late 
now ;  the  past  was  already  long  beyond  recall,  and  there  was  never  to  be 
a  future.     Each  speech  and  act,  whether  good  or  bad,  must  remain  to 
stand  or  fall  by  itself,  but  even  as  I  lay  there  I  knew  that  in  the  years  to 
come  the  evil  would  be  erased  by  time  and  only  happy  memories  would 
remain.     For  she  would  know  that  I  had  loved  her,  and  she  woidd  under- 
stand. 

From  far  down  the  street  came  the  strains  of  a  barrel-organ  playing 
the  Barcarolle.  I  could  imagine  the  children  grouped  about  it  on  the 
curb.  Years  ago  I  would  have  joined  them  and  even  now  I  found  my 
fingers  feebly  moving  in  time  to  the  rhythm.  Then  gradually,  gradually 
my  eyelids  drooped  as  a  soft  drowsiness  stole  over  me  and  I  passed  into  a 
peaceful  sleep.  But  even  as  I  did  so  I  was  conscious  of  the  faint  crackle 
and  aroma  of  burning  leaves. 

It  seemed  hardly  a  minute  ere  I  was  again  awake,  but  my  eyes  were 
scarcely  open  before  I  was  aware  of  a  change.  No  longer  was  I  groping 
for  memory;  my  brain  was  clear  and  all  pain  had  ceased.  Things  about 
me  had  regained  their  normal  perspectives,  and  had  it  not  been  that  across 
the  length  of  the  room  my  nurse  and  doctor  were  still  in  view,  leaning 
together  over  a  chart,  I  might  have  believed  myself  the  victim  of  some 
hideous  dream.  With  a  long  sigh  of  relief  I  sank  back  into  the  pillows 
and  drank  in  the  glorious  air  with  deep  breaths.  I  felt  strangely  strong, 
in  contrast,  I  told  myself,  to  my  long  period  of  ill  health.  Truly,  my 
sleep  had  done  me  good,  for  I  felt  invigorated  in  every  way.  Even  my 
senses  seemed  more  acute.  The  noise  of  the  paper  as  the  doctor  turned 
the  page  before  him,  came  to  me  with  a  great  distinctness,  and  even  the 
outlines  of  a  chair  that  was  partially  obscured  by  the  fast  falling  shadows, 
was  visible  to  me  in  clear-cut  outline.     Inaction  became  impossible. 

The  room  was  delightfully  warm  and  the  glory  of  the  sunset  beckoned 
me.  Noiselessly  thrusting  my  feet  from  under  the  bedclothes  that  en- 
cumbered them,  I  slipped  quietly  to  the  floor  and  made  my  way  on  tip-toe 
to  the  window.  Outside  the  evening  light  was  gilding  the  housetops  with 
vivid  splashes  of  scarlet  and  of  gold.  Here  and  there  along  the  street,  as 
far  as  my  eye  could  reach,  an  occasional  light  shone  forth  from  windows. 


14  The  Haverpordian 

Just  opposite  a  child  stood  smiling  and  I  smiled  back  and  waved  my  hand. 
On  the  street  was  the  hurr}^  of  homebound  crowds  and  the  whistle  of  two 
lads  came  to  me  with  shrill  distinctness.  It  was  wonderful  to  think  that 
before  long  I,  too,  would  be  able  to  walk  shoulder  to  shoulder  with  these 
others  of  my  kind.  A  slight  breeze  caught  a  few  burning  leaves  and 
whirled  them  hither  and  yon  along  the  street.  I  laughed  aloud  for  the 
very  joy  of  the  blood  that  was  hurrying  through  my  veins.  A  hundred 
odors  of  Autumn  and  of  the  street  were  borne  to  me  and  I  filled  my  lungs 
greedily. 

Then  as  I  stood  there  I  felt,  even  before  I  heard,  the  door  open  and 
my  mother  entered.  At  the  threshold  she  paused  fearfully,  and  as  she  did 
so  I  saw  that  upon  her  face  were  the  traces  of  sleepless  watches  and  of 
tears.  The  nurse  and  doctor  had  moved  since  I  had  last  noticed  them, 
for  they  were  both  leaning  over  my  vacated  bed  as  I  turned.  And  even 
as  I  looked  the  nurse  straightened  herself  and  stepped  towards  my  mother. 

"Be  strong,"  she  said,  and  there  was  pity  in  her  voice. 

"For  God's  sake,  tell  me,"  cried  that  other,  and  with  the  words  her 
face  became  strained  and  haggard  and  her  body  swayed. 

It  was  the  doctor  who  broke  the  silence. 

"It  was  quite  without  pain,"  he  said  gently,  "and  while  he  slept. 
You  must  try  to  be  calm." 

With  a  low  moan  my  mother  sprang  forward. 

"Mother,  mother,"  I  cried  in  alarm,  "I  am  well!  See,  I  am  here, 
here!  Mother,  for  God's  sake  look  at  me!  Come  to  me,  mother,  I  am 
weU!" 

But  she  did  not  heed  me;  only  she  flung  herself  upon  her  knees 
beside  my  bed,  her  slender  arms  outstretched  across  the  piled  bedclothes. 
On  either  side  of  her  stood  the  doctor  and  the  nurse,  and  only  their  backs 
were  visible  as  they  stooped  over  her  to  soothe  the  long,  dry  sobs  that 
wracked  her  poor,  wasted  form.     It  was  more  than  I  could  stand. 

"Mother!"  I  cried  again,  and  stepped  behind  her.  And  doing  so  I 
saw  across  her  shoulder  and  was  stunned.  For  there,  upon  the  bed 
beneath  her  arms,  there  was  a  body  shrouded  by  the  sheets,  and  on  the 
pillow  lay  a  face  and —  it  was  my  own. 


tICfje  ?|at)crforb=^ttjartt)more  (^ameg,  1879=1904 

By  J.  Henry  Scattergood,  '96 

{Continued  from  February  Issue)] 

Mr.  Scattergood  is  covering  the  Haverjord-Swarthmore  games  in  three  instal- 
ments, of  which  this  is  the  second.  These  articles  will  prove  to  form  a  most  valuable 
addition  to  Haverford  annals. 

WITH  the  coming  of  the  '90's  there  began  a  sequence  ot  five  defeats 
of  Haverford  by  Swarthmore.  It  was  a  period  when  Swarth- 
more  developed  George  Brooke,  the  Bonds,  Green,  Cocks,  the 
Lippincotts,  Murray,  Firth,  Palmer,  Sims,  Hodge  and  others  of  her  stars, 
George  Brooke  of  course  being  then,  and  later  at  Pennsylvania,  one  of  the 
greatest  of  all  football  players.  Only  two  of  Haverford' s  winning  team 
of  1889  were  left  in  college  the  next  year;  the  Senior  class  was  the  smallest 
in  our  history;  and  football  started  at  a  low  ebb.  Not  a  game  was  won  and 
our  light  team  sustained  injuries  which  forced  a  change  of  captain  in 
mid-season  and  a  fresh  start  with  almost  a  completely  reorganized  team. 
E.  J.  Haley, '90,  then  P.  G.,  who  with  Estes,  '93,  had  played  the  previous 
year,  was  selected  to  captain  the  reorganized  team  and  on  him  was  placed 
the  responsibility  of  the  selection  of  the  team.  Prior  to  that  time  the 
"Ground  Committee"  had  picked  the  teams.  C.  G.  Hoag,  '93,  coming 
from  a  leading  Boston  school,  had  brought  down  some  New  England 
' '  wrinkles  "to  Haverford,  and  introduced  a  new  system  of  signals.  Haver- 
ford had  no  coach,  although  by  this  time  a  flood  of  coaches  from  the  few 
big  teams  had  spread  far  and  wide  over  the  country  and  were  revealing 
the  long-guarded  secrets  of  expert  play,  and  scientific  football  was  devel- 
oping as  never  before.  The  year  1890  was  noted  especially  for  the  most 
perfect  system  of  interference  for  end  running  the  game  ever  knew,  led  as 
it  often  was  by  heavy  linemen  such  as  Heffelfinger  of  Yale.  But  Haver- 
ford had  no  such  expert  knowledge  or  coaching  until  1892,  and  was  out- 
played and  outwitted  by  her  old  rival,  which  under  "Doc"  Schell's  in- 
struction was  developing  some  of  her  strongest  teams. 

The  1890  game  was  played  at  Haverford  on  November  22,  the  first  of 
the  Swarthmore  games  to  be  played  on  "Walton  Field,"  and  was  won  by 
Swarthmore,  30  to  14.  Our  team  was:  W.  W.  Handy,  '91,  1.  e.,  W.  H. 
Detwiler,  '92,  1. 1.,  H.  A.  Beale,  Jr.,  '94,  1.  g.,  E.  J.  Haley,  P.  G.,  c.  and 
Captain,  D.  P.  Hibberd,  P.  G.  (A.  Wood,  '94)  r.  g.,  N.  B.  Warden,  '94, 
(J.  H.  Wood,  '93), r.  t.,  W.  N.  L.  West,  '92,  r.  e.,  C.  G.  Hoag,  '93,  q.  b., 
H.  W.  Warden,  '94  (J.  S.  Morris,  '91),  h.  b.,  W.  A.  Estes,  '93,  h.  b.,  E. 
Woolman,  '93,  f.  b.  The  game  was  really  much  closer  than  the  score 
indicates,  for  no  fewer  than  four  of  Swarthmore' s  touchdowns  came  to- 


16  The  Haverfodrian 

gether,  the  first  from  a  fumble,  and  the  other  three  were  directly  due  to 
Swarthmore's  strategic  application  of  a  rule  existing  at  that  time  by  which 
if  a  try  at  goal  after  touchdown  failed  the  ball  was  not  dead  (as  now)  if  it 
did  not  go  as  far  as  the  line,  while  if  it  did  cross  the  line  but  was  no  goal, 
play  was  started  at  the  2  S-yard  line  wdth  the  ball  in  possession  of  the  same 
side.  The  first  of  these  four  touchdowns  had  been  made  after  a  90-yard 
run  by  Green,  who  had  picked  up  the  ball  close  to  Swarthmore's  goal-line 
on  a  fatal  fumble  b}'  Haverford.  The  touchdown  was  far  out  on  one  side, 
and  the  try  at  goal  did  not  reach  the  line  on  account  of  a  strong  wind 
blo'\\-ing  from  the  goal,  so  that  the  ball  fell  on  the  ground  a  few  yards  from 
our  line  and  was  recovered  by  Swarthmore  because  of  our  end's  ignorance 
of  the  rule  and  failure  to  trj'  to  get  it.  It  was  then  rushed  over  for  a 
second  touchdown.  The  try  at  goal  again  failed  and  play  started  at  the 
25-yard  line,  Swarthmore  still  having  the  ball.  Haverford  was  demoral- 
ized for  a  few  minutes  and  another  touchdown  resulted,  followed  by 
another  missed  goal  and  a  repetition  of  the  start  from  the  25-yard  line 
and  another  touchdown,  from  which  the  goal  was  this  time  kicked — a 
total  of  1 8  points  all  scored  in  a  few  minutes,  our  men  being  outwitted  and 
rattled  rather  than  outplayed.  Swarthmore  could  not  score  any  more 
that  half,  but  Haverford  made  10,  Hoag  making  a  60-yard  run  on  a  fake 
kick  for  the  first  touchdown,  from  which  he  kicked  the  goal,  and  Estes  and 
N.  Warden,  aided  by  Woolman's  interfering,  making  the  second.  In  the 
second  half,  after  an  even  struggle  and  many  interchanges  of  kicks  be- 
tween Hoag  and  Bond,  good  runs  by  Bond  and  Green  brought  the  score 
to  24  to  10.  Then  Hoag  made  two  25-3'ard  runs  on  the  quarterback 
delayed-pass  trick,  and  made  a  touchdown,  the  goal  being  missed.  Score 
24  to  14.  Haverford  was  playing  strongly  after  that,  but  another  fumble 
gave  the  ball  to  Lippincott  of  Swarthmore,  who  ran  for  the  last  touch- 
down, making  the  final  score  30  to  14. 

In  the  Sophomore  match,  Haverford,  '93  was  defeated  by  Swarth- 
more, '93,  0  to  36,  George  Brooke  then  first  revealing  his  wonderful 
kicking  and  nmning  abilities. 

In  1891  the  game  with  Swarthmore  was  played  at  the  old  U.  of  Pa. 
grotmds  at  37th  and  Spruce  Sts.  on  November  21  at  1 1  A.M.  An  ambitious 
management  had  aspired  to  be  of  more  importance  with  the  game  played 
in  town!  But  alas  for  Haverford,  it  was  the  worst  showing  of  the  whole 
series  and  we  were  defeated  62  to  0.  This  was  not  wholly  due  to  poor 
playing,  for  no  Haverford  team  was  ever  more  seriously  crippled  with  in- 
juries than  was  the  team  of  that  year,  most  of  our  leading  players  being 
out  of  condition.  Swarthmore,  on  the  other  hand,  had  a  magnificent 
team,  with  George  Brooke  as  its  chief  star,  and  outplayed  us  at  every 


The  Haverford-Swarthmore  Games  17 

point.  The  Haverford  team  that  played  that  day  was:  N.  B.  Warden, 
•94,  1.  e.,  W.  H.  Detwiler,  '92,  1.  t.  and  ca~ptain,  G.  K.  Wright,  '93,  1.  g., 
J.  T.  Male,  '95,  c,  C.  L.  Carter,  '95,  r.  g.,  C.  H.  Johnson,  '95,  r.  t.,  G. 
Lancaster,  '94,  r.  e.,  G.  J.  Palen,  Jr.,  '92  (C.  G.  Hoag,  '93),  q.  b.,  G.Wood, 
'95, 1.  h.  b.,  W.  A.  Estes,  '93  (C.  G.  Hoag,  '93,  J.  S.  Morris,  P.  G.),  r.  h.  b., 
E.  Woolman,  '93  (E.  B.  Hay,  '95),  f.  b.  The  team  had  been  greatly 
shifted  around  the  whole  season,  and  the  backfield  from  this  game  was  in 
sad  physical  condition.  Then,  too,  the  catching  of  Brooke's  great  punts 
was  fatally  weak,  and  of  course  we  were  completely  outkicked.  Haver- 
ford stemmed  the  tide  for  twenty  minutes,  but  after  that  two  goals  from 
the  field  by  Brooke,  and  three  touchdowns  and  goals  were  made  in  the 
first  half,  while  in  the  second  six  more  touchdowns  and  five  goals  were 
added.  Brooke,  Cocks  and  Bond  made  many  fine  rtms.  Our  rush-line 
coiild  not  hold  their  opponents  long  enough  for  our  backs  to  start,  and 
only  by  an  occasional  short  run  or  by  the  "V"  could  Haverford  gain  at 
all.  The  features  of  the  game  were  the  kicking  of  Brooke  and  the  long 
runs  by  Cocks.  For  Haverford,  Warden,  Woolman,  Estes  and  Palen 
did  the  best  individual  work. 

In  the  Sophomore  game  of  1891,  Haverford,  '94  was  defeated  by 
Swarthmore,  '94,  0  to  40. 

In  1 892  the  game  was  played  at  Swarthmore  on  November  2 1 .  It  was  a 
hard  struggle,  Swarthmore  winning  22  to  6,  as  she  deserved  to  do.  All 
of  her  points  were  scored  in  the  first  half,  however,  "before  the  Haverford 
team  had  collected  their  thoughts' ' ;  in  the  second  half,  Haverford  not  only 
held  Swarthmore,  but  made  one  touchdown  and  goal.  George  Brooke, 
then  a  Senior,  was  Captain  of  Swarthmore  and  was  again  at  his  best. 
Naturally,  with  such  a  punter  as  he,  there  was  a  great  deal  of  kicking  in  the 
game,  and  in  the  exchange  of  kicks  Swarthmore  generally  gained  20 
yards.  Our  team,  except  for  Woolman,  who  could  not  play,  was  the  best 
we  had  in  college,  and  much  hard  training  had  been  done  during  the  sea- 
son. Some  interested  Alumni  had  secured  the  services  of  the  first  real 
coach  Haverford  ever  had, — Haskell  of  Yale.  The  previous  year  Bick- 
ford,  a  member  of  the  Faculty  who  had  played  on  the  Wesleyan  team,  had 
tried  to  help,  but  Haskell  was  the  first  coach  really  to  teach  the  game. 
He  worked  very  hard  and  faithfully,  yea  noisily,  for  the  quiet  shades  of  the 
campus  echoed  and  re-echoed  with  his  exhortations  all  the  season,  and  in 
such  language  that  (rumor  has  it)  the  President's  office  windows  had  to  be 
kept  closed  during  football  hours!  It  was  the  first  meeting  of  a  typical 
Yale  "bulldog"  with  the  Quaker  youth,  a  type  quite  new  to  him,  and  all 
who  played  that  year  will  recall  Haskell's  determination  to  rouse  especial- 
ly in  the  breast  of  one  strong  but  mild  Westonian,  new  at  the  game,  some 


18  The  Haverfordian 

spirit  of  evil,  revenge,  or  whatever  could  be  roused,  so  as  to  force  him  to 
"tear  'em  up."  Day  after  day  Haskell  faced  him  in  the  line,  teasing  him 
and  battering  him ;  day  after  day  Anson  was  non-resistant,  retiuTiing  good 
for  evil,  and  only  in  moments  of  greatest  trial  saying,  "Haskell,  thee 
dunce!"  But  at  last  the  strain  was  too  great,  and  bristling  with  right- 
eous indignation,  he  rose  to  his  full  height,  and  shaking  his  fist  in  his 
tormentor's  face,  said,  "Damn  thee,  Haskell,  if  thee  does  that  again,  I'll 
kit  thee."  But  whatever  the  ethics  of  this  Yale  method,  Anson  was 
coached  into  a  good,  even  if  not  a  vicious,  lineman,  and  made  the  team. 
In  the  last  few  days  of  the  season.  Woodruff  of  Pennsylvania  came  out 
a  few  times  and  taught  our  backs  the  low-btmched-hold-together  plays 
characteristic  of  that  time. 

But  we  must  return  to  the  game.  Swarthmore's  £rst  score  came  in 
two  rapid  rushes  by  Brooke  and  Palmer,  and  before  our  fellows  realized 
the}'  were  plaj-ing,  a  touchdown  had  been  scored  against  them  and  a  goal 
kicked.  Constant  gains  in  exchanges  of  kicks,  good  centre  bucking,  some 
long  runs  by  Brooke,  Hodge  and  Palmer,  and  a  fatal  fumble  by  Haverford, 
enabled  Swarthmore  to  make  three  more  touchdowns.  Once  Haverford 
held  Swarthmore  for  downs  on  our  3 -yard  line,  but  all  this  half  our  men 
were  outplayed.  The  second  half  was  very  even,  Haverford  playing  vnth 
much  more  spirit.  The  rushes  of  Hoag,  Estes  and  Wright  counterbal- 
anced the  kicking  of  Brooke  and  the  running  of  Palmer.  The  finish  was 
most  exciting,  for  with  only  two  minutes  of  play  remaining,  the  ball  was 
ours  on  Swarthmore's  2S-3'ard  line,  when  Hoag  by  pretty  dodging,  went 
through  the  Swarthmore  team  and  scored  a  touchdown  and  kicked  the 
goal.  The  feeling  in  this  game  was  tense,  especially  over  the  Swarthmore 
captain's  frequent  disputing  of  the  ofhcial's  decisions — an  action  Haver- 
fordians,  trained  as  they  are  in  the  sporting  ethics  of  cricket,  particularly 
resent.  Haverford's  team  was  as  follows:  N.  B.  Warden,  '94,  1.  e.  and 
captain,  A.  B.  Harvey,  '94, 1. 1.,  W.  K.  Alsop,  '96, 1.  g.,  J.  T.  Male,  '95,  c, 
G.  K.  Wright,  '93,  r.  g.,  L.  H.  Wood,  '96,  r.  t.,  W.  J.  Strawbridge,  '94,  r.  e., 
C.  J.  Rhoads,  '93,  q.  b.,  W.  A.  Estes,  '93,  1.  h.  b.,  J.  A.  Lester,  '96  (E. 
Blanchard,  '95), r.  h.  b.,  C.  G.  Hoag,  '93,  f.  b.  E.  Woolman,  '93,  one 
of  Haverford's  best  players,  could  not  play  on  account  of  injuries. 

In  the  Sophomore  game  of  1892,  Haverford,  '95  defeated  Swarth- 
more '95,  14  to  4.  This  was  the  last  class  game  played  between  the  two 
colleges. 

The  season  of  1893  was  another  very  disastrous  one  for  Haverford. 
Hamlin,  another  Yale  man,  had  been  employed  as  coach,  but  the  winning 
stride  of  Swarthmore  was  in  full  swing  and  we  were  defeated  50  to  0. 
The  game  was  played  at  Haverford  on  November  2  5 .  Our  team  was  as  fol- 


The  Haverford-Swarthmore  Games  19 

lows: — W.  J.  Strawbridge,  '94,  1.  e.'  and  captain,  A.  P.  Morris,  '95,  1.  t., 
W.W.Hastings,  P.  G.  1.  g.,  M.  Z.  Kirk,  P.  G.,  c,  L.  H.  Wood,  '96,  r.  g., 
S.  W.  Morris,  '94,  r.  t.,  E.  Field,  '97,  r.  e.,  J.  S.  Evans,  Jr.,  '95,  q.  b.,  A.  C. 
Thomas,  '95,  1.  h.  b.,  E.  Blanchard,  '95  (C.  A.  Towle,  '98), r.  h.  b.,  W.  C. 
Webster,  '95  (E.  Blanchard,  '95),  f.  b.  W.K.  AIsop,  '96,  J.  A.  Lester,  '96, 
F.  H.  Conklin,  '95  and  G.  Lippincott,  '95  had  been  injured  and  could  not 
play,  and  E.  B.  Hay,  '95  was  not  allowed  by  his  family  to  play.  Swarth- 
more  was  decidedly  heavier  than  Haverford  and  played  with  admirable 
team  work.  Their  interference  around  the  ends  was  almost  invulnerable, 
and  time  after  time  Sims,  Palmer,  Firth  or  "Young' '  Brooke  went  around 
the  ends  for  long  gains.  Only  once  in  the  game,  about  the  middle  of  the 
second  half,  did  Haverford  have  a  chance  to  score.  She  had  forced  the 
play  to  the  Swarthmore  15-yard  line,  only  there  to  lose  the  ball  on  downs. 
Swarthmore  made  four  touchdowns  and  three  goals  in  the  first  half,  22 
points,  and  five  touchdowns  and  4  goals  in  the  second  half.  Webster's 
splendid  backfield  tackling  saved  several  more  scores.  The  great  brunt 
of  the  defence  came  on  the  backs,  so  much  so  that  in  an  especially  hard 
tackle,  Webster  was  knocked  unconscious  and  was  carried  off  the  field; 
while  Blanchard,  who  played  a  most  plucky  game,  received  a  broken  nose, 
but  refused  to  retire.  All  of  our  men  played  a  desperate  uphill  game,  and 
kept  Swarthmore  working  for  every  point,  but  the  latter' s  greater  knowl- 
edge of  the  game  and  perfect  mass  interference  were  too  much  for  them. 
During  1892  and  1893  football  science  developed  to  a  great  extent. 
The  famous  "Flying  Wedge,"  the  invention  of  Deland  of  Harvard,  was 
sprung  against  Yale  in  1892,  and  various  elaborate  developments  of  the 
"flying"  principle  were  worked  out  the  following  years.  Woodruff,  who 
coached  Pennsylvania,  especially  used  it  in  his  noted  "guards  back" 
formations,  which  brought  heavy  linemen  to  the  backfield  and  sent  them  in 
a  crashing  tandem  against  various  selected  points  in  the  line,  fully  under 
way  with  a  flying  start  before  the  ball  was  snapped,  and  this  latter  was 
timed  to  come  just  as  tliis  human  battering-ram  smashed  the  opposing 
line — an  almost  irresistible  attack.  Yale  developed  also  in  1893  her 
"turtleback,"  a  play  executed  by  forming  the  eleven  men  in  the  shape  of 
a  solid  oval  against  a  selected  point  in  the  rush-line,  usually  the  tackle, 
and  at  the  snap  of  the  ball  into  the  interior  of  the  oval,  rolling  the  mass 
out  around  the  end,  thus  unwinding  the  runner  into  a  clear  field.  One 
modification  of  this  literally  lifted  the  runner  on  top  of  the  mass  and  hurled 
him  over  the  opposing  rush-line.  So  furious  were  these  momentum 
mass-plays,  that  at  times  all  of  a  team  except  the  centre  and  guards  would 
rush  fifteen  yards  in  wedge-shape  formation  before  the  ball  was  snapped 
just  as  this  "  V  "  struck  the  lipe.     Other  new  arrangements  using  the  same 


20  The  Haverfordian 

principle,  were  to  have  ends  and  backs  in  tandems  behind  the  tackles. 
This  really  was  the  beginning  of  the  tandem  tackle  play,  which  with  or 
without  the  flying  principle,  has  been  a  leading  feature  in  offensive  tactics 
in  one  way  or  another  ever  since.  All  these  terrible  momentum  mass- 
plays  restJted  in  so  many  broken  bones  and  other  injuries  as  shortly  to 
raise  a  universal  outcry  against  the  game  itself  and  to  force  the  elimina- 
tion not  only  of  all  plays  of  this  class,  but  eventually  even  of  any  direct 
helping  of  the  runner. 

Haverford  had  not  kno-mi  any  of  these  flying  or  mass  plays  in  1893, 
but  like  other  small  colleges,  soon  copied  what  she  could  in  the  play  of  the 
big  ones.  Thus  in  1894  she  tried  some  simple  mass-plays,  but  not  with 
the  expected  success,  for  they  were  dependent  on  weight  such  as  our  teams 
never  possessed.  It  was  the  day  of  the  big  man  in  the  game,  and  as  Swarth- 
more  generally  fared  better  than  Haverford  in  this  respect,  she  became 
much  more  proficient  in  such  plays,  and  especially  in  the  use  of  a  very 
clever  and  deceptive  "split"  or  "trick  V,"  which  was  a  kind  of  "turtle- 
back"  which  hid  the  ball  wonderfully  and  worked  many  a  surprise  against 
us. 

It  was  this  well-executed  "trick  V,"  the  defence  against  which  Haver- 
ford did  not  then  solve,  that  enabled  Swarthmore  to  defeat  Haverford  in 
the  game  of  1 894.  This  game  was  pla3-ed  at  Swarthmore  on  November  24, 
and  the  score  was  32  to  0,  a  great  disappointment  to  us  all.  Haverford 
was  ably  captained  by  Walter  Webster,  '95,  and  had  been  coached  by 
"  Pop"  Bliss  of  Yale.  She  lost  the  match  not  through  general  ignorance 
of  the  game  or  inability  to  develop  team  play,  but  through  her  inability 
to  solve  the  workings  of  this  Swarthmore  "  V "  and  the  consequent  lack 
of  physical  endurance  of  a  team  in  bad  condition  to  withstand  its  repeated 
attacks.  1894  and  1899  are  the  most  marked  years  when  Haverford's 
poor  physical  condition  lost  her  the  games  through  sheer  lack  of  endurance. 
In  this  game  of  1 894,  the  score  at  the  end  of  the  first  half  was  only  4  to  0 
against  us,  while  Haverford  had  threatened  Swarthmore's  goal-line  no  less 
than  four  times,  only  to  lose  the  ball — twice  on  fumbles,  once  on  downs, 
and  lastly  by  the  call  of  time  at  Swarthmore's  10-yard  line.  But  in  the 
second  half  Swarthmore  baffled  and  wore  out  oiu-  team  with  her  admirable 
use  of  this  trick  V,  which  resulted  in  steady  gains  against  a  defence  which 
became  weaker  and  weaker.  Four  touchdowns  were  scored  thus  by 
Swarthmore  in  this  sad  second  half.  Haverford's  team  was: — G.  Lippin- 
cott,  '95,  1.  e.,  W.  K.  Alsop,  '96,  1.  t.,  W.  W.  Hastings,  P.  G.,  1.  g.,  L.  H. 
Wood,  '96,  c,  W.  Goodman,  '95,  r.  g.,  J.  A.  Lester,  '96,  r.  t.,  F.  H. 
Conklin,  '95,  r.  e.,  C.  A.  Vamey,  '98,  q.  b.,  A.  C.  Thomas,  '95,  1.  h.  b.,  E. 
Blanchard,  '95,  r.  h.  b.,  W.  C.  Webster,  '95,  f.  b.  and  captain.     E.  B. 


The  Haverford-Swarthmore  Games  21 

Hay,  '95,  had  a  sprained  ankle  and  could  not  play,  although  family  ob- 
jections had  been  overcome;  but  the  latter  reason  prevented  some  others 
from  playing  on  the  team  and  the  college  from  putting  out  its  best  side. 
For  Haverford,  the  best  work  was  done  by  Alsop,  whose  tackHng  was 
brilliant,  while  on  offence,  Webster,  Blanchard,  Thomas  and  Alsop  all  did 
well,  especially  in  the  first  half.  For  Swarthmore,  Palmer,  Brooke,  Sims 
and  Hodge  played  finely. 

During  1894,  the  outcry  against  football  continued  to  increase.  The 
halves  had  been  reduced  to  thirty-five  minutes  for  the  1894  season,  flying 
V's  had  been  prohibited,  and  the  old-fashioned  kick-off  re-established,  but 
this  had  not  satisfied  the  public,  which  insisted  on  much  more  drastic 
changes  in  the  dangerous  mass-plays.  Princeton  and  Yale  responded  to 
public  opinion  by  ruling  them  out,  while  Harvard,  Pennsylvania  and 
Cornell  continued  to  retain  them.  The  result  was  two  sets  of  rules  in 
1895  and  great  confusion.  However,  this  did  not  affect  the  Haverford- 
Swarthmore  game  of  that  year,  for  Haverford  had  never  used  the  flying 
principle  to  any  great  extent,  and  the  successful  Swarthmore  "V"  which 
had  worked  so  well  against  Haverford  in  1894,  was  a  revolving  "turtle- 
back,"  not  dependent  on  the  flying  principle  of  starting  before  the  ball  was 
snapped,  so  that  their  style  of  play  was  not  legislated  out  of  existence,  and 
therefore  the  general  character  of  the  1895  game  was  much  the  same  as  the 
year  before.  But  a  great  change  had  quietly  happened  at  Haverford, 
which  completely  surprised  Swarthmore,  as  well  as  almost  all  of  Haver- 
ford's  supporters.  For  this  was  the  year  of  the  turn  of  the  tide  from  five 
years  of  defeats  to  four  years  of  victories,  and  with  it  came  excitement  and 
enthusiasm  greater  than  at  any  other  game  of  Haverford  history.  The 
Haverford  team,  captained  by  "  Holly"  Wood,  '96,  one  of  the  most  popu- 
lar of  all  Haverfordians  as  well  as  a  type  of  her  best  product,  developed 
an  unexpected  strength,  especially  at  the  close  of  the  season.  Not  only 
was  it  the  best  team  in  the  college — the  first  time  that  this  had  happened 
for  some  years — but  it  was  in  perfect  physical  condition  and  unrestrained- 
ly keen.  Not  a  man  on  the  team  had  a  scratch  or  a  sprain  and  it  went 
through  the  game  with  no  semblance  of  an  injury.  Parental  objections, 
which  for  some  years  had  kept  a  number  of  players  out  of  our  teams,  were 
also  removed  in  every  case  for  this  game.  So  far  as  this  applied  to  two 
brothers,  it  was  only  gained  after  the  strongest  assurances  that  the  game 
would  be  "cleanly  played  by  both  sides  as  befitted  gentlemen  and  good 
sportsmen,"  and  on  condition  that  every  man  in  college  would  sign  an 
agreement  that  he  would  not  bet  on  the  game.  And  this  was  literally 
carried  out,  for  no  cleaner  or  fairer  game  of  football  ever  was  played  than 
this,  and  not  the  slightest  incident  of  an  unpleasant  character  or  of  rough- 


22  The  Haverfordian 

ness  occurred  on  either  side  to  mar  the  best  of  feeling  between  the  teams 
and  the  colleges.  It  was  the  kind  of  game — and  there  have  been  a  good 
many  others  in  this  series — that  for  good  feeling  between  friendly 
rivals  we  would  like  to  see  made  a  type  for  the  games  to  come. 

The  Haverford  team  of  1895  was  coached  entirely  by  Haverford 
Alumni,  aided  by  Dr.  Babbitt,  this  being  the  first  of  several  years  of  this 
system.  It  was  most  successful,  and  it  may  here  be  noted  in  passing  that 
Haverford  has  never  defeated  Swarthmore  in  a  3-ear  when  a  professional 
coach  has  trained  the  team  except  once,  and  then  it  was  George  Wood- 
ruff who  came  out  only  once  a  week  in  an  ad\'isory  capacity.  Dr.  Bran- 
son, '89,  was  the  one  to  start  this  system  and  to  make  it  possible,  and  too 
great  thanks  cannot  be  given  to  him  not  only  for  the  great  amount  of  his 
own  time  that  he  gave  in  1895  to  1898,  as  well  as  in  later  years,  but  also 
for  his  stimulating  example  in  inspiring  similar  service  on  the  part  of 
others.  In  1895  he  was  aided  especially  by  Joe  Johnson,  '88,  whose  un- 
varjang  exhortations,  "You're  better  than  3'ou  ever  were  before,  but  you're 
still  ROTTEN,"  can  never  be  forgotten  by  those  of  us  who  were  roused 
by  them.  The  game  in  1 895  was  played  at  Haverford  on  November  23  before 
a  crowd  of  "fully  a  thousand  people."  It  was  won  by  Haverford,  24  to  0. 
Haverford'steam:  was  A.  G.  Scattergood,  '98,  1.  e.,  E.  B.  Conklin,  '99, 
1. 1.,  K.  M.  Hay,  '99, 1.  g.,  F.  A.  Swan,  '98,  c,  J.  A.  Lester,  '96,  r.  g.,  L.  H. 
Wood,  '96,  r.  t.  and  captain,  J.  E.  Butler,  then  '99,  r.  e.,  C.  A.  Vamey, 
'98,  q.  b.,  J.  H.  Scattergood,  '96,  1.  h.  b.,  A.  Haines,  '99,  r.  h.  b.,  W.  K. 
Alsop,  '96,  f.  b.  Arthur  Knipe,  ex- '93,  and  one  of  Pennsylvania's  stars, 
had  come  out  on  two  Saturday  mornings  and  shown  the  team  a  few 
variations  of  tackleback  tandem  plays  which  proved  to  be  exceedingly 
well  suited  to  our  team  and  were  good  ground-gainers  against  Swarth- 
more, especially  in  the  early  part  of  the  game.  By  their  help  Haverford 
started  off  with  a  rush,  and  when  we  found  that  gains  cotild  be  made  even 
against  Swarthmore,  which  had  been  beating  us  for  five  long  years,  we 
felt  a  confidence  that  put  us  in  the  lead  from  the  beginning.  Haverford 
had  a  verj^  well  balanced  team  in  offence  and  defence,  and  never  had  a 
better  kicker  than  "  Kite"  Alsop  or  a  better  pair  of  ends  than  Alf  Scatter- 
good and  Butler.  Alsop's  punts  were  high  and  long  and  "twisty,"  and 
never  a  yard  were  they  nm  back  after  being  caught,  for  those  ends  were 
always  "there."  Swan  at  centre  passed  the  ball  directly  to  Alsop  for 
kicks  instead  of  having  the  quarterback  make  the  old  underhand  pass  to 
the  fullback  as  prevailed  before  that  time.  It  was  the  first  time  this  was 
ever  done  at  Haverford,  and  among  the  first  anywhere.  On  the  very  first 
kick  Alsop  made — a  great  high  twister  for  50  yards — so  hard  was  "  Little 
Scot's"  tackle  of  the  Swarthmore  back  that  he  dropped  the  ball  and  it 


The  Haverford-Swarthmore  Games  23 

rolled  over  the  goal-line,  where  the  fleet-footed  Lester  fell  on  it  and  scored 
the  first  touchdown  within  the  first  five  minutes.  Lester  kicked  the  goal, 
as  he  did  all  the  others  of  the  game.  If  he  ever  missed  one,  no  one  remem- 
bers it!  For  some  time  the  game  appeared  almost  even,  but  the  several 
variations  of  the  new  tandem  kept  gaining  ground.  Wood,  Haines  and  H. 
Scattefgood  carrying  the  ball  on  straight  or  cross  bricks  into  the  line, 
always  catapulted  by  the  powerful  Alsop  behind.  Now  and  again  our 
backs  got  away  for  good  end  runs.  Twice  the  ball  was  advanced  to  the 
5-yard  line  only  to  be  lost  on  offside  play  at  the  critical  moment.  Fi  ally 
A.  Scattergood  got  the  ball  on  a  fumble  and  Alsop  with  a  terrific  plunge 
carried  it  IS  yards  and  over  the  line  for  the  second  touchdown.  Haver- 
ford  now  was  in  the  spirit  of  winning,  and  when  Vamey  returned  the  kick- 
off  for  40  yards,  Hay's  heavy  tackle  caused  the  Swarthmore  back  to  drop 
the  ball,  and  A.  Scattergood,  who  was  on  hand  to  help,  scooped  it  up 
(instead  of  falling  on  it)  and  with  three  men  interfering  but  not  needed, 
made  a  run  of  SO  yards  for  the  third  touchdown.  Score  18  to  0.  The 
second  half  was  an  anxious  one.  Haverford's  defence  was  tested  much 
more  than  in  the  first  half,  Swarthmore  showing  the  effects  of  "Doc" 
Schell's  vigorous  coaching.  Both  sides  remembered  the  ebbing  away  of 
Haverford's  endurance  in  the  games  the  year  before,  and  Swarthmore 
started  out  to  use  again  the  same  old  effective  "trick  V."  We  had  been 
expecting  it,  however,  and  had  been  preparing  for  it  all  season.  "Grab 
all  the  legs  you  can' '  was  the  order  for  the  line,  while  the  secondary  de- 
fence was  ready  for  the  runner  if  he  got  free.  One  can  see  Butler  now — 
braced  at  an  angle  of  thirty  degrees,  forcing  the  whole  Swarthmore 
"turtleback"  to  revolve  past  him,  for  it  could  not  make  him  bend!  But 
in  spite  of  our  splendid  defence,  the  "  V"  at  times  gained  ground,  and  once 
a  Swarthmore  runner,  emerging  from  the  mass  no  one  knows  how,  had  a 
clear  field  but  was  overtaken  after  30  yards  by  one  of  our  backs  who  at 
that  time  was  not  so  handicapped  with  avoirdupois  as  at  present.  On 
defence,  too,  Swarthmore  was  struggling  with  all  her  might  and  our 
tandems  could  not  make  the  ground  they  did  at  first.  Then  Vamey,  who 
had  run  the  signals  with  excellent  judgment,  varied  the  play  and  some 
good  end-runs  resulted,  H.  Scattergood  making  one  of  40  yards  and 
towards  the  close  of  the  game  another  one  for  65  yards  for  a  touchdown. 
This  was  the  only  score  in  the  second  half,  and  as  the  Haverford  crowd 
realized  that  the  game  was  surely  won  intense  enthusiasm  prevailed,  and 
even  old  grads  hugged  each  other  and  rushed  madly  about.  The  game 
closed  thus  with  the  score  24  to  0,  the  laurels  once  more  with  Haverford. 
The  whole  team  had  played  splendidly;  the  Haverfordian  account  says, 
"On  the  Haverford  team,  the  backs  together  with  Conklin,  Lester  and 


24  The  Haverfordian 

Captain  Wood  perhaps  played  the  best,  the  tackles  of  Butler  and  Hay 
were  superb,  and  A.  Scattergood  thoroughly  understood  his  position  at 
end,  while  Swan  at  centre  played  a  fine  game.  The  team  to  a  man  seemed 
to  be  in  superb  condition  and  played  with  the  utmost  dash  and  keenness." 
For  Swarthmore,  Captain  Hodge  and  Verlenden  played  especially  well. 
Although  others  of  these  Swarthmore  games  have  had  closer  scores,  none 
exceeded  this  one  for  excitement  and  unexpected  pleasure  and  satisfac- 
tion, and  so,  after  a  tremendous  celebration  of  bonfire  and  speeches,  it  has 
passed  down  among  Haverfordians  as  one  of  the  historic  games  of  the 
series.  Dr.  Branson  has  often  said,  as  have  others,  that  the  team  of  1S9S 
was  the  best  team  individually  that  Haverford  ever  had,  but  perhaps  this 
is  too  strong  a  statement  to  make. 

The  season  of  1896  saw  several  further  changes  in  the  rules,  aimed  to 
satisfy  the  continued  public  criticism  of  the  dangerous  plays.  The  flying 
principle  was  met  by  a  new  rule,  that  no  offensive  player  might  take  more 
than  one  step  towards  the  opponents'  goal-Hne  before  the  ball  was  put  in 
play.  Mass-plays  were  modified  by  prohibiting  more  than  six  men  from 
grouping  behind  the  line,  and  two  of  these  had  to  be  at  least  five  yards 
back  or  outside  the  end  men  on  the  line.  Under  these  rules  there  devel- 
oped Princeton's  famous  "revolving  tandem,"  as  it  was  called,  which 
enabled  her  to  beat  Yale  that  year.  It  was  worked  by  swinging  across 
one  tackle  from  position  before  the  snap  of  the  ball  against  the  other  side 
of  the  line,  thereby  forming  a  tandem  wedge  with  the  halfbacks  which 
proved  very  successful.  Another  play  which  was  revived  and  much  used 
that  year  was  the  long-forgotten  place  kick  instead  of  the  historic  drop 
kick  for  field-goals.  At  this  our  own  John  Lester  was  as  good  as  anyone 
in  the  coimtry,  and  it  was  extremely  dangerous  for  any  side  to  let  Haver- 
ford have  a  free  kick  anywhere  within  SO  yards  of  the  goal  when  Lester 
was  on  our  team.  In  every  kick-off  of  1896  that  he  made,  he  sent  the 
ball  from  the  middle  of  the  field  not  only  over  the  goal-line,  but  over  the 
heads  of  the  opposing  players  standing  on  the  goal-line.  The  accuracy  of 
the  toe  of  his  great  boot  in  football  was  surpassed  only  by  that  of  his 
wonderful  hand  in  cricket. 

The  game  of  1896  was  played  at  Swarthmore  on  November  18,  and  is 
famous  in  our  records  as  being  the  highest  score  Haverford  ever  made 
against  Swarthmore — 42  to  6.  It  was  the  second  of  the  series  of  four 
victories.  Swarthmore  had  strong  hopes  of  winning,  but  Haverford  had 
a  very  fine  team  and  was  far  superior  in  every  feature  of  the  game.  The 
team  had  been  coached  by  Dr.  Branson,  '89,  assisted  by  Dr.  Babbitt,  and 
was  in  fine  physical  condition.     It  was  as  follows;  A.  G.  Scattergood,  '98, 


The  Haverford-Swarthmore  Games  25 

1.  e.,  F.  H.  Detwiler,  '97,  1.  t.,  F.W.  Else,  P.  G.,  1.  g.,  F.  A.  Swan,  '98,  c, 
J.  A.  Lester,  P.  G.,  r.  g.,  F.  Stadelman,  '98,  r.  t.,  J.  E.  Butler,  then  '99, 
r.  e.,  C.  A.  Vamey,  '98,  q.  b.  and  captain,  E.  B.  Conklin,  '99  (W.  V.  Hol- 
loway,  '98),  1.  h.  b.,  A.  Haines,  '99,  r.  h.  b,,  R.  C.  McCrea,  '97,  f.  b.  Conk- 
lin did  the  punting  and  we  had  the  same  famous  pair  of  ends  as  the  year 
before.  Lester  was  in  wonderful  form  on  kick-offs,  place  kicks  and  goals, 
and  as  a  guam  he  developed  in  his  last  two  years  of  play  into  a  marvelous- 
ly  quick  lineman.  Many  a  time  his  hand,  darting  like  a  serpent's  tongue, 
deflected  the  pass  from  the  opposing  centre  to  quarterback  and  caused  a 
mysterious  fumble  for  which  the  unfortunate  quarter  was  usually 
blamed.  Both  teams  first  used  a  new  play — the  quarterback  kick  in- 
vented by  Pennsylvania,  and  for  Haverford  it  resulted  in  one  touchdown. 
Haverford  scored  first  on  a  criss-cross  trick,  Haines  making  a  splendid  run 
down  the  side  line  for  a  touchdown.  The  second  touchdown  was  made 
after  good  runs  by  Haines,  Conklin  and  McCrea  had  brought  the  ball  to 
Swarthmore's  30-yard  line,  when  Swarthmore  fumbled  our  quarterback 
kick  and  Lester,  picking  up  the  ball,  carried  it  over  the  line.  The  first 
half  closed  with  the  score  1 2  to  0  in  our  favor.  In  the  second  half  Haver- 
ford's  superiority  soon  began  to  tell  and  five  more  touchdowns  were 
scored  and  a  sixth  just  missed  by  a  fumble  as  the  ball  was  crossing  the 
line.  All  the  seven  goals  were  kicked  by  Lester.  Much  use  was  again 
made  of  the  tandem  plays  learned  the  year  before.  Our  whole  backfield 
also  made  many  large  gains,  Conklin  making  one  especially  fine  run  for 
40  yards,  Vamey  another  for  35  yards  and  McCrea  another  for  35  yards. 
Haines  was  a  continual  ground-gainer  and  scored  four  of  the  seven  touch- 
downs, McCrea  making  two  and  Lester  one.  The  last  touchdown  was 
made  by  Haines  on  a  magnificent  run  of  70  yards,  the  longest  of  the  day. 
It  was  in  these  famous  end  runs  that  "Art"  Haines  excelled,  it  being  a 
pleasure  to  see  the  way  tackier  after  tackier  was  foiled  by  his  skilful  use  of 
the  straight  arm.  Captain  Vamey  ran  the  team  beautifully,  and  all 
Haverfordians  felt  extremely  happy  over  the  showing  of  the  day. 

Only  slight  changes  in  the  rules  were  made  for  several  years  after 
1896,  in  fact  until  the  revolution  in  the  game  in  1906  which  was  brought 
about  by  the  introduction  of  the  forward  pass  and  the  change  to  ten  yards 
instead  of  five  in  the  three  downs.  Even  college  politics  and  the  inter- 
mittent bickering  over  eligibility  rules  that  had  been  going  on  pretty 
nearly  everywhere  since  1890  largely  subsided,  and  attention  was  mostly 
directed  to  the  perfection  of  existing  plays  rather  than  to  inventing  new 
ones.  Fortunately  for  Haverford  and  her  peace  of  mind  she  was  never 
worried  over  eligibility  rules  or  the  need  of  them  in  her  contests,  nor  did 


26  The  Haverfordian 

she  enter  into  the  discussion  of  them  with  others.  Although  reaUzing 
that  conditions  in  universities  and  large  colleges  were  quite  different,  and 
that  a  code  of  strict  rules  no  doubt  is  necessary  to  cover  their  cases — 
such  as  a  one-year  residence  rule  for  Freshmen  as  well  as  those  coming 
from  other  colleges — she  has  never  had  for  herself  anything  but  the  one 
sound  rule  of  allowing  every  student  in  college  the  same  rights  and  privi- 
leges of  eligibility  as  every  other,  provided  only  he  comes  up  to  the  standard 
in  studies  set  by  the  Facvilty  for  those  playing  on  any  of  the  college  teams. 
Such  a  thing  as  a  "ringer"  or  a  man  brought  to  or  kept  at  Haverford  for 
the  sake  of  his  athletic  abiUty  is  not  only  unknown  and  unthought  of, 
but  such  a  man  would  be  driven  out  of  college  by  the  spirit  of  the  fellows 
themselves.  Fortunately  our  position  in  the  educational  world  and  our 
ability  to  attract  the  kind  of  students  we  want  have  never  had  to  depend 
on  athletic  victories.  We  have  never  considered  athletic  contests  as 
anything  but  incidents  in  the  college  life,  and  far  less  the  winning  of  them 
as  an  excuse  for  lowering  of  ideals  or  practices  built  up  through  three- 
quarters  of  a  century  in  the  atmosphere  of  cricket.  "Athletic  scholar- 
ships" have  never  been  dreamed  of,  and  every  student  is,  because  of  the 
character  of  the  college  and,  let  me  add,  of  President  Sharpless,  a  bona 
fide  one,  eligible  in  every  way  for  any  of  the  activities  of  the  college. 
And  to  none  should  this  apply  more  than  to  our  very  welcome  new  Seniors 
(formerly  Postgraduates)  who  come  each  year  from  the  other  American 
Friends'  colleges  on  scholarships  which  they  have  won  on  merit  only.  A 
small  college  is  in  quite  a  different  position  from  a  large  one  in  its  ability 
to  know  everything  about  every  student,  and  there  is  no  reason  unless  its 
management  wishes  it  for  any  but  bona  fide  students  to  be  allowed  to  stay. 
If  therefore  a  small  college  lives  in  the  spirit  of  honor  and  of  clean  sport, 
there  is  no  reason  for  it  to  bind  itself  to  the  letter  of  artificial  eligibility 
rules  made  to  cover  others'  cases,  and  just  because  others  may  need  them. 
The  one  needed  test  is  the  word  of  the  President  as  to  the  bona  fide  charac- 
ter of  any  student.  And  so  at  Haverford  we  have  fortunately  not  only 
been  free  from  any  of  these  eligibility  troubles  within  our  own  ranks,  but 
we  have  never  inclined  to  tell  others  what  niles  they  must  have  in  order  to 
play  with  us.  If  we  do  not  like  or  trust  others'  methods,  we  simply  drop 
them  from  our  schedule  and  go  on  with  our  "sport  for  sports'  sake." 
Not  that  we  criticise  any  opponents  for  playing  any  game  in  any  way  they 
like,  even  with  a  group  of  "induced"  players  or  "athletic  scholarship" 
holders  if  that  seems  to  them  worth  while ;  nor  do  we  even  care  to  discuss 
any  rules  with  them;  but  we  simply  let  them  go  their  way,  and  we  go 
ours.     So  may  our  policy  continue,  putting  all  sports  where  they  belong, 


The  Haverford-Swarthmore  Games  27 

always  keeping  to  the  highest  standards  of  honor,  and  pla3dng  all  games  in 
the  simple  spirit  of 

"Always  do  your  best, 

Never  mind  the  rest, 

The  game's  the  thing." 
But  we  must  return  to  our  history.  The  game  of  1897  with  Swarth- 
more  was  played  at  Haverford  on  November  13,  and  was  won  by  Haverford, 
8  to  6.  It  was  a  very  close  and  intensely  exciting  game,  attended  by 
some  1400  people.  Arthur  Haines,  '99,  was  Haverford' s  captain  and  the 
team  was  a  very  strong  one,  but  it  did  not  do  justice  to  its  ability  in  this 
game  on  account  of  poor  physical  condition  and  overconfidence.  A 
mistake  had  been  made  in  sending  the  team  on  a  long  gruelling  cross- 
country run  the  day  before  which  took  all  the  snap  out  of  the  men,  so  that 
in  the  second  half  they  did  not  seem  like  the  same  team  that  had  played 
so  well  all  season.  We  had  had  an  especially  successful  season,  and  for 
once  all  Haverford  felt  very  confident  about  the  Swarthmore  game.  Dr. 
Branson  had  again  been  the  chief  coach,  assisted  by  Dr.  Babbitt.  Swarth- 
more also  had  a  good  team  led  by  her  star  of  those  days,  CaptainFarquhar. 
She  played  a  splendid  up-hill  game,  stronger  toward  the  close  as  Haver- 
ford grew  weaker.  Our  team  was:  J.  E.  Butler,  then  '99, 1.  c,  F.  Stadel- 
man,  '98, 1. 1.,  E.  D.  Freeman,  '00  (A.  C.  Maule,  '99),  1.  g.,  F.  A.  Swan,  '98, 
c,  J.  G.  Embree,  '98,  r.  g.,  A.  G.  Scattergood,  '98  (R.  N.  Wilson,  '98), 
r.  t.,  H.  M.  Hallett,  '00  (A.  G.  Scattergood,  '98),  r.  e.,  H.  H.  Lowry,  '99, 
q.  b.,  F.  S.  Chase,  '01,  1.  h.  b.,  A.  Haines,  '99,  r.  h.  b.  and  captain,  S.  W. 
Mifflin,  '00,  f.  b.  Haverford  did  all  her  scoring  the  first  half,  making  two 
touchdowns,  both  goals  being  missed.  The  first  was  made  on  an  end  run 
by  Chase,  following  a  beautiful  end  run  of  30  yards  by  Haines.  The  second 
was  scored  by  Haines  on  a  series  of  brilliant  dashes  through  the  opposite 
tackle.  Haverford  also  used  the  run  by  the  ends  around  the  opposite 
ends.  Swarthmore  from  this  point  came  up  very  strongly,  and  had  the 
ball  on  Haverford's  20-yard  line  when  the  half  closed.  In  the  second  half 
Swarthmore  used  Princeton's  revolving  tandem  play  directed  against  the 
tackles,  carrying  the  ball  to  our  5-yard  line.  There  she  fumbled,  but  re- 
covered the  ball.  Haverford  held  well  for  three  downs,  but  on  the  third 
play  Farquhar  was  pushed  over  the  line  for  a  touchdown,  and  he  also 
kicked  the  goal.  From  then  on  Haverford  failed  to  gain,  while  Swarth- 
more pressed  us  hard,  but  twice  lost  the  ball  by  fumbling.  There  was 
also  considerable  kicking,  Haines  doing  it  for  our  team.  Haverford  had 
just  lost  the  ball  on  downs  at  her  25-yard  line  when  the  referee  called  the 
game  on  account  of  darkness,  with  ten  miniites  still  to  play.  The  light 
had  been  fading  rapidly  for  some  time,  and  it  was  then  impossible  for 


28  The  Haverfordian 

players  or  officials  to  distinguish  clearly  between  the  opposing  elevens. 
Although  Haverford  had  won  the  game,  she  was  lucky  in  not  losing  it. 
If  it  had  not  been  for  Captain  Haines'  superb  all-round  playing,  Haver- 
ford would  certainly  have  been  defeated. 

Next  month  we  shall  complete  the  narrative  of  the  remaining  seven 
games,  the  first  of  which  was  our  last  victory  against  our  old  rivals. 

{To  be  concluded  next  month.) 

By  Edgar  C.  Bye,  '16 

For  centuries,  for  centuries. 
Roll  on  and  in  primeval  seas, 
For  centuries, — 

O  billow  swells,  and  curves,  and  falls, — 

The  deepening  emerald  of  its  walls 

A  cataract  of  marble-spray, — 

Its  harried  fragments  surging  up 

To  brim  the  beach-child's  sandy  cup. 

Finis  it  writes,  and  slips  away. 

And  slinks  away,  and  slides  away,  and  sleeps — 

In  storm  and  calm,  in  tide  and  ebb, 

The  sea  beats  in, — 

The  sands  increase  and  fail. 

Each  pounding  billow  writes  its  finis  farther  in  or  out. 

Until  the  grim  northwest  fulfills  the  fearful  sail. 

And  then  the  Baresarks  ride  the  wind, 
The  weird  Valkyries  shriek; 
The  ragged  sea-birds,  torn  and  spent. 
Secluded  ejTies  seek. 

The  beach-child's  playground,  scarred  and  marred. 

Beneath  the  crash  and  din, 

Receives  the  sea's  deep  finis 

Farther  and  farthest  in.  ' 


Waves  29 

For  centuries,  for  centuries, 
Roll  on  and  in  primeval  seas, 
In  storm  and  calm,  in  tide  and  ebb. 
For  centuries, — 

A  day  of  stress,  an  hour  of  fear; 

A  sea-wall  shattered,  a  crumbled  pier; 

A  mountain  of  water,  a  ruined  town; 

And  the  weeping  of  friends  when  the  wave  went  down. 

A  wall  rebuilded,  a  pier  re-set ; 

Faith  raiseth  a  city  more  beautiful  yet. 

The  beach-child  plays  on  the  hard  white  sand. 

And  the  yearning  waves  kiss  the  sunburnt  hand, 

And  the  billows  curve  and  break  in  spray. 

And  write  a  finis,  and  slip  away,  and  sleep — 

For  centuries,  for  centuries. 
Roll  on  and  in  primeval  seas, 
For  centuries. 


©ramatic  Comment 

Since  dramatic  literature  and  performance  is  becoming  a  constantly 
increasing  activity  among  students,  The  Haverfordian  in  its  attempt 
to  be  representative  will  henceforth  contain  a  page  or  so  of  dramatic 
comment. 

ROBERT  WHITTIER  IN  IBSEN'S  "GHOSTS" 
By  G.  C.  Theis,  '15 

THERE  are  a  few  of  us  everjTvhere  who  have  true  dramatic  art  at 
heart,  and  who  wander  almost  aimlessly  from  one  current  produc- 
tion to  another  with  the  futile  hope  of  finding  an  artist  in  a  popu- 
lar cast.  We  are  grateful  when  we  find  sincerely  artistic  acting,  but  we 
usually  feel  sorry  for  the  artist  that  the  part  was  so  superficial,  and  we 
pray  that  sometime  he  may  find  a  part  in  which  to  really  let  himself  out. 
What  a  true  artist  can  do  with  a  part  that  gives  an  opportunity  was  shown 
by  Robert  Whittier's  interpretation  of  the  part  of  Oswald  in  "Ghosts," 
recently  performed  at  the  Broad  Street  Theatre.  Profoundly  as  Mr. 
Whittier  has  studied  that  part  during  the  last  eight  years,  he  always  finds 
more  in  it.  He  makes  Oswald  live — he  Hves  Oswald — to  such  an  extent 
that  he  himself  is  fairly  exhausted  after  the  performance.  His  work  is 
from  the  inside  outward,  not  from  the  outside  inward.  So  many  of  us 
have  read  "  Ghosts,"  but  how  small  was  its  significance  until  after  we  had 
seen  it  acted!  For  reading  purposes  the  same  thing  might  have  been 
said  much  better  in  a  treatise.  The  last  scene,  from  where  Oswald  begs 
his  mother  to  give  him  the  poison  and  end  his  suffering,  when  acted  is 
before  us  so  vividly  that  it  becomes  almost  painful.  Women  in  the  au- 
diences have  become  hysterical  at  the  nearly  unintelligible  words  of  Os- 
wald, uttered  by  a  mouth  over  which  muscular  control  has  been  lost,  and 
at  that  weirdly  vacant  and  weak  stare  in  his  eyes,  hardly  supplied  by  the 
nerves  from  his  softened  brain.  Scarcely  aware  of  light  and  vaguely 
groping  for  the  words,  Oswald  murmurs  "The  Sun,  The  Sun"  .  .  .  .The 
intense  tragedy  of  death  at  the  hands  of  a  destructive  disease  that  over- 
comes the  higher  mental  and  spiritual  ambitions  cuts  into  us  Uke  a  jagged 
rusty  knife.  After  such  an  experience,  for  acting  as  Mr.  Whittier's  is 
almost  a  personal  experience  for  anyone  that  can  appreciate  it,  to  come 
out  into  Broad  Street,  with  its  bustle  of  taxis,  smooth-gliding  limousines, 
chattering,  hurrying  people,  and  ratthng  wagons  is — 


Dramatic  Comment  31 

ETHEL  BARRYMORE  IN  "TANTE" 
By  Leonard  B.  Lippmann,  '14 

WHEN  this  season  the  theatre-going  public  of  New  York  and 
Philadelphia  were  given  the  opportunity  to  see  Ethel  Barry- 
more  in  a  dramatization  of  Anna  Douglas  Sedgewick's  novel, 
"  Tante,"  they  had  a  double  treat.  In  the  first  place  Mr.  Haddon  Cham- 
bers has  succeeded  in  creating  a  play  which  in  itself  is  a  joy,  and  secondly 
he  has  been  so  fortunate  as  to  secure  for  his  stellar  role  an  actress  whose 
long  experience  and  innate  artistry  are  in  themselves  an  assurance  of 
success.  The  role  of  Tante  is  long  and  exacting,  yet  Miss  Barrymore 
throughout  the  entire  performance  retains  the  same  high  level  of  histrionic 
art  that  has  always  distinguished  her.  For  purposes  of  dramatization  it 
has  been  necessary  to  read  the  part  of  Mercedes  Okraska  in  rather  more 
vivid  tones  than  the  original  novel  indicates,  yet  so  delicate  were  the 
methods  employed  by  Ethel  Barrymore  that  never  did  the  part  lapse  for 
even  a  moment  into  the  melodramatic  vulgarity  that  might  have  been  easy. 

Nor  did  the  radiance  of  the  stellar  lustre  dim  the  brilliance  of  the 
others  of  the  cast.  Miss  Eileen  Van  Biene,  who  interpreted  the  somewhat 
ingenue  part  of  Karen  Woodruff,  was,  within  the  limits  of  her  role,  ex- 
ceptionally clever.  Charles  Cherry  is  of  coiirse  too  well  known  to  require 
much  notice.  It  was  so  recently  that  we  had  the  pleasure  of  seeing  him  at 
the  head  of  his  own  company  that  any  commendation  is  almost  superfluous. 
William  Ingersoll,  who  interpreted  the  part  of  the  violinist,  "  Franz  Lipp- 
heim,"  is  particularly  well  known  to  Philadelphians  through  his  long 
connection  with  the  Orpheum  Stock  Company.  While  never  impressive 
while  playing  leads,  the  character  bit  that  has  now  fallen  to  Mr.  Ingersoll 
displays  his  particular  talent  to  advantage.  Other  comparatively  minor 
parts  were  acceptably  filled  by  Mrs.  Thomas  Whiffen,  Mabel  Archdall  and 
others,  while  the  "Miss  Scrotton"  of  Haidee  Wright  was  a  triumph  of 
mimetic  skill. 

If  any  criticism  may  be  given,  it  should  be  directed  at  Mr.  E.  Henry 
Edwards,  whose  over-acting  of  his  part  (that  of  a  minor  fashionable  poet) 
was  the  one  blot  on  an  otherwise  perfect  performance.  Had  the  whole 
play  been  acted  in  a  spirit  of  obvious  burlesque  Mr.  Edwards  would  have 
been  in  his  element.  As  it  was  he  was  out  of  harmony  entirely  and  acted 
as  a  distinctly  jarring  note  to  the  sense  of  fitness  of  the  audience. 

The  play  itself  is  built  upon  the  lines  that  have  become  so  popular  of 
late  years  under  the  treatment  of  the  late  Laurence  Housman,  Granville 
Barker  and  Mr.  Chambers  himself.     It  is  clever,  even,  and  very  often 


32  The  Haverfordian 

epigrammatic.  The  scene  in  which  Madam  Okraska  throws  her  mask  to 
the  winds  and  appears  in  her  true  character — ^that  of  a  selfish,  sensation 
seeking  poseur,  is  admirably  handled,  and  another  highly  effective  moment 
is  achieved  in  the  second  act  when  she  stands  listening  at  the  closed  door 
and  then,  when  the  moment  arrives  when  she  can  make  a  telling  entry, 
flings  back  the  folding  doors  and  meets  her  admirers  with  outstretched 
arms.  The  delineation  of  this  character  is  subtle,  and  Miss  Barrymore 
has  taken  full  advantage  of  her  opportunities.  Never,  I  venture  to  say, 
since  she  appeared  in  "Alice  Sit-by-the-Fire,"  has  she  been  more  in  her 
element.  "Tante''  should  be  assured  of  a  long  run  finally  as  all  good 
things  must  end  at  last,  the  memory  of  Mr.  Chambers'  wit  and  Miss  Barry- 
more'  s  skill  will  remain  gratefully  with  a  faithful  public. 


IN  THE  GREEN  ROOM 
ByG.  C.  Theis,  '15 

THERE  is  still  one  theatre  in  Philadelphia  that  maintains  a  little 
room  off-stage  that  resembles  somewhat  the  old  Green  Room. 
Not  long  ago  there  were  gathered  there  what  might  be  called 
seven  stages  of  the  theatre.  These  were  a  playgoer,  a  dramatic  critic,  an 
ingenue,  a  "star,"  a  manager,  an  actor  of  genuinely  interpretative  and 
creative  ability,  and  in  the  background  several  stage-hands.  The  follow- 
ing is  the  substance  of  their  conversation : 

Said  the  Playgoer  to  the  Actor "  Let  me  repeat  my  thanks  for 

your  performance  here  several  weeks  ago;  I  have  not  yet  forgotten  your 
work." 

Said  the  Manager  a  propos  to  this  expression  of  appreciation.  .  .  . 
"You  playgoers  are  always  talking  about  real  art  on  the  stage :  I'd  like  to  see 
it  myself,  but  why  don't  more  of  you  respond  when  such  plays  are  given? 
Anyhow  the  kind  of  plays  you  call  art  don't  make  anyone  feel  too  good. 
I  like  to  have  people  leave  my  theatre  feeling  good." 

Said  the  "  Star' '  to  all  whom  it  may  concern.  ...  "I  like  to  appeal  to 
the  heart  and  not  the  cold  mind.  I  know  that  I  don't  play  'highbrow' 
plays  or  parts,  I  am  just  myself  and  the  people  like  me.  I  read  all  of  the 
'true-art'  modern  work,  but  it  gives  me  the  'wuzzles.'  "  (Stage  Direc- 
tion; exit  "Star' '  peeved). 

Said  the  Critic  after  the  "Star"  had  departed.  .  .  .  "She's  not  an 
artist  and  is  totally  lacking  in  the  necessary  imagination  to  be  one.  In 
hort,  she's  a  '  Star.' ' ' 


Haverford  College  Library  33 

Said  the  Playwright.  .  .  ."You  can't  expect  the  American  public  to 
landerstand  the  real  plays  of  today,  because  they  are  all  from,  the  Continent. 
"Wait  tmtil  the  real  American  play  is  written  and  then  things  will  be  differ- 
ent." 

Said  the  Ingenue.  .  .  ."I  haven't  had  enough  experience  to  prescribe 
anything,  but  I  must  say  that  I  prefer  to  do  a  bright  play  with  maybe  a 
little    sentiment    and    pathos — a    play  that    appeals  like    '  Peg  Of  My 

Heart.'     Sometime  I  would  like  to  do  the  part  of  a  street  gamin I 

would  dress  in  rags  and  have  my  hair  down.  I  like  a  play  that  leaves  a 
good  taste  in  your  mouth.  I  played  '  Prudence'  in  the  London  produc- 
tion of  'The  Quaker  Girl,'  and  I  enjoyed  that  the  most  of  any  part  I  have 
played." 

The  stage-hands  were  seen  only  occasionally,  but  could  be  heard 
whistling  "  The  International  Rag,"  or  reproducing  the  wails  from  "  Bella 
Donna"  as  they  struck  the  scene. 

The  Actor,  the  only  one  present  of  real  creative  and  interpretative 
ability,  was  the  only  one  who  did  not  declare  his  attitude. 

Of  course  these  comments  did  not  occur  detached  as  here  given,  but 
are  a  more  or  less  verbatim  summary  of  what  was  said  during  the  course 
of  the  conversation.  As  they  stand  they  represent  seven  points  of  view, 
all  of  which  are  vitalh^  operative  in  the  theatre  today. 


Hatjerforb  CoUcgc  ilitjrarp 

By  John  Russell  Hayes 

Sivartlimorc  and  Haverford  arc  rL-suming  rdatiois  in  manyways.     \Vc apprec- 
iate this  tribute  from  Mr.  Hayes,  Librarian  of  Swarthmorc  College. 

Immured  among  old  memory-haunted  trees 
And  wrapt  around  with  quiet  Quaker  spell, 

How  it  hath  ministered  to  chosen  youth. 

How  waked  their  hearts  to  wisdom, — -who  may  tell! 


Alumni  department 


it  is  with  great  regret  that  we 
chronicle  the  loss  to  Haverford  of 
two  of  her  oldest  alumni;  on  Jan- 
tmr}^  14th  Edward  Starr,  '62,  and 
on  February  16th  Richard  Morris 
Gummere,  '66. 

EDWARD  STARR,    '62 

Mr.  Starr's  death  occurred  in  his 
seventieth  year  at  his  residence. 
The  Lilacs,  Wyncote,  Pa.  He  en- 
tered Haverford  in  185 S  at  the  early 
age  of  fourteen  and  left  during  the 
Junior  j-ear.  From  here  he  went 
to  the  University'  of  Pennsylvania, 
where  he  studied  in  1861-62,  re- 
ceiving the  degree  of  S.  B.in  1862, 
and  afterwards  taking  up  the  pro- 
fession of  stockbroker  for  his  hfe, 
work. 

R.   MORRIS  GUMMERE,    '66 

Mr.  Gummere  was  born  in  Phila- 
delphia on  February  8th,  1846,  the 
son  of  William  Gtimmere,  of  the 
class  of  '36,  and  number  twelve 
of  the  twenty-one  who  were  present 
on  the  opening  day  of  Haverford. 
Mr.  Gummere  entered  Haverford 
in  1862  and  left  at  the  close  of 
Sophomore  year.  Lately  he  had 
been  identified  with  a  number  of 
successful  enterprises,  among  them 
the  Jefferson  Coal  Company,  of 
which  he  was  secretary  and  treasu- 
rer. He  was  a  member  of  the  Uni- 
versity Club  of  Philadelphia,   and 


the  Buffalo  Club  of  Buffalo,  New 
York.  At  the  time  of  his  death  Mr. 
Gummere  was  secretary  of  the 
Board  of  Trustees,  and  treasurer  of 
Lehigh  University. 

Every  Haverfordian  should  be  at 
least  interested  in  Present  Day 
Papers,  which  made  its  initial  ap- 
pearance in  the  literary  field  this 
January.  Not  only  is  the  maga- 
zine published  within  the  confines 
of  the  college,  but  Haverford 
alumni  constitute  a  large  propor- 
tion of  the  editorial  staff.  Rufus 
Jones,  '85,  is  Editor-in-Chief; 
Henry  J.  Cadburv,  '02,  is  Business 
Manager;  and  Dr.  George  Barton, 
'82,  Professor  Augustus  T.  Murray, 
'85,  and  President  Sharpless  are  all 
on  the  editorial  board.  To  quote 
briefly  from  the  prospectus: 

"A  feeling  has  arisen  in  the  minds 
of  a  group  of  English  and  American 
Friends  that  the  time  is  ripe  for  the 
creation  of  a  religious  periodical  of 
somewhat  wider  scope  and  more 
cosmopolitan  character  than  any 
hitherto  produced 

"The  new  journal  will  bear  an 
undenominational  title  and  will 
be  without  sectarian  marks  or 
badges,  but  it  will  be  devoted,  in 
fact  dedicated,  to  the  propagation 
of  the  message,  the  ideals  and  the 

spirit  of  the  Society  of  Friends 

It  will  be  an  attempt  to  carry  the 
vital  and  spiritual  type   of    Chris- 


Alumni  Department 


35 


tianity  into  the  thought  and  life  of 
the  world." 

The  February  issue  of  Present 
Day  Papers  contained  a  second 
article  on  "The  Problem  of  Chris- 
tianity," by  Riifus  Jones;  an  article 
on  Alfred  Noyes  by  Francis  B. 
Gummere,  '76,  and  a  review  by 
Henry  J.  Cadbury  of  "Apocryphal 
Literature,"  published  by  the  Clar- 
endon Press  at  Oxford. 

The  twenty-seventh  annual  al- 
umni banquet  took  place  at  the 
Bellevue-Stratford  hotel,  Philadel- 
phia, on  Saturday,  January  31st. 
Henry  Cope,  '69,  who  is  chairman 
of  the  Alumni  Association,  acted 
as  toastmaster,  and  President 
Sharpless,  Mr.  David  Wallerstein, 
Dr.  Jones  and  Dr.  Richard  Gum- 
mere  delivered  the  addresses. 
Charles  Baily,  '85,  rendered  two 
solos  after  the  President's  speech, 
and  the  College  Glee  Club  also  gave 
a  musical  program.  Nearly  two 
hundred  and  fifty  Haverfordians 
were  present  at  the  banquet,  which 
shares  with  Commencement  day 
the  honor  of  being  the  best  repre- 
sented of  all  Haverford  reunions. 

The  first  number  of  the  Alumni 
Quarterly  will  appear  soon  after 
March  1st.  It  will  be  sent  free  of 
charge  to  all  alumni.  R.  M.  Gum- 
mere,  '02,  is  managing  editor  and 
the  editorial  board  consists  of: 
J.  W.  Sharp,  '88;  P.  S.  WiUiams, 
'94;  J.  H.  Scattergood,  '96;  J.  H. 
Haines,    '98;    E.    R.    Tatnall,    '07; 


W.  Sargent,  Jr.,  '08;  C.  D.  Morley, 
'10;  and  K.  P.  A.  Taylor,  '15. 

The  New  England  Alumni  As- 
sociation of  Haverford  College  an- 
nounce that  the  annual  meeting  and 
dinner  will  be  held  at  Copley- Plaza 
Hotel,  Boston,  Mass.,  on  Saturday 
evening,  March  7,  1914,  at  seven 
o'clock.  For  information  apply  to 
M.  H.  March,  Secretary  of  the 
Executive  Committee,  141  Milk 
Street,  Boston,  Mass. 

The  Feburary  Westoniaii  con- 
tains two  interesting  articl  s  by 
Haverfordians;  one  upon  "Or- 
charding Experiences  in  North- 
eastern Pennsylvania,"  by  Francis 
R.  Cope,  Jr.,  '00;  while  Joshua  A. 
Cope,  '12,  fresh  from  the  ordeal, 
has  written  upon  "Learning  to  be 
a  Forester." 

An  alumnus  who  wishes  his  name 
to  remain  anonymous  has  donated 
a  fund  of  vS20,000  to  the  Haverford 
College  library.  The  annual  in- 
come of  this  sum,  amoimting  to 
over  nine  handred  dollars,  will  be 
devoted  to  the  ptirchase  of  books 
of  five  general  classes;  History, 
Poetry,  Art,  and  French  and  En- 
glish Liter  ature. 

'65 
In  a  recent  number  of  the  Public 
Ledger  C.  Cresson  Wistar  had  some 
very  interesting  information  on  the 
naming  and  spelling  of  Wi.staria, 
the  plant  named  after  Dr.  Caspar 


36 


The  Haverfordian 


Wistar,   and  on  the  origin  of  the 
family  name  itself. 

'69 

Edward  B.  Ta3'lor,  third  vice- 
president  of  the  Pennsylvania  Rail- 
road, was  elected  second  vice- 
president  of  the  Pennsylvania  Com- 
pany at  a  recent  special  meeting  of 
the  Board  of  Directors.  Mr.  Taj'- 
lor  has  the  degrees  of  A.  B.  (Haver- 
ford,  1869)  B.  C.  E.  and  M.  C.  E. 
(Polytechnic  College  of  Pennsyl- 
vania 1870  and  1873).  He  has  been 
in  the  service  of  the  Pennsjdvania 
since  July  25,  1870,  beginning  as  a 
rodman  and  clerk  and  rising  through 
successive  steps  to  his  present  high 
office.  Mr.  Taylor  is  a  member  of 
several  industrial  and  social  so- 
cieties, and  is  an  ex- president  of 
the  Engineers'  Society  of  Western 
Pennsj'lvania. 

'76 

Dr.  Francis  G.  Allinson,  of  Brown 
University,  read  a  paper  on  "Cer- 
tain Doubtful  Passages  in  Menan- 
der"  at  the  last  American  Philolog- 
ical Association  meeting,  held  at 
Cambridge,  Mass. 

'82 

The  sixth  volume  of  Hastings' 
Encyclopaedia  of  Religion  and 
Ethics,  recently  issued  by  Scrib- 
ners,  contains  an  article  on  Hier- 
odouloi  (Semitic  and  Egyptian)  by 
Dr.  George  A.  Barton  and  an  arti- 
cle on  Flagellants  by  Dr.  Rufus  M, 
Jones,  '85. 


'85 
The  Harvard  University  Press, 
Cambridge,  announces  the  publi- 
cation of  The  Scientific  Work  of 
Morris  Loeh.  Dr.  Theodore  W. 
Richards,  of  Harvard  University, 
is  the  editor. 

Dr.  Rufus  M.  Jones  spent  two 
weeks  at  the  beginning  of  February 
as  a  University  minister  at  Har- 
vard Universit3^  Besides  the  more 
or  less  routine  intercourse  with  the 
students,  Dr.  Jones  twice  preached 
in  the  Appleton  Chapel  at  Cam- 
bridge. 

'89 

Macmillan  and  Company  an- 
nounce the  publication  of  a  revised, 
up-to-date  edition  of  the  "Modern 
Trust  Company,"  the  joint  work 
of  F.  B.  Kirkbride,  '89,  and  Sterrett. 

'94 
Professor  W.  W.  Comfort,  of 
Cornell  University,  has  in  press  for 
Everyman's  Library  (J.  M.  Dent 
and  Sons,  London)  "Four  Roman- 
ces of  Chretien  de  Troyes."  The 
volume  will  consist  of  a  prose 
translation  of  the  four  earliest 
Arthurian  romances  extant:  Erec 
et  Enide,  Cliges,  Yvain,  and  Launce- 
lot.  An  introduction,  a  bibliog- 
raph}^,  and  notes  accompanj^  the 
text. 

'96 
A    fourth    child,     Ellen    Morris 
Scattergood,  was  bom  to  J.  Henry 
and  Anne  T.  Scattergood  on  Jan- 
uary 24th,    1914. 


Alumni  Department 


37 


Dr.  Arthur  F.  Coca  is  doing 
research  work  at  the  University  of 
Cornell  Medical  College,  New  York 
City. 

'97 

Dr.  Francis  N.  Maxfield  has  been 
conducting  Dr.  Jones'  course  in 
Psychology  at  Haverford  during 
the  latter' s  absence  as  a  University 
Minister  at  Harvard.  Dr.  Maxfield 
is  Instructor  of  Psychology  and 
Assistant  Director  of  the  Psycholog- 
ical Clinic  at  the  University  of 
Pennsylvania.  The  Psychological 
Clinic  was  started  by  Professor 
Witmer  in  1896  and  makes  a  spe- 
cialty of  the  examination  of  back- 
ward and  defective  children. 

'99 
Malcolm  A.  Shipley,  Jr.,  is  Rec- 
tor of  Trinity  Church,  707  Washing- 
ton St.,  Hoboken,  New  Jersey. 

Ex- '01 

H.  S.  Langfield  has  an  article  in 
the  January  Psycliological  BitUctiii 
on  "Text-Books  and  General 
Treatises." 

'02 

C.  Linn  Seller  and  family  moved 
to  New  York  during  February. 
Seller's  new  address  is  12  Gramercy 
Park,  New  York. 

A.  G.  H.  Spiers  was  elected  to 
the  Executive  Council  of  the  Mod- 
em Language  Association  of  the 
Middle  States  and  Maryland  at 
their  last  annual  meeting. 


Charles  Wharton  Stork  read  a 
paper  at  the  last  meeting  of  the 
Modern  Language  Association, 
upon  "  The  Influence  of  the  Popu- 
lar Ballad  on  Wordsworth  and 
Coleridge." 

'03 
Rev.  Enoch  F.  Hoffman,  pastor 
of  the  Norris  Square  Methodist 
Episcopal  Church  in  Kensington, 
has  been  taking  a  prominent  part 
in  the  recent  agitation  against  prev- 
alent conditions  in  Moyamensing 
prison.  Mr.  Hoffman  also  served 
as  a  Grand  Juror  for  the  January 
term  of  the  Criminal  Courts. 

'05 
Sigmtmd  Spaeth  has  an  inter- 
esting article  in  the  February  issue 
of  the  new  magazine  Vanity  Fair, 
entitled,  "New  Operas  with  New 
Themes."  The  subject  is  treated 
with  the  impartiality  of  an  active 
musical  experience.  Operas  which 
have  already  had  their  premieres 
this  season  are  Strauss' s  "  Rosen- 
kavalier,"  and  Itali  Montenezzi's 
"  L'AmoredeiTre  Rey,"  while  those 
to  come  are  Victor  Herbert's  "  Made- 
leine," Charpentier's  "Julien,"  and 
Wolf- Ferrari's  "  L'  Amore  Medico." 
Mr.  Spaeth  finds  the  outlook  hope- 
ful, especially  in  so  far  as  tragedy 
seems  to  be  giving  way  to  a  comic 
motif.  Only  the  last  two  of  the 
operas  named  are  tragedies.  Mr. 
Spaeth  has  also  been  contributing 
to  recent  issues  of  Life. 


3^ 


The  Haverfordian 


Leslie  B.  Seely  is  giving  a  course 
of  lectures  on  Physics  at  the  Wag- 
ner Free  Institute,  Philadelphia. 

'06 

The  1906  class  reunion  was  held 
at  college  the  23rd  of  December. 
Roderick  Scott  sent  in  his  resigna- 
tion as  Secretary- Treasurer  and 
W.  H.  Haines  was  elected  in  his 
place.  T.  K.  Brown,  Jr.  continued 
as  President.  Those  present  were ; 
Bainbridge,  Brown,  Carson,  Dick- 
son, Ewing,  Haines,  Hopper,  Lind- 
say, Morris,  Mott,  Pleasants, 
Smile}',  Stratton,  Taylor  and  Tun- 
ney. 

'07 

Charles  C.  Terrell,  having  com- 
pleted a  graduate  course  in  Agri- 
culture at  Ohio  State  University,  is 
now  farming  at  New  Vienna,  Ohio. 

Ernest  Fuller  Jones  is  a  Forest 
Ranger  in  the  U.  S.  Forestry  Ser- 
vice,with  headquarters  at  Sheridan, 
Montana.  He  expects,  however,  to 
be  transferred  from  this  post  short- 
ly. Jones  was  in  Philadelphia  for 
a  day  or  two  the  latter  part  of 
January,  on  his  way  West  after  a 
vacation  at  his  home  in  Maine. 

M.  H.  March  has  announced  his 
engagement  to  Miss  Susan  B.  Rich- 
ards of  Pottstown,  Pa. 


H.  Evans,  F.  D.  Godley,  S.  J. 
Gummere,  W.  H.  Haines,  J.  P. 
Magill,  J.  W.  Nicholson,  Jr.,  W. 
R.  Rossmaessler,  E.  R.  Tatnall  and 
W.  B.  Windle. 

'08 
The  youthful  Progressive  Party 
can  number  several  Haverford 
men  among  its  most  ardent  sup- 
porters. J.  Passmore  Elkinton  has 
been  elected  chairman  of  the  re- 
centh"  organized  Progressive  League 
of  Delaware  Cotmty.  Gifford  Pin- 
chot  addressed  a  public  meeting 
held  under  the  auspices  of  the 
League  at  Media  on  January  22d. 

Charles  L.  Miller  has  been  elected 
President  of  the  Lancaster  County 
Humane  Society,  an  institution 
which  is  carrying  on  fine  work  deal- 
ing with  the  prevention  of  child  and 
animal  cruelty  in  that  district. 

Miller  has  also  been  recently 
elected  a  director  of  the  Lancaster 
Chamber  of  Commerce. 

T.  Morris  Longstreth  is  acting  as 
Musical  Critic,  in  Philadelphia,  of 
the  Chicago  Grand  Opera  Com- 
pany, for  the  Musical  Courier  of 
New  York. 

Carroll  T.  Brown  has  been  elected 
editor  of  the  W estonian. 


The  following  members  of  the 
class  were  present  at  the  Alumni 
Dinner:  A.  E.  Brown,  P.  W.  Brown, 


'08  will  hold  its  annual  dinner 
at  Haverford  on  Fridaj^,  March 
6th,  1914. 


Alumni  Department 


39 


'09 

Percival  B.  Fay  has  accepted  an 
offer  to  teach  at  the  University  of 
California  next  year. 

Burritt  M.  Hiatt  has  accepted 
the  position  of  Advertising  Mana- 
ger for  the  Woman's  Home  Com- 
panion and  will  move  shortly  to 
New  York  from  his  present  resi- 
dence at  Swarthmore. 


Smith, 


Mason 


and 
CloWer 


TAILORS 


'10 
The  engagement  of  Miss  Mary 
Pynchon  Cleave  and  George  Allen 
Kerbaugh  has  been  announced. 
Miss  Cleave  is  the  daughter  of  Mr. 
and  Mrs.  Ernest  J.  Cleave  of  Cres- 
cent, Pennsylvania. 


1221  Walnut  Street 

Philadelphia 


Suits  and  Coats  $25  to  $50 


C.  D.  Morley,  with  Doubleday 
Page  and  Co.  since  last  October,  is 
editing  for  them  the  Bookseller' s 
Blue  Book,  a  little  handbook  of  in- 
terest to  booksellers.  Morley  had 
an  article  on  "Kipling"  in  the  Feb- 
ruary number  of  the  Book  News 
Monthly. 

Ex- '10 
Announcement  has  recently  been 
made  of  the  appointment  of  P.  J. 
Baker  as  vice-principal  of  Ruskin 
College  at  Oxford.  Baker,  besides 
being  one  of  the  most  famous  of 
English  track  athletes,  won  many 
friends  on  this  side  of  the  water  by 
his  admirably  fair  defense  of  Ameri- 
can track  methods  against  the  free 
criticism  which  was  made  of  them 


Zimmerman's 

An  Improved  English  model,  receding  toe,  broad 
shank,   low   heel  effect,   In   Russia  or  Wax  Call 

$4  to  $7 


The  authentic  fashion  in  "classy"  shoes.  Ac- 
knowledged unequalled  in  fit  and  style  by  men 
■who  know. 


1  to  5 

Mint  Arcade 


Shops 


916 

Chestnut  St. 


1232  Market  Street 


40 


The  Haverfordian 


in  England  after  the  Stockholm 
Olympic  games.  Baker  holds  the 
Haverford  record  for  the  mile  rtm 
and  Haverfordians  will  congratu- 
late him  upon  the  attainment  of 
this  marked  scholastic  distinction. 


'12 
On  Friday,  February  13th,  Mr. 
and  Mrs.  H.  H.  Sangree,  of  108 
South  42nd  St.,  Philadelphia,  an- 
nounced the  engagement  of  their 
daughter  Joj'ce  to  Hans  Froelicher, 
Jr.  Hans  is  teaching  at  the  Oilman 
Country  School,  Roland  Park,  Md. 
To  quote  from  the  columns  of  a 
recent  number  of  the  Gilman 
News:  "On  January  10th  the 
faculty  was  humbled  by  the  Var- 
sity Soccer  team  to  the  tune  of  7  to 

1 Mr.  H.  Froelicher  shot  the 

Faculty's  goal." 

On  February  4th,  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Alfred  J.  Vollrath,  1512  Pine  St., 
Phila.,  announced  the  engagement 
of  their  daughter  Mildred  to  Her- 
bert M.  ("Bert")  Lowry,  60th  and 
Elmwood  Sts.,  West  Phila.  "Bert" 
is  with  the  Lowry  Coffee  Co.,  while 
Miss  Vollrath  is  a  student  at 
Vassar  College. 

In  his  capacity  of  AssistantSecre- 
tary  and  Acting  Sales  Manager  of 
the  Hamilton  "Watch  Company, 
Robert  E.  ("Bob")  Miller  has  just 
returned  from  an  extended  business 
trip  to  practically  all  the  larger 
cities  of  the  East,  Middle  West,  and 
Canada.  During  the  trip  Miller  de- 
livered an  address  on  ' '  Advertising ' ' 
as  the  guest  of  the  Cleveland  Adver- 
tisers' Club,  one  of  the  largest  and 
most  prominent  of  American  busi- 
ness men's  clubs. 

Miller  is  now  Advertising  Mana- 


"Careful  Handling  and  Quality" 

Send  us  Your  Suitings  to  be 

Dry-Cleaned,  Scoured 
and  Pressed 

At  Reasonable  Rates 


Our  College  Agent 

Mr.  I.  Thomas  Steere 
Massage         Manicuring         Chiropodist 

The 
Bellevue-Stratford 

Barber  Shop 

H.  Aug.  Motz,  Proprietor 

TURKISH  BATHS 

For  Gentlemen  $1.00,  6  Tickets  for  $5.00 

INSURANCE 

Fire  or  Burglary  Insurance  on  Students'  per- 
sonal effects  while  at  College  or  elsewhere. 

Tourists'  Floating  Insurance  on  personal  ef- 
fects against  all  risks  in  transit,  in  hotels, 
etc.,  both  in  this  countrj'  and   abroad. 

Automobile  Insurance  covering  damage  to  car 
and  liability  for  damage  to  property  or  for 
injuries  to  persons. 

Longacre  &  Ewing 

Bullitt  Building      141   S.   Fourth  St., 
Philadelphia 


Alumni  Department 


41 


ger  of  the  Hamilton  Watch  Com- 
pany, and  in  this  capacity  it  is  in- 
teresting to  note  an  article  by  him 
on  "Advertising"  in  the  January 
issue  oi  Prill tei's  Ink. 

Kenneth  A.  ("Dusty")  Rhoad 
was  the  presenter  of  the  "Haver- 
ford  Cup,  "  a  trophy  recently  given 
to  the  Swarthmore  Prep.  School  by 
Haverford  men  who  are  interested 
in  the  school.  It  is  to  be  an  annual 
award  and,  so  far  as  possible,  to 
correspond  to  the  award  of  the 
Class  Spoon  at  Haverford. 

"Bill"  Roberts  is  recovering, 
from  an  operation  for  appendicitis 
recently  performed  at  the  Jefferson 
Hospital.  Walter  H.  ("Buck") 
Steere  is  also  out  and  about  after  a 
recent  operation  likewise  performed 
in  Philadelphia. 

S.  K.  Bcebe  will  move  to  Cincin- 
nati shortly.  It  is  reported  that 
Stace  is  intending  a  change  of 
business. 

C.  T.  Moon  is  now  in  the  emplo}^ 
of  J.  E.  Rhoads  &  Son,  Leather  Belt- 
ing, Phila.,  Wilmington  and  Chica- 
go- 

'13 

1913  was  represented  at  the 
Alumni  Banquet  by  Crosman,  Cur- 
tis, Diament,  Maule,  Tatnall,  Webb, 
E.  F.  W^inslow,  Young. 

News  comes  to  us  from  Penn  that 
"  Sook"  Howson  has  been  using  his 
natatorial  abilities  to  better  pur- 
pose than  ever  permitted  by  the 
narrow  confines  of  our  own  pool. 
A  regular  member  of  the  swimming 
team,  he  has  placed  frequently'  in 
recent  meets. 


Pyle,  Imnes 
b  Basbieri 


TAIl>OR^ 

<*'    Ton.   ^o 
MEN  AND  BOYS 


Good 
Clothes 

Our  store  is  now 
favorably  known 
and  patronized  by 
thousands  of 
young  men  who 
believe  that  one  of 
the  first  aids  to 
success  is  good- 
looking  clothes. 

Our  test  asset 
is  the  ability  to 
produce  them. 

An  inspection  of 
our  Fall  stock 
— which  is  the  largest  in  town — is  solicited 
and  we  think  wdl  be  interesting  to  you. 

Our  Full-dress  suits  are  especially  good. 


Ills  WALNUT  ST., 
PHILADELPHIA. 


Suits  and  Overcoats,  $25  to  $50 
Full-Dress  Suits,  $40  to  $70 


Pyle,  Innes  &  Barbieri 

Leading  College  Tailors 

1115  Walnut  Street 


D 


dllClliy    Tango,    Boston, 
Castle  Walk,   Hesitation. 

Young  and  old  alike  are  fasci- 
nated with  these  new  dances.  Our 
method  assures  perfect  dancers. 

Write,  Phone  or  Call. 

The  C.  Ellwood  Carpenter 

Studio 

1123  Chestnut  Street 

Classes  Formed  Anywhere. 

Private  Lessons  Daily  by  Appoint- 
ment. 


The  SAVfiRFORDIA^f 


Ardmore  Shoe  Store 

C.   F.  HARTLEY 

Lancaster  and  Cricket  Avenues 

REPAIRI  NO 

Rensselaer  Polytechnic  Institute 

%,  SCHOOL  of   VV 
'<%  ENGINEERING 

CIVIL  MECHANICAL.  ELECTRICAL  and  CHEMICAL 
ENGINEERING,  and  GENERAL  SCIENCE 

Send  for  a  Catalogue.         TRO  i  ,  IM«  I  • 

Kepairing   of   Hall,    Chimes  and  French 
Clocks  a  Specialty 

A.  A.   FRANCIS,  Jeweler 

lis  "\V.  Lancaster  Ave.  phone  144D 

Ardmore,  Pa. 

C.  W.  Scott  Company 

Bryn  Mawr,  Pa. 
Carriages,  Wagons  and  Automobiles 

JOHN  JAMISON 

Butter,  Cheese,  Eggs,  Poultry, 

Provisions,  Etc. 

3  and  5  South  Water  Street 

Philadelphia 

We  Supply  all  the  Leading  Hotels,  Cafes, 
Clubs  and  Institutions. 


Ira  D.  Gartnan 

* 'Exclusive  Jewelry 
for  Young  Men" 

The  best  Repair  Department  in 
the  City 

1  1  th  Street  below  Chestnut 
PHILADELPHIA 


S.  p.  Frankenfield  Sons 

Undertakers 
ARDMORE.  PA. 

Successors  to 
JOSIAH  S.  PEARCE 

33  E.  Lancaster  Avenue 

Phone,    Ardmore    9 


J.  OWEN  YETTER 
General  Shoe  Repairing 

ARDMORE,  PA. 

Will  Collect  Shoes  Monday  Evening  and  Deliver 
Thursday  Morning 
T.   B.  Whitson,   College  Agent 


Established  25  Years 

JVilliam  Duncan 

MEATS,  GROCERIES  AND  PROVISIONS 
OF  FINEST  QUALITY 


WILLIAM  S. 
YARNALL 

Manufacturing  Optician 

118  S.  15th  StreeC  Philadelphia 

Phone  258 

C.  E.  Edwards 

Confectioner 

ICE  CREAM   AND    FANCY  ICES, 

FANCY  CAKES 


Ramsey   Building 


Bryn  Mawr,  Pa 


Tailoring  Pressing 

FRANCIS    B.   HALL 

French    Dry    Cleaner   and    Dyer 

Directly  over  Post  Office,   Bryn  Mawr 
Phone  2290  We  call  and  deliver 

Kid  gloves  cleaned      Dress  vests  cleaned 


\\  HEN    Patronizing    Advertisers    Kindly  Mention  The  Haverfordian 


THE    HAVERFORDIAN 


Yoshio  Nitobe,   1915,   Editor-in-Chief 

ASSOCIATE  EDITORS 
F.  M.  Morley,   1915  K.   P.   A.  Taylor,   1915 

E.  M.  Pharo,   1915  D.   B.   Van  Hollen,  1915 

E.  C.  Bye,   1916 

BUSINESS  MANAGER  SUBSCRIPTION   MANAGER 

Albert  G.  Garrigues,  1916  Edward  R.  Moon,  1916 

Price,  per  year $1.00  Single  Copies $0.15 

The  Haverfordian  is  published  on  the  first  of  each  month  during  College  year.  Its  purpose 
is  to  foster  the  literary  spirit  among  the  undergraduates  and  to  provide  an  organ  for  the  discussion  of 
questions  relative  to  college  life  and  policy.  To  these  ends  contributions  are  invited,  and  will  be  con- 
sidered solely  on  their  merits.  Matter  intended  for  insertion  should  reach  the  Editor  not  later  than  the 
fifteenth  of  the  month  preceding  the  date  of  issue. 

Entered  at  the  Haverford  Post-Office,  for  transmission  through  the  mails  as  second-class  matter. 

VOL.  XXXVI.  HAVERFORD,  PA.,  APRIL,  1914  No.  2 


Cbitorial  Comment 

WHERE  is  Ulster,  Kikiyu  or  Zabern,  and  how  have  they  figured 
in  recent  events?  Who  is  your  Senator  at  Washington? 
Of  the  176  men  at  Haverford  we  doubt  if  there  are  ten 
who  could  take  part  at  a  dinner  conversation — not  intelligently — but 
passably  well  on  these  topics.  Yet  the  papers  are  filled  with  Home  Rule 
and  Mexico,  while  pictures  of  the  Bishops  of  Mombasa,  Uganda  and 
Zanzibar  along  with  popular  accounts  of  the  Conference  at  Kikiyu  and 
its  aftermath  filled  pages  of  the  Graphic  and  Illustrated  London  News. 

If  college  men  show  such  indifference  to  current  events,  we  may  judge 
the  apathy  of  the  country  at  large.  That  the  effect  of  this  apathy  is 
disastrous  no  one  can  doubt  who  has  seen  how  easily  the  populace  fall 
prey  to  the  jingo  press,  how  uncertain  municipal  and  local  politics  are, 
and  how  strained  are  the  relations  between  America  and  the  foreign 
powers. 

For  instance,  if  the  public  had  kept  themselves  informed  as  to  condi- 
tions in  California  and  the  Far  East,  the  trouble  with  Japan  would  have 
never  taken  place.  But  since  the  pubhc,  who  in  the  last  analysis  deter- 
mine local  and  foreign  politics,  are  so  indifferent  to  informing  themselves, 


44  The  Haverfordian 

they  can  scarcely  be  expected  to  form  a  sane  judgment  when  called  upon 
in  a  crisis. 

This  state  of  ignorance  is  natural  on  the  part  of  the  populace,  but 
that  college  men  should  be  making  no  effort  is  inexcusable. 

Some  of  you  will  say  you  have  no  time  to  spend  on  such  questions. 
What  you  do  at  Haverf ord  is  a  matter  of  choice ;  if  you  choose  things  less 
worth  while  it  is  not  only  your  loss  but  Haverford's  also.  In  the  end, 
however,  it  is  not  a  question  of  time;  it  is  an  attitude  of  mind. 

For  instance,  you  spend  ten  minutes  a  day  perusing  the  sporting, 
society  and  joke  columns  of  a  newspaper.  Just  start  in  by  spending 
one  minute  out  of  the  ten,  reading  the  headlines,  if  nothing  more,  of 
foreign  dispatches,  poHtical  articles,  and  editorials.  Soon  you  will  be 
going  to  the  Hbrary  to  pore  over  the  London  Times,  the  Nation  or  the 
Contemporary  Review  with  as  much  avidity  as  you  read  McClure's  and 
Harper's  Weekly.  Then  there  are  the  Mission  Study  Classes,  Civic 
Club  and  public  lectures  at  College  and  in  town. 

The  benefits  of  following  current  events  are  manifold.  Life  will  be 
more  interesting;  life  will  hold  more  for  you  because  you  will  be  a  bigger 
man  yourself.  By  widened  interests  you  join  the  ranks  of  cosmopolitan, 
world-citizenship :  a  man  who  thinks  in  terms  of  world  import.  You  will 
be  equipped  to  take  an  intelligent  part  in  the  humanitarian  and  intellec- 
tual movements  of  the  day.  In  whatever  circle  you  enter,  you  will  be 
able  to  feel  at  home;  you  will  have  lost  the  stigma  of  provincialism. 

Finally  this  broadened  attitude  will  raise  Haverford  to  an  unique 
position.  It  will  be  the  institution  of  America  which  to  the  advantages 
of  a  small  college  will  add  the  vigor  and  breadth  of  interest  and  vision 
which  are  supposed  to  be  the  heritage  of  the  large  universities. 

We  at  Haverford  have  received  much  from  the  past ;  let  us  add  some- 
thing now  for  the  future.  Surely  Haverford  has  not  stopped  growing? 
It  is  for  us  to  answer. 


Genius!  anb  ^atfiolosp 

By  William  H.  Chamberlin,   '17. 

ANY  centuries  ago  the  Roman  poet  Juvenal  expressed  an  ideal  of 
the  ancient  world  in  the  epigrammatic  phrase;  "Mens  sana 
in  sano  corpore,"  "the  sound  mind  in  the  sound  body."  The 
implied  connection  between  mental  and  physical  health  and  strength  was 
one  of  the  fundamental  principles  of  Greek  and  .Roman  civilization. 
The  physical  deformity  of  Socrates  undotibtedly  did  much  to  prejudice 
the  Athenians  against  his  teachings.  And  this  belief  that  a  healthy 
body  is  a  most  necessary  basis  for  a  powerful  mind  is  very  prevalent  at 
the  present  time.  Nor  is  it  possible  to  deny  that,  in  the  case  of  the 
ordinary  man,  success  in  life  is  largely  dependent  upon  good  physical 
condition.  But  when  we  apply  this  rule  to  that  small  and  aristocratic 
group  of  men  known  as  geniuses  we  are  confronted  by  some  very  different 
considerations. 

In  the  first  place,  what  are  the  emotions  which  physical  disease  and 
pain  produce  in  the  human  mind?  Obviously  they  are  all  passions  of 
sombre  hue,  such  as  rage,  grief,  disgust,  and  irritation.  But  is  it  not  the 
distinguishing  mark  of  genius  to  be  able  to  portray  and  preserve,  whether 
in  literature,  music,  painting  or  sculpture,  as  many  of  the  human  emo- 
tions as  possible?  And,  if  this  is  the  function  of  genius,  is  not  the  world 
indirectly  enriched  by  every  novel  experience,  however  bitter  and  painful, 
which  befalls  the  great  poet  or  artist  ?  Certainly  the  spiritual  gifts  which 
suffering  brings  to  a  strong  and  noble  mind  are  many  and  manifest.  It 
inspires  a  certain  subtle  delicacy  of  thought  and  feeling,  it  prevents  the 
soul  from  sinking  into  smug  and  petty  self-complacency  and,  above  all,  it 
brings  the  sufferer  into  closer  sympathy  with  the  millions  of  his  fellow- 
beings  who  are  laboring  under  the  burden  of  some  great  affliction.  More- 
over, intense  physical  pain  develops  the  latent  heroism  in  a  genuinely 
noble  soul;  the  strong  man,  in  meeting  and  overcoming  his  affliction, 
reaches  heights  of  courage  and  exaltation  which  he  would  otherwise  never 
have  dreamed  of  attaining.  A  few  illustrations  may  help  to  make  these 
points  clear. 

Early  in  life,  at  the  very  zenith  of  his  career,  the  composer  Beethoven 
was  stricken  with  complete  deafness.  This  misfortune,  v/hich  might  have 
crushed  a  weaker  man,  only  developed  the  sturdy  Teutonic  resolution  in 
Beethoven;  and  his  last  warks,  composed  under  the  double  handicap  of 
physical  infirmity  and  very  insufficient  means  of  technical  expression 
(for  the  pianos  of  that  day  were  far  more  limited  in  range  than  they  are 


46  -  The  Haverfordian 

at  present),  show  an  almost  prophetic  vision  of  the  music  of  the  future. 
Perhaps  his  affliction,  cruel  and  terrible  as  it  was,  helped  materially  in 
bringing  out  the  tremendous  strength  and  dignity  of  his  character. 

In  1857  Wagner's  physical  condition,  according  to  the  extreme 
advocates  of  Juvenal's  theory,  should  have  prevented  him  from  produc- 
ing an5rthing  of  consequence.  The  stomach  trouble  which  had  always 
troubled  him  more  or  less  had  reached  an  acute  stage,  giving  him  constant 
pain,  and  even  affecting  his  eyes.  But  this  intense  physical  suffering, 
instead  of  causing  him  to  succumb  and  retire  to  a  sanatorium,  only  served 
to  bring  out  the  highest  creations  of  his  mighty  genius,  the  opera,  "  Sieg- 
fried," and  the  immortal  last  act  of  "Tristan  and  Isolde."  And,  in  the 
case  of  Wagner,  it  is  noticeable  that,  when  the  sufferings  of  this  period 
were  largely  terminated  by  the  patronage  and  favor  of  the  King  of 
Bavaria,  his  work  lost  materially  in  power  and  vigor.  "Parsifal,"  his 
last  opera,  despite  its  mystical  and  religious  exaltation,  certainly  does  not 
possess  the  bold  sweep  and  magnificent  freedom  of  "Tristan  and  Isolde" 
and  the  Nibelungen  Ring. 

But  the  examples  of  Beethoven  and  Wagner  are  not,  perhaps,  the 
most  illuminative  in  the  present  question.  Both  these  composers  had 
certain  theories  of  art,  to  which  they  rigidly  conformed,  and  which  were 
not  in  the  least  altered  by  the  vicissitudes  of  their  private  lives.  For 
instance,  when  Wagner  pictured  the  bright,  joyous,  beautiful  character 
of  his  hero,  Siegfried,  no  personal  misfortune,  however  grievous,  would 
have  led  him  to  change  the  picture  to  a  darker  hue.  So,  passing  from 
Beethoven  and  Wagner,  let  us  consider  two  men  whose  artistic  ideals 
were  founded  upon  a  very  different  basis.  It  is  generally  admitted  that, 
among  all  the  masterpieces  of  music,  those  of  Frederic  Chopin  are  notable 
for  their  intensely  intimate  and  personal  character.  And  the  philosophy 
of  Friedrich  Nietzsche  has  been  referred  to  by  a  hostile  critic  as  "sicken- 
ing with  subjectivity."  Both  the  composer  and  the  poet-philosopher 
suffered  physical  anguish  far  beyond  the  lot  of  the  average  man;  both 
show  this  pathological  influence  very  clearly  in  their  works.  According 
to  the  ordinary  and  conventional  viewpoint,  this  influence  should  be 
altogether  for  the  worse.  A  close  examination  will  help  to  show  how 
well  this  assumption  is  verified  in  fact. 

The  life  of  Frederic  Chopin  was  as  pathetic  as  one  of  his  own  nocturnes. 
Always  frail  and  delicate,  he  soon  developed  consumptive  symptoms  and 
died  before  the  age  of  forty.  Probably  this  circumstance  has  been  largely 
responsible  for  the  general  misconception  of  the  nature  of  Chopin's  music. 
The  average  concert -goer  hears,  perhaps,  a  few  of  the  lighter  preludes, 
nocturnes  and  valses,  reads  about  the  composer's  physical  weakness  and 


Genius  and  Pathology  47 

debility  and  jumps  to  the  conclusion  that  Chopin's  compositions,  while 
pleasing  and  melodious,  are  entirely  devoid  of  masculine  and  virile  ele- 
ments. No  more  serious  mistake  could  possibly  be  made.  Within 
Chopin's  sick  and  pain-racked  body  was  enclosed  the  soul  of  a  hero  and  a 
poet;  and  the  acuteness  of  his  suffering  only  served  to  bring  out  these 
heroic  and  poetic  qualities  in  stronger  relief.  This  statement  is  evident 
from  the  most  superficial  glance  at  the  masculine  side  of  Chopin's  music. 

The  most  obviously  martial  of  the  PoHsh  composer's  works  are  those 
which  bear  the  title  of  polonaises.  The  polonaise  was  originally  a  stately 
dance  peculiar  to  the  Polish  nobility,  but  in  Chopin's  compositions  this 
significance  is  almost  entirely  lost,  except  in  the  rhythm.  The  polonaises 
of  Chopin  are  works  written  on  a  tremendous  scale,  almost  invariably 
of  a  martial  and  heroic  character.  One  would  have  to  seek  long  to  find 
any  traces  of  effeminacy  in  the  terrific  octaves  of  the  A  Flat  Polonaise  or 
in  the  sullen,  defiant,  reverberating  chord  masses  which  herald  the  open- 
ing and  close  of  the  Polonaise  in  F  Sharp  Minor.  Still  it  may  be  plausibly 
argued  that  these  mighty  works  were  created  not  because  of,  but  in  spite 
of  Chopin's  physical  weakness;  that,  if  the  composer  had  been  a  man  in 
normal  health,  he  would  have  been  able  to  achieve  still  greater  triumphs. 
Personally  I  do  not  agree  with  this  view.  It  seems  to  me  that  the  very 
sickness  of  the  composer  drove  him  to  seek  consolation  for  his  weakness 
and  respite  from  his  pain  in  musical  pictures  of  extraordinary  power  and 
heroism.  But,  conceding  this  point,  granting  that  the  virile  side  of 
Chopin's  music  could  have  been  written  as  well,  or  better,  by  a  man 
overflowing  with  health  and  animal  vitality,  there  still  remains  a  very 
important  phase  of  Chopin's  art,  whose  very  existence  is  so  dependent 
upon  his  sickness  that  it  may  fairly  be  called  pathological.  Two  of  the 
most  conspicuous  examples  of  this  phase  are  the  B  Minor  Scherzo  and  the 
Polonaise-Fantaisie. 

Without  going  into  technical  details,  the  B  Minor  Scherzo  may  be 
described  as  a  hurricane  of  wild,  unrestrained,  savage  passion,  broken  in 
the  middle  by  a  melody  of  surpassing  beauty,  but  closing  in  its  original 
mood  of  hopeless  despair.  The  dynamic  power  of  the  composition  is 
immense,  and,  as  a  vivid  image  of  every  maleficent  passion,  it  has  few 
rivals  in  the  literature  of  music.  Certainly  this  masterpiece  of  tragic  art 
would  have  lost  much  of  its  irresistible  power  but  for  the  elements  of 
physical  pain  and  grief  which  undeniably  entered  into  its  composition. 
It  is  customary  for  faint-hearted  and  narrow-minded  critics  to  attack  this 
kind  of  music  as  morbid  and  abnormal.  They  forget,  or  fail  to  under- 
stand, that  the  same  stupid  and  meaningless  adjectives  would  apply  with 
equal  force  to  the  creations  of  the  two  great  tragic  dramatists  of  all  time. 


48  The  Haverfordian 

Shakespeare  and  Aeschylus,  to  say  nothing  of  such  modem  geniuses  as 
Schopenhauer,  Flaubert  and  Tschaikowsky. 

But  the  world  owes  a  still  greater  debt  to  the  pathological  side  of 
Chopin's  art  in  the  Polonaise-Fantaisie.  Opening  in  a  mystical  and 
abstruse  spirit,  filled,  at  the  start,  with  sharp  cries  of  uncontrollable  an- 
guish, the  composition  gradually  rises  to  a  climax  of  heroic,  defiant 
optimism,  which  has  few  parallels  in  music.  In  this  inspired  climax  we 
see  the  true  optimism;  the  optimism  which  rises  above  pessimism  as 
much  as  pessimism  rises  above  the  vulgar  satisfaction  of  material  ease 
and  comfort;  an  optimism  only  possible  to  a  great  soul  wholly  conse- 
crated to  a  great  ideal. 

The  name  of  Friedrich  Nietzsche  conjures  up  to  the  average  man  a 
vague  disturbing  vision  of  a  German  philosopher  who  promulgated  va- 
rious theories  subversive  of  religion  and  morality  and  ended  his  days  in  an 
insane  asylum.  It  is  not  my  intention  to  attack  or  to  defend  Nietzsche's 
peculiar  and  original  philosophical  and  aesthetic  ideas;  I  only  wish  to 
show  the  strong,  almost  determining  influence  of  physical  suffering  upon 
his  lifework. 

In  his  early  years  Nietzsche  seems  to  have  possessed  a  very  good 
physique,  his  only  weakness  being  a  tendency  to  shortsightedness.  But 
he  inherited  from  his  father  liability  to  chronic  and  violent  headaches;  and, 
while  serving  in  the  Franco- Prussian  War,  he  contracted  an  attack  of 
dysentery  which  had  serious  and  permanent  consequences.  In  his  later, 
creative  period  his  health  altered  for  the  worse ;  his  eyes  gave  him  a  great 
deal  of  trouble,  and  he  was  driven  to  take  chloral  and  other  drugs  to 
deaden  the  excruciating  pain  of  his  headaches.  Disease  is  sometimes 
considered  the  chief  factor  in  his  final  breakdown ;  but  the  causes  of  this 
catastrophe  seem  to  have  been  mental  and  psychological  rather  than 
physical.  With  this  brief  sketch  of  AHetzsche's  successive  physical  con- 
ditions let  us  compare  a  more  detailed  outline  of  his  philosophical  devel- 
opment, and  see  the  influence  of  the  former  upon  the  latter. 

Nietzsche,  in  his  early  and  impressionable  period,  fell  under  the 
magic  spell  of  Wagner's  music  and  wrote  several  brilHant  essays  in 
defense  of  the  composer's  novel  and  original  theories  of  dramatic  art. 
Like  Wagner  he  was,  at  this  period,  an  ardent  admirer  of  Schopenhauer, 
the  most  powerful  and  convincing  advocate  of  the  theory  of  absolute 
pessimism.  So  his  philosophical  outlook  upon  life  at  this  time  was 
distinctly  negative.  His  first  serious  illness,  which  prostrated  him 
shortly  after  the  first  Wagner  festival  at  Bayreuth,  might  reasonably 
have  been  expected  to  intensify  this  pessimistic  and  negative  viewpoint. 
Pessimism,  or  a  faith  which  renounces  this  Hfe  in  the  hope  of  a  happier 


Genius  and  Pathology  49 

future  existence,  is  the  logical  and  ordinary  mental  effect  of  disease. 
But  to  Nietzsche,  whose  nature  was  fundamentally  proud  and  aristocratic, 
both  these  alternatives  seemed  a  cowardly  surrender  in  the  face  of  danger. 
His  mental  attitude  under  suffering  is  splendidly  exemplified  in  the  noble 
sentence:  "No  invalid  has  the  right  to  be  a  pessimist."  And,  translating 
his  proud  thought  into  action,  he  turned  away  from  the  melancholy 
teachings  of  Schopenhauer  and  found  the  solution  of  his  problems 
in  the  fresh  and  joyous  spirit  of  the  early  Greek  creative  period.  Boldly 
breaking  away  from  what  he  considered  the  decadent  ideals  of  Schopen- 
hauer and  Wagner,  he  devoted  all  his  powers  to  the  development  of  a 
philosophical  system  whose  essential  characteristic  was  its  virile  and 
defiant  optimism.  True,  it  may  be  urged  that  the  wild  gayety  that 
pervades  the  later  works  of  Nietzsche  is  often  only  a  cloak  for  secret  and 
incurable  sadness;  but  the  very  assumption  of  this  cloak  shows  a  spirit 
not,  perhaps,  strictly  logical  and  accurate,  but  always  noble  and  heroic. 
And,  in  the  dark  days  before  the  tragic  collapse  of  his  mental  faculties, 
although  the  mechanical  part  of  his  intellect  gave  warning  of  the  impend- 
ing cataclysm,  although  his  style  becomes  more  violent  and  obscure,  his 
reasoning  less  keen  and  lucid,  although  his  sense  of  value  and  proportion  is 
often  blurred  and  distorted,  yet  his  unconquered  soul  still  chants  its 
heroic  hymn  of  affirmation  in  response  to  the  eternal  question  of  the 
sceptic:  "Is  life  worth  while?" 

There  can  be  little  reasonable  doubt  that  disease  was  the  primary 
element  in  Nietzsche's  intellectual  metamorphosis.  He  himself  says: 
"It  was  while  I  was  sick  that  I  became  an  optimist."  As  in  the  case  of 
Chopin,  physical  pain  was  the  harsh  teacher  which  developed  his  moral 
and  intellectual  qualities  to  their  fullest  extent.  And  surely  those  who 
are  most  adverse  to  Nietzsche's  philosophical  teachings  may  draw  both 
profit  and  inspiration  from  the  contemplation  of  his  life.  Surely  one 
may  consider  his  vision  of  the  Superman  a  mere  lyrical  fantasy;  one  may 
look  upon  his  theory  of  the  Eternal  Recurrence  as  a  vague  and  shadowy 
hypothesis,  without  any  apparent  scientific  foundation,  and,  at  the  same 
time,  grant  the  full  meed  of  praise  and  glory  to  the  brave  soul, which,  in  the 
midst  of  mental  and  physical  torture,  could  cry  out:  "Was  that  life? 
Well,  again!" 

It  is  hardly  necessary  to  say  that  intense  suffering  is  a  blessing  only 
to  men  who  are  endowed  with  a  strong  and  unbending  will  The  weak 
and  faint-hearted  are  overa-helmed  by  it;  and  to  them  Juvenal's  maxim 
offers  the  safe  haven  of  sane  mediocrity.  But  to  him  upon  whom  the 
spark  of  genius  has  descended  every  new  pain  only  offers  a  new  opportu- 
nity of  enriching  the  art  work  of  humanity.     The  old  Greeks,  in  a  myth 


so  The  Haverpordian 

which  is  a  favorite  theme  both  of  ancient  and  of  modem  poetry  tell  of 
Prometheus,  a  divinity  who  disobeys  the  express  commands  of  Zeus  by 
stealing  fire  from  heaven  and  bestowing  it  upon  the  weak  and  suffering 
races  of  mankind.  The  angry  Olympian  deity  punishes  the  fearless 
Prometheus  by  chaining  him  to  a  rock  and  making  his  liver  the  perpetual 
prey  of  a  vulture.  Is  not  the  story  of  Prometheus  reproduced  in  every 
soaring  genius  who  dares  much  and  suffers  much ;  but,  bearing  all  his 
sufferings  with  Stoic  firmness,  laughs  boldly  and  defiantly  at  the  impotence 
of  hostile  fate  as  he  sees  humanity,  supported  by  his  strength  and  cour- 
age, ever  progressing — ^upward. 


^  B>mitt 

By  Donald  H.  Painter,    '17. 

The  shadows  fall;  the  twiHght  slowly  fades; 
The  crimson  sunlight  softly  leaves  the  clouds; 
And  peaceful  night  the  wearied  earth  enshrouds. 

How  fit  an  ending  for  the  passing  day! 
If  filled  with  joj',  it  brings  a  sweet  repose; 
If  filled  with  sadness,  how  comforting  a  close! 


Ctronicltfit  for  tfie  Curioufi 

Being  Odd  Bits  About  Philadelphia  Not  Generally  Known 

By  1915 
INTRODUCTION 

BOHEMIA!" — what  a  magic  word!  Productive  of  visions  and 
glamorous  dreams.  Epitome  of  our  fondest  and  most  intimately 
cherished  ambitions.  When  we  see  the  word  in  a  book  we  go 
back  several  pages  to  make  certain  that  no  connection  or  clue 
has  been  lost ;  when  we  hear  it  spoken  we  prick  up  our  ears  and  ingenuously 
or  diplomatically  ask  questions.  How  susceptible  Youth  is  to  the  exotic 
phrase !  How  much  time  is  spent  in  looking  for  the  ever  elusive  place — 
"  Bohemia" !  Tradition  has  it  that  it  is  to  be  found  in  Paris;  vainly  we 
hope  against  hope  to  find  it  here  in  America.  Some  even  follow  up 
advertisements,  which  announce  that  a  certain  place  has  "a  true  Bohe- 
mian atmosphere,"  and  finding  that  place,  also  find  that  it  consists  of  arti- 
ficiality and  vulgar  people.  As  poor  Ponce  de  Leon  deluded  himself 
into  believing  that  he  would  find  the  fountain  of  eternal  youth  in  a  place 
called  Florida,  scores  delude  themselves  into  believing  that  they  will  find 
the  eternal  fountain  of  artistic  inspiration  in  a  place  called  "Bohemia." 
Let  it  be  understood  once  for  all  that  "  Bohemia  "  is  not  a  place  hut  a  state 
of  mind.  Be  not  deceived  by  the  tradition  that  "Bohemia"  exists  in 
some  out-of-the-way  place  and  accordingly  look  for  it  in  the  out-of-the- 
way  places  casually  recorded  in  these  chronicles.  Remember  always, 
'twill  bear  repetition,  that  "  Bohemia"  is  not  a  place  but  a  state  of  mind. 
Nor  do  flowing  hair,  eccentric  garments,  jabbering  idiots,  smoking  fe- 
males, and  so  on,  constitute  it.  There  used  to  be  a  "Bohemia"  (its 
members  have  scattered  to  the  four  winds)  in  a  Childs'  restaurant. 
Blasted  dreams!  Exploded  illusions!  "Bohemia"  in  Childs'!  Childs'- 
never  got  any  nearer  to  art  or  artists  than  as  a  setting  for  the  epilogue 
appended  to  "The  Governor's  Lady."  But,  if  your  heart  still  palpitates 
at  the  magic  word,  may  the  gods  bless  your  innocence!  To  satisfy  your 
hungry  soul  turn  to  Murger's  "Bohemia,"  or  William  Dean  Howell's 
"The  Coast  of  Bohemia."  At  all  events  be  not  misled  by  references  to 
places  and  people  in  these  Chronicles  For  The  Curious. 

FIRST  ITINERARY 

Just  out  of  the  pale  of  Hell's  Half- Acre  there  is  a  modest  Greek 
restaurant,  the  chief  charm  of  which  is  that  it  is  little  known.     Food  pre- 


52  The  Haverfordian 

pared  by  the  proprietor  amd  served  by  him  is,  like- this  admirable  gentle- 
man, one  of  its  few  absolutely  Greek  aspects,  to  which  may  be  added  a 
few  Greeks -that  dine  there  and  a  luridlithograph  of  the  King  of  Greece. 
A  very  interesting  group,  consisting  of  an  editor,  an  instructor  from  the 
Baldwin  School  for  Girls,  a  young  Greek  sculptor,  a  student,  a  musician, 
and  a  ballet  dancer,  gathers  at  tliis  place  every  now  and  then.  Yanni, 
the  proprietor,  is  overjoyed  when  they  congregate,  and  is  almost  wounded 
if  less  than  three  hours  is  spent  over  the  meal.  He  stands  at  a  respectful 
distance  readj^  to  serve  the  next  course,  and  listens  to  the  comment  and 
mirth  with  that  gracious  smile  of  one  who  does  not  understand  what  is 
being  said.  The  j^oung  Greek  sculptor  translates  the  orders  into  Greek, 
and  then  Yanni  bustles  away  to  execute  them,  coming  back  at  his  leisure. 
Meanwhile  the  antipodes  are  being  discussed  with  many  a  sudden  turn 
and  bathos.  The  ballet  dancer  cries  for  a  good  ballet ;  the  musician  sug- 
gests Schumann's  "Carnival"  as  the  theme  and  music;  the  sculptor  out- 
lines the  poses. 

A  few  solitary  Greeks  have  come  in,  silently  eaten  their  meal,  and 
departed  in  the  same  marble-like  silence. 

The  language  flows — Greek,  French,  German,  English,  and  even 
Bulgarian  is  being  used  as  the  vehicle  of  expression.  Eventually  Yanni 
returns,  and  dexterously  sets  the  strange-looking  dishes  before  the  group, 
which  is  least  of  all  interested  in  food.  Sudden  flights  of  enthusiasm 
are  followed  by  subdued  conversation.  Into  one  of  these  half-silences  a 
strange  song  sounds  from  upstairs.  It  is  Yanni's  daughter  accompany- 
ing herself  on  the  piano  as  she  sings  her  native  Greek  songs.  Aroused  to 
enthusiasm  again  the  group  applauds.  Dimitri,  the  young  Greek  sculp- 
tor, rushes  upstairs  to  urge  another  song  in  which  he  joins 

Thus  and  otherwise  several  hours  are  passed  without  interruption  or 
any  conventional  restraint.  When  Yanni  knows  you  well  enough  he 
serves  forbidden  delicacies,  and  all  drink  to  his  health,  to  that  of  his 
daughter,  and  that  of  the  King  of  Greece.  Never  does  the  hilarity  of  the 
evening  exceed  a  discussion  of  the  nature  of  God,  or  its  sobriety,  sugges- 
tions for  "CerebraUst"  sonnets. 

The  various  members  of  this  unnamed  club  upon  bidding  Yanni 
good-night  separate  to  go  their  own  way,  refreshed  to  take  up  routine 
again  in  office,  studio,  or  private  room. 

Perhaps  two  are  tempted  by  the  picturesque  streets  to  take  a  walk. 
They  find  themselves  in  the  center  of  the  foreign  quarter,  with  its  fan- 
tastic houses  and  strange  people.  Display  stands,  packed  with  motley 
wares,  crowd  the  narrow  sidewalks;  it  seems  they  have- been  pushed  out 
of  the  tiny  unkempt  shops  like  bunches  of  rags  protruding  from  a  torn 


Chronicles  for  the  Curious  S3 

bag.  The  proprietors,  or  their  wives  and  children,  are  always  ready  to 
serve,  and  may  even  solicit  custom  from  the  passerby.  Here  is  a  bric- 
a-brac  shop;  here  an  old  clothing  store;  there  is  a  window  stuffed  with 
tawdry  plaster  casts  representing  our  Lord,  and  cheap,  vividly  colored 
pictures  of  Biblical  stories ;  along  side  of  this  is  a  herb  shop,  in  charge  of 
which  is  a  wizened  old  woman  who  practices  charms  and  spreads  super- 
stitions worthy  of  the  Middle  Ages.  Each  one  of  these  is  a  storehouse  of 
odd  information.  The  people  that  fill  the  street  are  still  more  pictur- 
esque. All  of  them  are  of  foreign  origin,  and  talk  in  a  foreign  tongue,  so  that 
one  cannot  tell  where  they  are  going  or  what  their  thoughts  are.  The  arc- 
lights  make  their  skin  appear  strangely  white  and  smooth.  Their  ex- 
pressive dark  eyes  are  almost  weird.  The  spontaneity  of  movement  and 
grace  of  the  women  is  astonishing.  Children  scream,  yell,  and  laugh  as 
they  run  about  playing  in  the  street.  Louise  Norton's  line,  "  They  never 
were  young  and  they  never  will  be  old, "  is  forcibly  brought  home  to  even 
the  most  casual  observer;  the  faces  of  the  parents  and  their  children  are 
strangely  alike 

Suddenly  one  finds  oneself  in  a  different  atmosphere.  The  Radical 
Library  is  not  far  away,  and  one  sees  Jewish  and  Russian  students  going 
to  or  returning  from  their  self-imposed  studies.  Within  a  square  is  the 
cafe  haunt  of  the  "radicals."  CHmbing  up  a  narrow  flight  of  stairs  to  the 
second  floor  you  find  yourself  in  a  smoke-filled,  people-filled  room.  Your 
entry  is  not  observed.  Everybody  is  devoutly  listening  to  Emma  Gold- 
man, who  at  last  has  gotten  permission  to  speak  in  Philadelphia  on 
Sunday.  Yiddish  and  Russian  are  the  languages  you  hear — ascetic  en- 
thusiasm is  the  mood. 

Aside  from  being  the  present  rendezvous  of  anarchists,  this  place  is 
sacred  to  the  memory  of  Voltairine  De  Clere,  who  not  many  years  ago 
led  an  army  of  unemployed  to  City  Hall,  which  expedition,  although 
ineffectual,  was  the  most  fantastic  demonstration  ever  made  in  Philadel- 
phia. Voltairine  De  Clere  was  more  than  merely  a  wild  anarchist  leader; 
as  yet  unpublished  are  a  number  of  poems  and  short  stories  by  her,  which 
with  natural  art  express  the  struggle  and  effort  of  the  modem  laboring 
class.  She  is,  moreover,  the  underlying  character  in  a  book  by  Hutchins 
Hapgood.  It  is  only  a  year  ago  that  Voltairine  De  Clere  died  in  Detroit,  of 
a  fever  which  it  seems  spread  from  her  mind  to  her  body. 

Now,  however,  Emma  Goldman  constructs  her  mental  bombshells, 
where  Voltairine  De  Clere  used  to  explain  her  philosophy.  Let  it  be 
observed  that  if  a  red  rag  symbolizes  anarchism,  the  bull  that  becomes 
enraged  at  the  red  rag  must  be  the  "present  order."  Emma  Goldman, 
model  for  Mrs.  Pankhurst,  is  the  least  interesting  although  the  best  known 


54  The  Haverfordian 

visitor.  In  one  corner  you  see  Lurie,  the  famous  Russian  editor,  who 
after  prisons  in  Russia  and  exile  in  Siberia,  sought  refuge  in  America.  No 
EngHsh-writing  editor  can  equal  Lurie  in  keenness  or  resource.  Many 
others  as  interesting  could  be  mentioned,  but  you  become  almost  hypno- 
tized as  you  listen  to  the  ascetic  crowd,  even  if  you  cannot  understand 
the  language  they  speak — if,  indeed,  language  is  what  they  express  them- 
selves with!  'Tis  well  to  set  foot  on  solid  pavement,  and  to  hurry  back 
to  Chestnut  Street.  There,  at  least,  mental  balance  is  never  in  danger, 
although  morals  may  be. 


tH^earsi  of  <ilob 

By  E.  C.  Bye,  '16. 

The  city's  lamps  are  lit, 

The  pavements  gleam  with  the  tears  of  God; 

Life  flows  with  incessant  stream 

From  east  to  west  and  west  to  east. 

And  under  restless  feet  those  tears  are  trod. 

The  stars  come  after  storm, 

The  moon  looks  down  from  the  silent  deep; 

The  cross  on  a  yearning  spire, 

A-drip  with  crystal  drops  of  light. 

Shall  through  the  night  its  lonely  vigil  keep. 

And  sleep  shall  come  to  eyes. 

And  rest  to  hands  in  the  silent  time; 

And  sin  to  the  craft  adrift; 

But  tears  of  God  in  nights  like  this 

Shall  purge  each  hopeless  derelict  of  grime. 


Zf)t  |^abErforb=^toartf)morc  ^amti,  1879=1901 

By  J.  Henry  Scattergood,  '96. 
(Continued  from  April  Issue) 

THE  season  of  1898  brought  the  fourth  successive  defeat  of  Swarth- 
more  by  Haverford,  but  this  proved  to  be  our  last  victory  over 
our  old  rivals.  Between  then  and  the  close  of  the  series  in  1904, 
there  was  one  tie,  but  in  the  other  five  games  we  were  defeated,  two  of 
them  being  very  close  contests.  Only  four  of  the  previous  year's  team  were 
left  in  college  in  1898,  and  practically  a  new  start  had  to  be  made.  Dr. 
Branson's  inability  longer  to  continue  as  head  coach  forced  a  change  of 
system  back  to  a  professional.  George  W.  Woodruff,  one  of  Pennsylvania's 
stars  and  head  coaches  as  well  as  the  inventor  of  the  famous  "guards 
back' '  plays,  was  secured.  But  as  he  could  only  give  one  day  a  week 
most  of  the  real  burden  fell  on  Captain  Howard  Lowry,  '99,  and  a  great 
amount  of  conscientious  work  was  done  by  him  and  the  whole  squad, 
especially  after  a  mid-season  slump.  But  by  the  day  of  the  Swarth- 
more  game,  Nov.  19,  the  team  that  went  out  to  Swarthmore  was  in 
splendid  condition  and  form,  and  played  one  of  the  best  games  ever  put 
up  by  Haverford.  Swarthmore  had  more  veterans  on  her  team,  and 
was  almost  as  good,  but  the  slight  balance  in  favor  of  Haverford  developed 
throughout  the  game,  and  was  well  represented  by  the  final  score  of  12 
to  0.  Much  of  the  contest  was  so  even  and  the  defence  of  both  teams  so 
strong  that  no  great  consecutive  gains  could  be  made  by  either  side. 
Haverford 's  two  touchdowns  were  due  to  good  generalship  in  the  use  of 
two  perfectly  executed  trick-plays  at  the  psychological  moments  of  the 
game.  The  inability  to  make  gains  caused  an  unusual  amount  of  kicking; 
and  although  Farquhar,  who  was  again  captaining  Swarthmore,  could 
slightly  outkick  Fox,  yet  the  latter  was  wonderfully  regular,  and  our 
ends,  Sharpless  and  Drinker,  distinguished  themselves  in  getting  down 
the  field  and  tackling  the  Swarthmore  backs  before  they  could  get 
started.  On  the  other  hand  the  backfield  work  of  Captain  Lowry  and 
Fox  in  catching  Farquhar' s  punts  and  running  them  back  was  faultless — 
probably  the  best  ever  seen  on  a  Haverford  team — and  many  yards  were 
made  up  in  this  way.  On  offence  Haverford  made  most  of  her  gains  on 
line-bucking  plays  made  possible  by  the  "steady  concerted  push  and 
pull"  of  the  whole  team.  This  same  "every  man  in  every  play"  also 
kept  Swarthmore  from  ever  looking  dangerous  except  once,  when  at  the 
opening  of  the  second  half  she  carried  the  ball  from  the  kick-off  to 
our  SO-yard  line.     Not  being  able  to  gain  much  through  our  steadfast 


56  The  Haverpordian 

line,  she  tried  numerous  end  rushes  and  delayed  passes  only  to  find  that 
our  ends,  too,  were  very  well  looked  after.  Haverford's  first  score  came 
just  before  the  first  half  closed.  Play  had  been  mostly  in  Swarthmore 
territory,  Fox  had  kicked,  and  the  ball  was  Swarthmore' s  at  her  15-yard 
line  when  it  was  given  to  Haverford  for  foul  interference.  Before  the 
game  Captain  Lowry  had  arranged  with  his  team  that  the  first  time  they 
had  the  ball  inside  Swarthmore' s  25-yard  line,  no  signals  were  to  be 
given,  but  two  successive  plays  were  to  be  put  through  as  quickly  as 
possible,  namely,  a  trick  by  MifHin  through  the  right  of  the  line  followed 
by  a  fake  buck  by  him  through  the  left  side,  but  he  was  to  "  double  pass" 
the  ball  back  to  Lowry  for  a  quarterback  run  arotmd  right  end.  This 
whole  plan  came  off  perfectly;  first  Mifflin  made  3  yards,  and  then  was 
apparently  again  ploughing  his  way  through  toward  the  goal-Hne  with 
the  Swarthmore  team  piling  on  him,  when  suddenly  Lowry  appeared  with 
the  ball  tucked  under  his  arm  beautifully  skirting  the  right  end  on  a  clear 
run  for  a  touchdown.  Never  was  this  old,  but  very  useful,  trick  more 
perfectly  planned  and  executed  or  better  timed.  Lowry  also  kicked  the 
goal  and  the  half  closed  with  the  score  5  to  0  in  our  favor.  The  second 
half  was  more  to  Haverford's  advantage,  but  once  our  spectators  had  a 
bad  scare  when  they  saw  Jackson  of  Swarthmore  on  recovering  a  quarter- 
back kick  at  the  side  Hne  sprinting  down  the  field  to  our  goal  line,  only 
to  be  called  back  for  having  stepped  out  of  bounds  as  he  got  the  ball. 
About  the  middle  of  the  half,  Mifflin  on  a  dela3''ed  pass  ran  40  yards, 
Farquhar  alone  saving  the  Swarthmore  goal.  Later  Mifflin  tried  a  goal 
from  placement  from  the  35-yard  line;  the  ball  rolled  to  Swarthmore's 
5-yard  line  where  it  was  fumbled  and  Sharpless  recovered  it.  But 
Swarthmore  defended  magnificently  and  Haverford  was  held  for  downs. 
However,  after  Swarthmore's  kick  out  of  danger  and  a  5-yard  gain  by 
Wood,  with  the  ball  near  the  side  line,  another  delayed  pass  trick  was 
quickly  worked,  Mifflin  shooting  down  the  boundary  on  a  fine  40-yard 
run  for  the  second  touchdown,  from  which  Lowry  again  kicked  the  goal. 
Although  defeat  was  staring  them  in  the  face,  Swarthmore  continued  to 
fight  hard  in  the  remaining  time,  but  could  not  get  the  ball  out  of  their 
territory.  The  best  work  for  Swarthmore  was  done  by  Verlenden,  Bell, 
Seaman  and  Farquhar,  while  for  Haverford  the  whole  team  played  finely. 
Our  team  was  as  follows: — F.  C.  Sharpless,  '00,  1.  e.,  W.  H.  Wood,  '01, 
1. 1.,  E.  D.  Freeman,  '00, 1.  g.,  W.  A.  Battey,  '99,  c,  W.  W.  Chambers,  '02, 
r.  g.,  H.  C.  Petty,  '99,  r.  t.,  H.  S.  Drinker,  Jr.,  '00,  r.  e.,  H.  H.  Lowry,  '99, 
q.  b.,  and  Captain,  E.  R.  Richie,  '99,  1.  h.  b.,  J.  S.  Fox,  '02,  r.  h.  b.,  S. 
W.  MifSin,  '00,  f.  b.  W.  H.  Wood,  '01,  was  absent  on  account  of  a 
death  in  his  family. 


The  Haverford-Swarthmore  Games  57 

It  should  be  noted  that  for  1898  the  scoring  vahies  of  touchdowns 
and  goals  had  been  made  5  and  1  respectively,  instead  of  4  and  2  as  they 
had  been  since  1884. 

Before  the  1899  season,  the  coaching  question  was  again  under  dis- 
cussion, many  feeling  that  Haverford  should  if  possible  return  to  the 
volunteer  Alumni  coaching  system.  Fortunately  Captain  MifRin  was 
able  to  secure  "Ed"  Conklin,  '99,  one  of  Haverford's  old  players  and 
famous  track  athletes,  as  head  coach,  and  more  loyal  work  no  man  could 
have  rendered  than  he.  By  this  coaching,  as  well  as  in  every  other  way 
he  could,  he  always  was  at  the  service  of  his  college,  and  so  endeared  him- 
self to  all  that  when  he  died  the  next  year  he  was  universally  mourned. 

The  season  of  1899  opened  with  the  best  of  prospects.  Not  only  did 
Haverford  have  the  prestige  of  the  four  straight  victories  over  Swarth- 
more,  but  the  material  of  that  year  was  the  best  we  ever  had.  As  never 
happened  before  or  since,  a  number  of  heavy  men  were  in  college  who 
were  available  for  both  line  and  back  field.  And  besides  that,  seven  of  the 
1898  team  v/ere  playing  again.  The  team  against  Swarthmore  on  Nov. 
18  was:— F.  C.  Sharpless,  '00,  1.  e.,  R.  L.  Simkin,  '03  (J.  E.  Lloyd,  '00), 
1.  t.,  E.  D.  Freeman,  '00  (J.  E.  Lloyd,  '00,  R.  L.  Simldn,  '03),  1.  g.,  J.  E. 
Lloyd,  '00  (H.  Sensenig,  '00),  c,  W.  W.  Chambers,  '02,  r.  g.,  J.  K.  Worth- 
ington,  '03,  r.t.,  J.  L.Winslow,  '01  (H.  M.  Hallett,  '00),r.e.,  H.  S.  Drink- 
er, Jr.,  '00  (A.  J.  Phillips,  '03), q.  b.,  W.  W.  Hall,  '02, 1.  h.  b.,  J.  S.  Fox, 
'02  Q.  L.  Stone, '02),  r.  h.  b.,  S.  W.  Mifflin,  '00,  f.  b.  and  Captain.  Taken 
as  a  whole  the  players  of  that  year  when  playing  in  foirn  and  in  good 
physical  condition  were  thought  to  constitute  probably  the  strongest 
team  of  Haverford's  history.  And  yet  it  was  a  year  of  one  of  our  saddest 
defeats  by  Swarthmore.  For  most  of  the  season  a  splendid  record  had 
been  made,  but  unfortunately  a  schedule  had  been  arranged  to  include  a 
Franklin  and  Marshall  game  the  Saturday  before  and  a  Trinity  game  the 
Monday  before  the  Swarthmore  game!  Further,  most  of  our  best 
players  were  nursing  injuries  and  all  were  a  full  week  overtrained,  so  that 
when  they  went  into  the  Swarthmore  game  they  were  totally  unfit  for 
the  stress  and  strain  of  a  struggle  against  one  of  the  best  teams  Swarth- 
more ever  had  before  the  days  of  her  new  dispensation.  The  kind  of  work 
that  our  men  could  do  showed  itself  in  the  first  few  minutes  of  the  game, 
when  by  superb  defence,  they  stopped  Swarthmore' s  steady  advances 
only  one  foot  away  from  the  goal  line,  and  winning  the  ball  on  downs 
kicked  safely  out  of  danger.  A  little  later  they  also  made  the  first  two 
scores  of  the  day,  and  although  both  of  these  were  by  lucky  combinations, 
yet  it  v/as  only  by  brilliant  work  that  advantage  was  taken  of  these  op- 
portunities.    The  first  came  about  when  "  Bill  Hall"  seized  the  ball  on  a 


58  The  Haverfordian 

Swarthmore  fumble  and  ran  85  yards  for  a  touchdown.  Hall  had  had  a 
great  career  at  the  Providence  Friends'  School,  and  while  in  health  was  a 
brilliant  halfback  for  Haverford,  but  a  weak  stomach  frequently  laid 
him  up  and  lessened  his  staying  powers.  The  other  touchdown  came 
from  a  brilliant  individual  play  by  John  Lloyd,  then  plaj-ing  centre;  first 
he  blocked  a  Swarthmore  kick  about  the  middle  of  the  field,  and  then 
finding  the  ball  ahead  of  him,  instead  of  conventionally  falling  on  it,  he 
quick-wittedly  kicked  it  on  ahead  of  him,  soccer  fashion,  until  he  got  clear 
of  tacklers,  and  then,  picking  it  up  on  the  full  run,  carried  it  on  for  a 
touchdown.  Thus  the  first  twelve  minutes  of  the  game  showed  the 
score  12  to  0  in  favor  of  Haverford.  But  our  team  had  "shot  its  bolt" 
thus  early.  Only  two  of  its  offensive  plays  were  able  to  make  much 
gain — Freeman  on  a  "guardsback"  crossbuck,  and  Bill  Hall  arotmd  the 
right  end.  And  these  gave  out  when  the  weak  ankles  of  Freeman  and 
Fox  were  hurt  again,  the  former  so  that  he  could  not  run  at  all  and  later 
had  to  stop  altogether,  the  latter  so  that  he  kept  back  all  the  interference. 
From  then  on  Haverford's  attack  was  powerless  and  she  could  do  Httle 
but  kick — at  first  by  Fox  and  later  by  Mifflin,  and  many  of  these  were 
run  back.  Swarthmore,  on  the  other  hand,  played  magnificently,  the 
clockwork  thoroughness  and  compact  interference  of  all  the  plays  show- 
ing the  master  hand  of  George  Brooke's  coaching.  The  veteran  Farquhar, 
captaining  for  his  third  successive  year,  was  again  at  fullback  and  kicked 
better  than  ever,  the  light-haired  quarterback  Hall  seemed  to  be  every- 
where and  ran  his  team  admirably,  the  halfbacks  Beard  and  Jackson  ran 
very  well,  while  W.  J.  Clothier,  Stewart  and  Downing  in  the  line  especially 
were  towers  of  strength.  Another  feature  that  was  fatal  to  Haverford's 
defence  was  the  all  too  frequent  muffing  of  Swarthmore' s  punts  in  our 
back  field.  Over  and  over  again  our  desperate  defence  forced  Swarth- 
more to  kick  and  the  catch  was  missed,  the  ball  often  being  recovered  by 
Swarthmore.  There  is  nothing  that  can  take  the  heart  out  of  a  team  like 
this,  and  especially  in  the  overwrought  condition  of  our  1899  team  this 
factor  alone  was  enough  to  lose  the  game.  In  justice  to  Fox,  on  whom 
the  backfield  work  largely  rested,  it  must  be  said  that  his  ankle  was  so 
weak  that  he  really  could  hardly  hobble  into  position  to  get  to  the  kicks. 
He  ought  to  have  been  replaced  long  before  he  was  by  Stone — ^who,  by  the 
way,  played  very  well  and  made  one  20-yard  run — but  his  work  had  been 
such  a  mainstay  the  year  before  and  during  the  whole  of  the  season,  that 
it  seemed  as  if  all  must  be  over  if  he  were  taken  out.  Captain  Mifflin, 
Drinker  (while  his  bad  knee  lasted),  Sharpless  and  Hall  all  played  gallant- 
ly, the  latter's  tackling  being  especially  notable.  Swarthmore's  scoring 
began  with  a  beautiful  40-yard  drop-kick  by  Farquhar  for  a  field  goal. 


The  Haverford-Swarthmore  Games  59 

Then  after  several  punts  on  each  side  and  a  fumble  in  our  backfield,  Hall 
of  Swarthmore  made  a  touchdown.  Another  touchdown  was  only  saved 
by  the  calling  back  of  the  teams  because  of  Haverford's  off-side  play. 
The  score  at  the  end  of  the  first  half  was  12  to  1 1  in  Haverford's  favor,  but 
the  play  had  been  mostly  to  the  advantage  of  Swarthmore.  In  the  second 
half,  as  in  the  1894  game,  our  slaughter  took  place.  Three  more  touch- 
downs, one  by  Jackson  and  two  by  Farquhar,  and  a  placement  field-goal 
by  Farquhar  were  made,  and  the  score  was  taken  to  12  to  34.  It  was 
only  a  question  of  how  much  the  superior  Swarthmore  team  could  make 
in  the  time  with  its  splendid  brush-tackle  plays  and  kicks  aided  by  our 
continued  muffing.  The  memory  of  that  last  half  is:  to  Haverford,  a 
hazy  mist  of  crippled  players  changing  places,  of  hopes  becoming  for- 
lorn, of  gains  and  kicks  and  fumbles  all  bringing  the  ball  nearer  and 
nearer  to  our  goal,  a  score,  and  then  all  over  again ;  to  Swarthmore,  the 
splendid  playing  of  her  fine  team,  the  glorious  triumph  over  her  old  rival, 
the  returning  of  victory  after  four  long  years,  and  a  mighty  celebration. 
The  very  feeHngs  we  had  had  on  that  same  field  in  1895!  Such  are  the 
turns  of  Fortune's  wheel  that  ever  make  sport  exciting. 

Change  was  again  made  to  a  professional  coach  for  training  the 
Haverford  teams  of  1900  and  1901,  the  choice  being  John  H.  Minds, 
who  had  captained  Pennsylvania's  team  of  1897.  He  understood  the 
Haverford  spirit  well  and  gave  faithful  and  efficient  service.  Following 
the  example  of  the  big  colleges,  the  team  of  1900  began  practising  a  few 
days  before  College  opened  in  the  effort  to  make  an  improvement  in  the 
fundamentals  of  kicking,  catching  and  handling  the  ball.  Unfortunately 
no  goal-kicker  developed,  and  the  whole  season  was  rife  with  expensive 
missed  goals  and  failures  at  placement  field-goals  which  made  the  heart 
sick  and  which  should  serve  as  a  lesson  to  all  Haverford  teams  to  develop 
a  goal-kicker.  An  ambitious  management  of  1900  altered  the  previous 
policy  of  playing  only  eight  games,  and  scheduled  ten  for  the  season, 
including  an  opening  game  against  Pennsylvania  (the  first  time  there  had 
been  a  game  with  the  University  since  1887), and  two  midweek  games. 
This  mania  for  playing  big  colleges,  and  many  of  them,  reached  its  height, 
however,  the  following  year,  1901,  when  no  less  than  twelve  games  were 
played,  including  Princeton,  Indians,  Columbia,  Lehigh,  Dickinson, 
Ursinus,  and  F.  &  M. !  Two  games  a  week  was  the  regular  program 
and  of  course  there  was  no  rest  and  very  little  fun  in  the  season.  In- 
juries were  necessarily  numerous  and  Haverford  won  only  two  games. 
The  following  year,  1902,  the  number  was  reduced  again  to  ten  games,  but 
both  Princeton  and  Pennsylvania  were  again  played.  In  1903  we  re- 
turned to  the  eight-game  schedule,  but  Pennsylvania  was  again  included, 


60  The  Haverfordian 

this  being  the  last  time  Haverford  has  played  the  University.  For- 
tunately in  these  seasons  Haverford  learned  her  lesson  to  stick  to  her  own 
class  and  the  short-lived  craze  of  the  "big"  schedule  disappeared,  let  us 
hope,  for  ever.  But  every  few  years  some  especially  ambitious  manager 
is  likely  to  crop  up  who  may  think  that  "  Haverford  is  making  progress 
in  football  as  well  as  in  other  departments  of  the  College,  and  that  the 
time  has  now  come  to  show  the  Alumni  our  advancement  in  this  direction 
by  playing  games  with  several  larger  institutions  than  heretofore  sched- 
uled."* If  such  ever  appears,  turn  him  loose  on  football  history  and 
let  him  learn  the  lessons  of  the  past.  A  small  college  pursuing  the  policy 
of  playing  big  colleges  and  those  out  of  its  class  must  either  endure  being 
beaten  and  often  maimed  and  "used  as  a  good  thing  generally"  for  the  big 
fellow's  practice,  or  it  can  "collect"  a  team  of  such  a  quality  as  to  make  a 
fight  and  perhaps  even  win  against  the  big  college,  and  if  successful,  gain 
wondrous  newspaper  glory.  But  such  does  not  appeal  to  Haverford, 
and  may  she  ever  realize  her  class  and  stick  to  it,  and  play  the  game  under 
conditions  where  there  can  be  some  fim  in  it.  And  to  do  this  she  has 
fotmd  that  no  more  than  seven  or  eight  games  at  the  most  should  be 
scheduled.  The  most  important  consideration  is  good  physical  condition, 
the  fundamental  cause  of  keenness,  enjoyment  of  the  game  and  good 
playing,  and  this  is  not  possible  for  a  small  college  squad  with  a  heavy 
schedule. 

But  we  must  come  to  the  Swarthmore  game  of  1900.  It  was  played 
at  Swarthmore  on  Nov.  24  before  a  crowd  of  3,500  people  (in  spite  of 
cold,  drizzly  weather),  and  was  won  by  Swarthmore  10  to  17,  in  one  of  the 
closest  games  of  the  whole  series.  Haverford' s  team  was  as  follows: — 
W.  H.  Grant,  '02, 1.  e.,  W.  H.  Wood,  '01  (L.  M.  Perkins,  '04),  1. 1.,  W.  W. 
Chambers,  '02,  1.  g.,  R.  J.  Ross,  '02,  c,  R.  L.  Simkin,  '03,  r.  g.,  J.  K. 
Worthington,  '03,  r.  t.,  S.  A.  Warrington  '03,  r.  e.,  A.  J.  PhiUips,  '03, 
q.  b.,  J.  L.  Stone,  '02,  1.  h.  b.,  H.  N.  Thorn,  '04  (C.  O.  Carey,  '01), 
r.  h.  b.,  J.  S.  Fox,  '02,  f.  b.  and  Captain.  The  Pennsylvania  "guards- 
back"  play  had  already  been  firmly  implanted  at  Haverford,  especially 
the  year  before  with  Freeman  and  "Buck"  Chambers  carr3nng  the  ball. 
Naturally  Minds  made  no  change,  and  our  attack  consisted  largely  of 
variations  of  these  plays  with  fullback  Fox  and  Chambers,  Simkin, 
Wood  and  Worthington  of  the  line  running  with  the  ball,  while  Stone, 
Fox  and  Thorn  made  end  runs.  Stone  was  especially  fast  at  this  and 
made  many  splendid  runs  throughout  the  season.  Swarthmore' s  most 
important  ground-gaining  play  was  when  Downing  her  captain  and  very 
heavy  left  guard  carried  the  ball  also  on  "guards  back."     He  kept  his 


*Haverfordian  Editorial. 


The  Haverpord-Swarthmore  Games  61 

feet  wonderfully  well  and  the  whole  Swarthmore  team  seemed  to  get  be- 
hind him  and  push.  Our  men  would  not  play  low  enough  to  upset  him 
and  Battersby,  as  they  came  through  the  line  on  these  plays.  Although 
not  in  bad  physical  condition,  Haverford  was  not  as  strong  as  the  heavier 
Swarthmore  team  and  gradually  was  worn  down  by  these  line-pushes  in 
the  second  half.  Haverford  had  all  the  best  of  the  game  for  the  first 
half  and  the  early  part  of  the  second,  but  lost  out  in  the  last  thirty  min- 
utes when  Swarthmore  found  out  how  high  our  tall  line  was  playing. 
The  first  touchdown  was  made  by  Stone  on  a  fine  end  run  for  25  yards. 
Fox  missed  the  goal.  There  was  much  exchanging  of  punts  between  Fox 
and  Battersby.  During  this  half  Stone,  Chambers,  Simkin  and  Fox  were 
our  chief  ground-gainers,  while  Swarthmore  could  do  very  little  but  kick. 
The  score  at  the  end  of  the  first  half  was:  Haverford  5,  Swarthmore  0. 
Early  in  the  second  half  the  most  spectacular  play  of  the  game  occurred : 
Swarthmore  by  successive  gains  had  carried  the  ball  to  Haverford's  20- 
yard  line,  when  Walter  Wood  got  the  ball  on  a  Swarthmore  fumble  and 
made  a  pretty  run  of  35  yards,  but  being  unable  to  keep  his  lead  and 
seeing  Battersby  of  Swarthmore  rapidly  overtaking  him,  passed  the  ball 
to  Fox,  who  carried  it  40  yards  further,  being  downed  on  Swarthmore's 
15-yard  line.  Worthington  and  Fox  then  advanced  the  ball  12  yards 
and  Stone  skirted  the  right  end  for  a  second  touchdown.  Fox  again 
missed  the  goal.  Score:  Haverford  10,  Swarthmore  0.  From  this  point 
on  a  complete  change  came  over  the  game,  Swarthmore  keeping  posses- 
sion of  the  ball  most  of  the  time.  Downing,  Battersby  and  Stewart 
steadily  advanced  the  ball  on  mass  pushes  through  the  line  with  an 
occasional  gain  around  the  ends.  Three  touchdowns  were  made  in  less 
than  thirty  minutes,  from  which  two  of  the  goals  were  kicked.  Haver- 
ford made  a  spurt  in  the  last  five  minutes,  winning  the  ball  on  downs,  on 
her  25-yard  line,  and  Carey,  who  substituted  for  Thorn,  made  two  good 
end  runs.  It  was  heartrending  to  lose  this  game  toward  its  close  after 
it  had  been  so  well  in  hand,  but  Haverford  had  to  thank  for  it  Downing's 
ability  to  keep  his  feet  while  he  was  pushed  for  one  small  gain  after 
another,  and  her  own  lack  of  a  sufficiently  low  defence,  and  the  requisite 
"ginger  "  to  win.  Each  team  in  fact  was  stronger  in  offence  than  defence, 
and  when  given  the  ball  was  nearly  sure  to  gain.  The  result,  therefore, 
depended  greatly  on  the  possession  of  the  ball,  and  in  the  second  half 
Swarthmore  was  strong  enough  to  keep  it  almost  all  the  time.  The 
game  was  not  only  one  of  the  closest  of  the  series,  but  was  played  with 
fine  feeling  on  both  sides. 

As  a  matter  of  history  it  may  be  of  interest  to  note  here  that  Associa- 


62  The  Haverfordian 

tion  or  "  Soccer"  football  was  introduced  into  Haverford  in  the  winter  of 
1900-1901. 

The  season  of  1901,  as  already  stated,  was  the  most  ambitous  one 
Haverford  ever  imdertook.  Twelve  games  were  played,  including  several 
big  colleges.  Into  most  of  them  Haverford  could  not  put  her  regular 
team  on  account  of  the  numerous  injuries  received,  and  as  a  result  only 
two  games  were  won.  But  in  spite  of  this  the  season  ended  strongly 
with  a  magnificently  played  game  against  Swarthmore  which  resulted 
in  a  tie  6  to  6.  It  was  played  at  Haverford  on  Nov.  23,  and  rain  fell 
almost  without  cessation  dviring  the  entire  game.  Notwithstanding  the 
weather  some  3,000  persons  saw  the  game,  and  the  grand  stands,  erected 
for  the  first  time  on  Walton  Field,  were  full.  It  may  be  of  interest  to 
note  here  that  the  wooden  stand  which  has  stood  on  the  west  side  of  the 
field  until  this  year  was  the  chief  one  of  those  erected  for  the  Swarthmore 
game  of  1901.  It  has  now  given  way  to  the  imposing  new  permanent 
stand  just  erected  through  the  generosity  of  Horace  E.  Smith,  '86  in 
memory  of  his  brother,  and  which  will  be  first  used  next  autumn  in 
connection  with  the  newly  laid  out  field.  This  use  of  grandstands,  al- 
though advisable  from  a  manager's  financial  point  of  view,  removed  in 
part  at  least  one  of  the  happiest  features  of  the  old  Swarthmore  games. 
For  there  used  to  be  no  better  opportunity  during  the  year  for  a  general 
mixing  of  Haverford  Alumni  than  through  the  surging  up  and  down  the 
ropes  during  that  game.  Ever>'body  met  everybody  else,  and  many  an 
old  friend  was  seen,  who  would  have  been  missed  if  all  had  had  regular 
ticketed  seats.  Another  innovation  in  recent  seasons  to  interfere  with 
this  intermingling  of  those  who  still  prefer  to  walk  around  rather  than  go 
to  the  stands,  is  the  permitting  of  automobiles  to  go  right  up  against  the 
ropes,  so  that  no  one  can  go  in  front  of  them.  For  the  sake  of  the  "good 
old  times,"  and  to  make  the  future  Swarthmore  game  as  much  like  the 
old  as  possible  the  present  writer  strongly  urges  that  provision  be 
made,  if  possible,  for  Alumni  to  move  up  and  down  the  side  ropes  if  they 
wish.  This  could  still  be  possible  in  a  limited  way  even  if  the  crowds 
should  be  so  much  greater  than  ever  before  that  it  may  be  necessary  to 
erect  temporary  slopes  for  those  who  stand,  so  that  the  many  back  rows 
can  see  over  the  heads  of  those  in  front.  But  such  problems  are  for  the 
future  managers  to  solve,  and  we  must  return  to  our  game  of  1901. 
The  Haverford  team  was  as  follows:- — ^J.  L.  Stone,  '02,  1.  e.  and  Captain, 
W.  E.  Cadbury,  P.  G.,  1.  t.,  J.  K.  Worthington,  '03,  1.  g.,  R.  J.  Ross,  '02, 
c,  W.  W.  Chambers,  '02,  r.  g.,  R.  L.  Simkin,  '03,  r.  t.,  W.  H.  Grant,  '02, 
r.  e.,  A.  J.  Phillips,  '03,  q.  b.,  H.  W.  Jones,  '05,  1.  h.  b.,  H.  N.  Thorn,  '04, 
r.  h.  b.,  J.  S.  Fox,  '02,  f.  b.     The  team  was  coached  by  John  H.  Minds — 


The  Haverford-Swarthmore  Games  63 

his  second  year — and  played  the  same  style  of  game  as  the  year  before. 
Swarthmore  had  as  her  captain  the  veteran  quarterback  Hall,  with  Stew- 
art again  at  full  back  and  an  excellent  line,  although  mostly  of  new  men. 
The  game  could  not  have  been  closer  or  more  thrilhng.  In  the  first  half 
neither  side  scored,  although  three  attempts  at  field  goals  failed,  the  first 
by  Haverford  on  Swarthmore's  15-yard  Une  after  terrific  playing  soon 
after  the  start  of  the  game,  and  two  by  Swarthmore  on  Haverford's 
30- and  20-yard  lines,  the  latter  one  being  blocked  by  Worthington  who 
recovered  the  ball  for  Haverford.  During  this  half  the  ball  was  well 
advanced  for  Haverford  by  Grant,  Chambers  and  Fox,  and  for  Swarth- 
more Marter  made  several  gains,  and  on  one  occasion  got  through  our 
team  for  25  yards,  being  finally  tackled  by  Thorn  in  the  backfield  on  our 
20-yard  Hne.  There  was  much  exchanging  of  kicks  between  Fox  and 
Smith.  In  the  second  half  for  a  time  the  play  was  much  the  same,  the 
two  teams  alternately  gaining  and  being  held  for  downs  or  kicking.  Then 
with  the  ball  on  Haverford's  45-yard  line  came  the  most  spectacular  play 
of  the  game  when  Thorn  made  one  of  the  great  historic  runs  in  Haverford 
football  history.  For  some  time  before  that  our  attack  had  been  mostly 
against  the  line  with  guardsback  formations,  when  suddenly  Thorn  was 
given  the  ball  for  an  old-fashioned  run  around  right  end.  At  the  start 
he  circled  very  widely  and  seemed  about  to  be  thrown  for  a  loss,  but  turn- 
ing abruptly  inside  the  end  he  ran  for  65  yards,  dodging  through  the 
very  midst  of  the  opposing  team  for  a  touchdown,  amidst  tremendous 
excitement.  Fox  kicked  the  goal.  Almost  at  the  end  of  the  half 
Swarthmore  got  the  ball  on  Haverford's  40-yard  line.  Hall  made  IS 
yards  on  a  trick  play.  A  quarterback  kick  brought  them  10  yards 
nearer  Haverford's  goal.  Then  they  received  10  yards  more  for  Haver- 
ford's offside  play.  Then  Stewart  plunged  through  the  line  the  remaining 
5  yards  for  a  touchdown  and  Hall  kicked  the  goal,  saving  the  game  for 
Swarthmore.  In  the  few  minutes  that  remained,  neither  side  scored  and 
the  game  was  a  tie,  6  to  6.  The  whole  Haverford  team  played  splendidly 
individually  and  as  a  team.  The  best  of  good  feeling  prevailed,  as  is 
reflected  in  an  interesting  editorial  in  the  Haverfordian  of  that  time; — 
"  But  scores  become  less  significant  in  the  face  of  truer  results.  When 
Swarthmore  applauds  the  rise  of  a  fallen  opponent;  when  Haverford 
permits  no  cheering  to  interfere  with  Swarthmore' s  signals ;  when  President 
Birdsall  is  so  thoughtful  as  to  telegraph  '  Thanks  for  courteous  treatment 
and  congratulations  for  Haverford's  plucky  game' ;  and  when  Haverford 
winds  up  the  season  that  has  meant  so  much  of  personal  exertion  and 
sacrifice  with  a  '  long  and  fast  for  Swarthmore  and  Captain  Hall,'  failure 
to  win  is  not  half  so  keen  a  disappointment." 


64  The  Haverfordian 

Between  the  seasons  of  1901  and  1902  much  discussion  took  place 
as  to  Haverford's  football  policy.  There  were  a  number  of  keen  and 
loyal  Haverfordians  who  had  caught  the  fever  that  "we  must  win." 
They  did  not  advocate  trying  to  collect  a  good  team,  but  they  did  urge 
strenuously  the  pohcy  of  hiring  even  at  a  very  high  price  the  best  obtain- 
able coaching  talent.  Those  who  so  argued  believed  also  in  the  "big 
game"  policy  which  reached  its  height  at  that  time.  It  was  the  same 
tendency  to  exaggerate  the  importance  of  football  that  has  broken  cut  at 
one  time  or  another  at  almost  every  educational  institution,  and  has 
been  responsible  for  the  athletic  excesses  which  many  of  them  have  been 
led  into.  Fortunately  for  Haverford,  after  a  thorough  weighing  of  the 
whole  subject,  a  sound  conclusion  was  reached  that  "the  game  was  not 
worth  the  candle"  if  it  involved  paying  more  for  the  two  months'  services 
of  a  football  coach  than  most  of  the  members  of  the  Faculty  received  for 
a  whole  year's  work,  who  had  spent  many  years  in  study  in  prepara- 
tion for  their  positions;  and  that  it  was  not  on  a  healthy  basis  or  in  keep- 
ing with  Haverford's  ideals  and  her  measure  of  the  worth  of  things,  if  we 
could  not  play  it  for  the  sport  and  the  fine  training  there  is  in  it  without 
overestimating  the  mere  winning  or  losing.  The  outcome  of  the  final 
conference  of  the  Alumni,  Faculty  and  College  Athletic  Committees, 
therefore,  was  that  it  would  be  healthy  for  Haverford  to  moderate  her 
schedule,  to  go  back  to  the  Alumni  Coaching  System,  and  to  keep  the 
game  in  the  subordinate  position  in  the  College  life  in  which  it  always  had 
been.  To  make  possible  the  readoption  of  the  Alumni  Coaching  System, 
J.  Henry  Scattergood,'96,  accepted  the  responsibilities  of  head  coach  for 
1902,  and  in  this  work  was  loyally  assisted  by  no  less  than  twenty  differ- 
ent Alumni  at  various  times  in  the  season. 

(To  be  concluded  next  month) 


By  Donald  Beauchamp  Van  Hollen,  '15. 

THE  room  was  alone;  the  furniture  and  all  the  objects  had  been 
soothed  into  sleep  by  the  dying  log  fire  on  the  hearth.  Not  a 
sound  was  heard  except  when  a  gust  of  the  cold  night  wind  set  the 
windows  to  chattering  furiously  or  when  the  logs  turned,  snuggled  closer 
together  for  warmth  and  settled  themselves  for  the  night.  By  the  faint 
red  glow  of  the  fire  most  of  the  objects  in  the  room  could  be  distingtiished. 
All  the  ornaments,  books  and  pictures  were  in  their  places,  and  were 
breathing  regularly,  for  they  had  been  sleeping  soundly  for  several  hours. 
Over  by  the  window-seat,  however,  everything  was  topsy-turvy.  There 
was  no  noise,  but  great  disorder.  A  derby  was  resting  uncomfortably  on 
the  floor  after  trying  in  vain  to  hang  himself  on  the  leg  of  a  chair  so  that 
he  might  snatch  a  few  hours'  sleep.  A  suit  of  clothes  was  scattered  wildly 
over  the  window- seat  and  a  shirt  and  pair  of  socks  clung  desperately  to 
the  morris  chair.  All  were  in  most  awkward  positions  for  sleeping.  On 
the  floor  the  undershirt  was  sleepily  asking  the  garter  if  he  had  seen  any- 
thing of  his  better  half.  But  the  garter — a  descendant  of  the  old  Boston 
family  of  Bull  Dog  Grip — growled  back  a  very  impolite  reply.  From 
under  the  window- seat  came  the  sound  of  sobbing — it  was  the  dirty- 
faced  collar  weeping  large  starchy  tears  and  vainly  asking  the  Left-Shoe 
to  step  off  his  neck. 

Suddenly  a  loud  oath  sounded  on  the  night  air:  "Damn  you,  what 
do  you  think  you  are  doing  anjrway?"  The  voice  was  loud  and  angry 
and  woke  up  everything  in  the  room.  Over  on  the  smoking  table  in  the 
comer,  on  the  brass  ash  tray  the  Cigarette  glowed  mischievously,  just 
long  enough  to  enjoy  the  disturbance  he  had  caused,  and  then  winked  and 
went  quickly  out.  In  a  thin,  weak  voice  he  began  to  tactfiilly  apologize 
to  the  Cigar. 

"I  beg  yovac  pardon,  old  top,  but  I  really  couldn't  help  it.  You  see 
it  wasn't  my  fault:  Jack  threw  me  down  here  and  I  burnt  you." 

"Don't  you  think  I  know  you  burnt  me,  you  skinny  two-for-a- 
center!"  said^the  Cigar  as  he  held  his  hand  carefully  over  his  side. 

The  Cigarette  coughed  nervously.  He  resented  the  insult  of  the 
Cigar. 

"I'll  have  you  understand,"  he  said,  his  voice  trembling  with  pride, 
"that  I  am  the  utmost  a  Cigarette  can  be  and  that  I  am  a  descendant  of 
an  old  Egyptian  family.  In  the  first  place  I  told  you  that  Jack  threw  me 
down  here  beside  you." 


6f>  The  Haverfordian 

The  Cigar  was  about  to  continue  his  slanderous  remarks  when  he 
was  interrupted  by  the  Pipe.  The  latter  had  been  roused  from  a  smoky- 
slumber  by  the  loud  yell  of  the  Cigar  and  had  heard  the  above  conversa- 
tion. 

"  But  what  were  you  doing  out  so  late  with  Jack?  Don't  you  know 
it's  'way  after  one?" 

There  was  a  fatherly  tone  in  the  voice  of  the  Pipe.  He  spoke  in  such 
a  sympathetic  way  that  it  made  the  Cigar  and  Cigarette  forget  their  anger 
and  enter  seriously  into  the  following  conversation. 

The  Cigarette  tried  to  make  an  explanation:  "  Oh,  Jack  and  I  were 
out  together  for  a  good  time ;  he  met  some  old  classmates  and  I  met  my 
friend  Rameses." 

"Judging  from  your  breath  you  had  a  very  good  time,"  remarked  the 
Cigar  in  his  calculating  manner  of  speech.     "  The  Raths,  I'll  wager. " 

"Yes,  we  did  go  to  the  Raths  after  the  show,  and  I'd  like  to  know  what 
harm  there  is  in  that.  It  is  just  the  place  for  friends  to  meet;  there  is  a 
spirit  of  good-fellowship  about  the  place." 

"  Bet  you  went  to  the  Cas "  began  the  Cigar,  but  the  Pipe  inter- 
rupted him  and  said  thoughtfully:  "  I  agree  with  you,  my  friend,  there  is 
no  harm  in  going  to  the  Rathskeller,  if  you  can  drink  without  making  a 
fool  of  yourself.  I  have  always  had  the  greatest  admiration  for  the  man 
who  can  drink  and  still  remain  a  gentleman.  Jack  was  drunk  this  even- 
ing, wasn't  he?" 

The  Cigarette  was  peeved  at  the  question  and  answered  hotly. 

"Yes,  he  was  dnmk,  but  I  tell  you  he  behaves  like  a  gentleman  even 
when  his  feet  are  lighter  than  his  head.  Coming  out  on  the  train  he  was 
quiet  and  didn't  disturb  anyone.  Jack  is  a  gentleman,  I  tell  you,  and 
knows  how  to  have  a  good  time  like  a  gentleman.  If  we  want  to  see  a 
little  of  life  and  enjoy  ourselves  instead  of  sitting  around  all  evening  with 
our  noses  in  a  book  as  you  do — why,  that's  our  business." 

"What  business  of  mine?  Why,  just  this:  Jack  is  as  much  my  friend 
as  he  is  yoturs.  I  am  a  friend  of  the  Jack  who  has  ideals,  dreams  dreams 
and  loves  his  books." 

"  Rats!"  burst  out  the  Cigar,  "  dreaming  dreams!  What  good's  that 
going  to  do  a  fellow?  Is  that  going  to  help  him  in  business  and  help  him 
make  money?  That's  what  a  young  fellow  has  got  to  know  these  days; 
without  money  he  might  as  well  be  a  deader.  Money  equals  power  and 
power  equals  life.  That's  my  formvila.  When  Jack  is  with  me  his  mind  is 
clear  and  active;  he  is  progressive  and  ambitious.  No  pipe-dreams  about 
Jack  and  me;  we  do  things.  I  know  the  real  Jack — you  fellows  only 
know  his  two  weak  sides — and  speaking  of  sides,  believe  me,  mine  hurts.". 


Smokes  67 

"You  fellows  are  mighty  long-winded  about  the  Jack  that  you  know," 
hiccoughed  the  Cigarette.  "He  and  I  are  friends  for  friendship's  sake — 
none  of  your  ideals  and  money-getting  about  us.     We're  above  all  that." 

As  the  Cigarette  finished  speaking,  unmistakable  soimds  of  someone 
violently  sick  came  from  the  adjoining  bedroom.  The  three  friends 
gathered  around  the  ash-tray  and  listened  smokelessly. 

"A  lot  Jack  thinks  of  your  friendship  now!"  said  the  Cigar.  " If  he 
caught  sight  of  you  he'd  crush  your  sickly  life  out  with  his  heel.  That's 
good-fellowship,  is  it?" 

"Well,  Jack  will  soon  forget  his  sickness,"  feebly  retorted  the  Cigar- 
ette. His  head  was  aching  painfully.  The  fire  had  gone  out  and  the 
room  was  chilly.  Nervously  he  shivered  through  his  whole  frame  and 
giving  a  consumptive  cough,  he  fell  into  a  broken  sleep.  The  Cigar  and 
the  Pipe  continued  to  discuss  first  place  in  Jack's  friendship. 

"It  is  quite  evident,"  began  the  Pipe,  "that  this  puny  little  friend 
of  ours  is  not  going  to  live  much  longer,  and  for  Jack's  sake  I  am  very 
glad.  This  side  of  his  nature  which  appeals  to  the  Cigarette  is  weak  and 
will  in  time  die  a  natural  death.  I  think  Jack  has  sown  his  last  wild 
oats,  don't  you?" 

"I  am  sure  of  it,"  answered  the  Cigar,  "but  seriously,  old  pal,  don't 
you  think  Jack  and  you  ought  to  cut  out  this  pipe-dream  business;  it's 
a  waste  of  time  and  can't  help  Jack  get  along  in  the  world.  This 
bookish,  fireside  business  makes  a  fellow  dull.  Don't  you  really  think 
so?" 

"Yes,  I  will  have  to  admit  that  too  much  of  this  'bookish,  fireside 
business'  is  a  bad  thing  for  a  young  fellow  and  I  have  to  fight  against  it. 
Ideals  and  dreams  amount  to  nothing  if  they  don't  move  a  fellow  past  his 
morris  chair.  That's  where  yotir  work  comes  in,  it's  carrying  out  the 
ideals  and  dreams." 

"I  begin  to  see  now,"  said  the  Cigar,  "that  it  is  possible  for  both  of 
us  to  be  staunch  friends  of  Jack's.  In  fact  it  is  most  necessary  that  we  be 
friends  and  work  in  double  harness.  How  stupid  of  me  not  to  have 
realized  it  sooner Let's  shake  on  it,  old  man." 

"Gladly,"  said  the  Pipe  as  he  shook  hands.  "I  feel  we've  done  a 
good  night's  work.     I'm  ready  for  some  sleep." 

"Same  here.  Good  night."  The  Cigar,  holding  his  hand  over  his 
burnt  side,  rolled  over  to  sleep. 

Jack  awoke  that  morning  with  the  splitting  headache  and  other 
attendant  evils  of  a  night  of  dissipation.  With  an  effort — before  he 
could  think  what  he  was  doing — he  hurried  himself  into  a  cold  shower, 


68  The  Haverpordian 

which  greatly  cleared  his  head.  He  had  missed  breakfast,  but  his 
thoughtful  roommate  had  "snitched"  some  rolls  from  the  Dining  Hall. 
Clad  in  his  bath-robe,  with  a  roll  in  either  hand,  he  entered  the  sitting- 
room.  As  he  walked  towards  the  fire-place  the  first  object  to  attract  his 
attention  was  the  pale  little  cigarette  on  the  ash-tray.  Jack  crammed  one 
of  the  rolls  into  his  mouth  and  with  portentous  but  inaudible  words  he 
hurled  the  unfortunate  little  imp  into  the  fire-place.  He  stood  eyeing 
the  pipe  and  cigar  approvingly  for  a  moment  and  then,  seizing  a  Math, 
book  from  the  table,  he  dropped  into  a  chair  and  began  "boning"  for 
the  first  hour. 


By  Robert  Gibson,  '17. 

Faintly  first  without  a  warning 

Fall  from  out  the  leaden  sky. 

Faintly  strike  and  striking  melt, 

Scarcely  seen  and  scarcely  felt. 

Thicken,  thicken,  as  they  quicken, 

Ermine  robe  on  sable  sky. 

Mutely  clinging,  mutely  mounting, 

As  they  downward,  downward  ply.  j 

Silence!  silence  undisturbed. 

All  the  noise  and  turmoil  curbed, 

By  the  falling,  gentle  falling  of  the  snow. 

Quiet !  quiet  has  uprisen. 

Mother  Earth  has  stopped  to  listen, 

Nature  trembling  hears. 

For  above  in  regions  airy. 

Weeps  a  sad  and  lonely  fairy, — 

These  her  tears. 


"0n  toitf)  tfjc  ©ance" 

ByG.  C.  Theis,  'IS. 

THERE  are  still  those  who  maintain  that  all  forms  of  the  dance  are 
immoral.  To  many  of  us  who  never  come  in  contact  with  such 
this  seems  almost  incredible Where  does  the  idea  of  im- 
morality come  from?  It  is  said  that  all  the  ideas  of  the  Puritans  are 
colored  by,  if  not  derived  from,  the  seething  hell  fires  conceived  by  John 
Milton,  but  this  one  Puritan  idea  cannot  be  derived  from  our  grim  por- 
trayer  of  the  rewards  of  sin,  for  the  very  same  Milton  admonishes  us 
joyously, 

"Come,  and  trip  it  as  you  go 
On  the  light  fantastic  toe." 

Yet,  the  idea  that  the  dance  is  immoral  most  surely  had  its  origin 
in  that  sternly  religious  period  of  Praise  God  Barebones  and  his  kind, 
when  all  earthly  and  natural  pleasures  were  renounced.  The  very  thing 
that  formerly  had  been  an  essential  element  of  religion  was  then  con- 
demned by  religion  itself.  And  why?  One  wonders!  Ye  gods!  (es- 
pecially Bacchus  and  Dionysus)  the  inconsistency  of  moral  codes  cries  out 
loud. 

What  is  the  immorality  of  the  dance?  Why  should  it  be  worse  that 
people  should  enjoy  the  sensation  of  motion  in  a  colorful  ballroom  or  on 
the  stage  than  that  they  should  enjoy  the  sensation  of  motion  in  walking 
or  in  swinging?  And  if  the  dance  is  not  immoral,  need  it  be  moral?  Is 
it  moral  ?  Suffice  it,  it  is  an  art — neither  moral  nor  immoral.  The  dance 
is  primitive — it  is  the  expression  of  sensation  and  of  emotion.  Watch 
the  palpitating,  breathless  bodies  give  themselves  up  in  abandonment  to 
sensation.  Perhaps  it  is  a  violent  expression  of  sensuality :  perhaps  it  is 
a  flowing,  graceful  rhythm.  Withal  it  is  beautiful,  actual,  alive.  To  see 
youth  and  physical  beauty  in  a  wild  riot  or  constrained  into  even  rhythm 
calls  forth  sensations  as  true  as  those  of  exhilaration  in  skating  on  a  cold 
day,  of  those  of  lassitude  in  relaxing  on  a  bed  of  moss  in  the  woods. 

The  dance  is  temporary.  The  motion  has  been  made  and  is  forever 
lost — but  it  has  had  its  beauty  and  its  joy.  So  often  Art  is  defined  (how 
futile)  as  the  representation  of  reality  and  beauty.  Why  a  representa- 
tion? Why  not  a  reality  and  a  beauty  in  itself?  That  is  what  the  dance 
is.  It  is  doubly  art;  it  creates  and  interprets  at  the  same  time.  It  is  life 
itself — ^the  bodies  are  alive,  their  beauty  is  real,  the  motions  are  real.  They 
express  real  and  beautiful  things :  pure  abandon,  love — ^ideal  or  sensual, 
animal  fierceness,  simple  grace,  joy,  or  grief.    No  one  objects  to  so  natural 


70  The  Haverfordian 

a  sensation  as  simultaneous  rhythm  between  bodies ;  no  one  denies  the  thrill 
of  physical  contact.  And  what  is  the  dance  but  these  ?  It  exists  as  life 
does — for  the  moment ;  it  consists,  as  life  does,  of  emotion  and  sensation. 
If  it  is  immoral,  so  is  life. 

What  does  not  the  dance  underlie? — drama,  music,  poetry.  Motion 
is  ihe  play  of  man.  Wagner  says:  "The  ground  of  all  human  art  is 
motion.  Into  bodily  motion  comes  rhythm,  which  is  the  mind  of  dance 
and  skeleton  of  tone."  The  very  name  of  a  form  of  poetry,  the  ballad,  comes 
from  the  Italian  word,  "ballare,"  meaning  "to  dance."  But  the  dance 
needs  no  proof  of  its  reality  or  of  its  art.  Not  all  the  preachments  of 
moralists  have  abolished  it.  It  exists  now  as  it  always  has.  At  present 
the  best  composers  of  Russia  are  composing  ballet  music.  The  form  has 
changed  but  not  the  fact. 

But  neither  has  the  fact  of  Puritanism  changed,  indeed,  scarcely  its 
forms,  either.  Puritanism  is  now  attacking  the  changed  forms  of  the 
dance;  even  Catholicism,  through  its  head,  the  Pope,  sends  out  an  edict 
condemning  one  form  of  the  dance.  On  all  sides  the  "modem"  dances 
are  being  assailed  as  immoral.  A  recent  convention,  representing  the 
"learned  ladies"  of  the  land,  solemnly  and  at  great  length  have  placed 
a  ban  upon  them.  Yea !  friendships  are  broken  over  them.  England  is 
laying  itself  open  to  Bernard  Shaw  through  them — or  can  it  be,  that  for 
once  Bernard  Shaw    and    Merrie    England    agree? 

In  1812,  Lady  Elisabeth  Spencer  Stanhope  writes  in  a  letter:  "  Last 
night  at  a  ball  the  Polka  was  danced  in  pubHc  for  the  first  time  and  people 

stood  on  chairs  and  rout  seats  to  watch  it Mr.  Theodore  Hook 

declared  that  the  'obnoxious  dance  was  calculated  to  lead  to  the  most 

licentious  consequences' The   Sporting  Magazine  subsequently 

denounced  the  dance  which,  'to  the  disgrace  of  sense  and  taste  has  pro- 
truded itself  upon  the  whole  circle  of  the  fashionable  world a  will- 
corrupting  dance A  com^poimd  of  immodest  gestiires  and  infectious 

poison' " 

Who  woiM  apply  such  terms  to  the  Polka  now? 

But  be  all  of  this  as  it  may,  the  present  decade  remains  dance  mad, 
and  in  two  cases  misdirectedly  mad.  The  Greek  Dance  revival  and  the 
Folk  Dance  revival  are  these  two  cases.  Both  of  these  belong  to  the 
past  and  cannot  be  brought  to  life  again.  Both  belong  distinctly  to 
what  they  arose  from  and  it  is  idiotic  fadism  to  try  to  transplant  them. 

The  Greek  dances!  What  are  they?  The  Greek  tragedies!  What 
are  they?  Can  we  write  Greek  tragedies  now?  We!  who  can't  even  act 
them !  No  more  than  that  Greek  tragedies  can  be  written  now  can  Greek 
dances  be  danced  now.     Reverse  the  ages.     Who  can  imagine  the  Greeks 


On  with  the  Dance  7i 

dancing  a  Russian  ballet?  Is  it  not  just  as  impossible  to  dance  Greek 
dances  now?  Imagine  Pavlowa  going  back  twenty  centuries  and  dancing 
a  Rubinstein  Waltz  on  Mars  Hill.  Is  it  not  as  incongruous  for  Isadora 
Duncan  to  dance  the  Greek  dances  behind  electric  lights  ?  True,  she  can 
wear  tunics  and  pose  like  the  figures  on  Greek  vases,  but  what  does  it 
mean?  She  gives  the  outer  atmosphere  and  does  not  create  the  inner. 
She  might  as  well  wear  a  Greek  letter  fraternity  pin  and  say  that  it  added 
a  Greek  touch. 

But  why  talk  of  Isadora  Duncan  and  the  Greek  dances?  Their  day 
is  over — except  for  the  "Tea  Kettle  Tango,"  which  is  copied  from  Hel- 
lenic vases. 

The  Folk  Dance  revival  is  not  yet  over.  However,  here  again  we 
will  soon  hear  the  tedious  refrain,  "I  told  you  so."  Naturally  the  folk 
dances  are  by  no  means  as  dead  as  the  Greek  dances.  Nevertheless, 
even  Luther  H.  Gulick,  prime  mover  of  the  revival,  is  compelled  to  say  in 
his  book  on  "  The  Healthful  Art  of  Dancing" :  "The  search  for  traditional 
dances  of  European  peoples  is  a  curioasly  disappointing  one.  Cities  and 
villages  on  the  well-estabhshed  Hnes  of  travel  sometimes  indeed  have  these 
dances,  but  in  these  cases  they  are  preserved  mainly  of  exhibition  to 
travellers  for  financial  considerations.  . .  .bat  the  dances  themselves  have 
long  since  been  dropped  and  forgotten.  When  one  baves  the  beaten 
track  and  pursues  his  search  in  communities  where  the  traveller  is  well- 
nigh  unknown,  the  search  is  almost  as  hopeless." 

The  rural  life  out  of  which  the  folk  dance  sprang  is  evidently  chang- 
ing and  where  it  has  changed  the  dance  has  changed,  too.  Yet,  serious 
efiort  is  being  made  to  revive  these  folk  dances  of  foreign  countries  in 
the  female  college  gymnasiums  and  the  public  school  yards  and  roofs 
here  in  America  where  they  never  were  native,  when  it  is  impossible  ever 
to  dissociate  them  from  the  districts  and  nationalities  from  which  they 
come.  Obviously  the  folk  dances  are  declining  throughout  the  European 
rural  districts.  Instead,  the  children,  who  have  gone  to  the  cities,  bring 
back  with  them  the  songs  and  dances  from  the  music  halls. 

There  has  been  this  change  and  it  may  be  regrettable.  The  dances 
now  are  almost  exclusively  to  ragtime  and  waltz  music 

Please  remember  that  the  morality  of  these  "modern"  dances  has 
been  disposed  of . . .  .even  as  far  back  as  1812. . . . 

Now,  what  are  these  new  dances  ?  That  the  blasphemy  be  over  with, 
let  it  be  said  quickly  that  these  new  dances  are  nothing  but  a  form  of 
Folk  Dance. 

Just  as  the  "modem"  dances  are  considered  vulgar  and  devoid  of 
grace  by  prudes  and  pedants  now,  so  were  the  at  present  acclaimed  "  artis- 


72  The  Haverfordian 

tic  Folk  Dances"  considered  vulgar  and  devoid  of  grace  by  the  corres- 
ponding class  of  prudes  and  pedants,  years  ago  (to  wit  the  Polka  in  1812). 
Was  there  so  much  grace  in  the  Folk  Dances  of  years  ago?  Probably, 
on  the  whole,  as  much  as  there  is  in  the  "modem"  dances.  A  country 
yokel  doing  a  "quaint  and  simple"  folk  dance  rarely  has  more  grace  than 
a  cow.  Were  the  folk  dances  carried  on  with  the  simplicity  and  sobriety 
attributed  to  them?  'Tis  almost  too  trite  to  say  that  all  this  is  a  relative 
matter  depending  upon  the  performer. 

Many  of  the  new  dances  are  but  variations  of  the  graceful  waltz,  the 
permanence  of  which  is  unquestionable.  The  "  Boston"  is  as  pure  as  its 
name;  the  "Tango"  is  only  impure  through  its  name.  The  other  class, 
including  the  "Turkey  Trot,"  the  "Bunny  Hug,"  the  "Banana  GHde," 
the  "Grizzly  Bear,"  etc.,  it  would  seem,  come  from  the  folk  dances  of 
Brittany,  Spain,  and  Portugal,  via  the  West  Indies,  to  the  United  States. 
Their  origin  is  undeniably  negroid,  but  the  greatest  stamp  on  them  is  that 
of  the  music  hall  and  vaudeville  theater. 

They  are  the  dances  of  the  great  American  cities — originally  the 
underworld — and  the  point  is  they  are  expressive  of  the  tenseness  and 
compression  of  this  life.  Their  syncopation,  so  singularly  insinuating, 
has  in  it  the  rhythm  of  the  underworld  of  the  city.  These  "rags"  are 
heard  daily  by  hundreds ;  they  belong  to  the  cabaret,  they  belong  to  the 
night  life  of  the  big  cities.  They  are  indoor  dances,  danced  where  there 
is  little  room.  The  music  is  that  of  tin-pan  pianos,  of  hurdy-gurdies,  of 
phonographs.  Whereas  previous  ballroom  and  stage  dances  have 
approximated  the  sentiments  and  romance  of  love,  the  new  dances 
approximate  the  acts  of  love. 

Were  a  symphony  written  now  in  which  the  struggling  and  effort 
of  our  great  cities  v/as  expressed  wotild  the  rhythm  be  that  of  Greek  dances 
or  of  Swedish  folk  dances?  Would  not  the  rhythm  be  that  of  the  "rag" 
which  is  the  music  half  the  city  folk  dance  to,  half  the  night?  Is  not  the 
"syncopation"  of  the  "rags"  as  peculiar  to  ragtirae  as  the  "sharply 
accented  air,  with  bagpipe  drone,  imitated  in  the  bass"  is  to  the  Highland 
Fling?  The  tunes  come  and  go,  but  the  rhythm  and  the  dances  it  suggests 
are  constant.  Play  a  Highland  Fling  to  any  given  hundred  people  and 
see  how  nearly  correctly  they  dance  a  Highland  Fling,  but  play  a  "rag" 
to  any  given  hundred  people  and  see  how  immediate  the  response  is. 
Groups  of  children  no  longer  gather  around  the  village  fiddler  on  the 
village  green  and  dance  to  "folk  music,"  but  they  do  gather  around  the 
hurdy-gurdy  in  the  city  square  and  dance  "rags." 

"Oh  Fiddlesticks!  all  the  composers  of  ragtime  do  is  to  steal  a  tune 
from  the  classics  and  make  a  rag  out  of  it."     If  that  be  the  case,  and  it 


Youth  73 

frequently  is,  the  result  is  merely  this :  the  people  are  sifting  out  the  dance 
from  the  classic  music,  which  is  built  upon  folk  music,  and  we  have  a 
double  proof  that  ragtime  is  merely  a  form  of  folk  music.  From  the 
people  it  came  and  to  the  people  it  went  again.  But,  whether  by  so 
sophistical  a. proof  as  the  above  or  whether  by  general  analogy,  "ragtime" 
music  and  "rag"  dances  amount,  after  all,  to  a  form  of  Folk  Music  and 
Folk  Dance. 

So,  "On  with  the  dance,  let  joy  be  unconfined." 

The  Ballet  remains — an  art — a  double  art.  The  Waltz  remains, 
with  its  many  variations,  keeping  ever  that  essentially  Viennese  atmos- 
phere of  inborn  gaiety.  The  new  dances  of  negroid  origin  have  found 
their  way  into  the  general  social  circles  from  the  underworld  and  are  the 
rage  of  the  da3^  The  times  are  vulgar  and  jingly,  the  words  are  inane, 
the  dances  are  sensual  and  ungraceful,  all  of  which  accusations  can  be 
made  against  many  other  forms  of  the  folk  dance.  The  Greek  dance 
revival  has  seen  its  day  and  even  its  day  of  revival.  The  Folk  dance 
is  still  being  revived,  but  throughout  the  efforts  to  graft  upon  American 
cities  these  foreign  rural  dances,  these  very  cities  have  been  evolving,  in 
their  own  way,  a  folk  dance  distinctly  peculiar  to  themselves  and,  prima- 
rily, peculiar  to  America. 


§OUtf} 

By  Eugene  M.  Pharo,  'IS. 

A  flower  blooming  fresh  and  fair, 

Called  Youth,  and  oh!  so  debonair. 

A  sombre  man  with  sombre  frown. 

In  passing  crushed  the  flower  down. 

A  poet  radiant  came  that  way, 

And  stooped  to  where  the  flower  lay. 
It  bloomed  within  his  heart  ere  long; 

Its  fragrance  sweet,  the  poet's  song. 


©ramatjc  Comment 

Miss  Annie  Russell  at  the  Little  Theatre 
G.    C.    Theis,    '15. 

AFTER  a  year  of  fruitless  and  aimless  experiment  Mrs,  Beulah  E. 
Jay  has  turned  her  Little  Theatre  into  other  hands,  and  in  these 
new  hands  this  plaj-house  promises  to  become  an  institution  that 
will  have  a  claim  to  a  unique  place  among  American  theaters.  Miss 
Annie  Russell,  under  whose  admirable  direction  the  Little  Theater  now 
is,  comes  with  a  definite  and  commendable  policy.  It  is  her  purpose  to 
establish  a  genuine  repertory  theater.  Mrs.  Ja}^  said  she  would  do  this, 
but  ranged  from  imitation  to  insipidity.  Her  most  recent  turn  to 
"thrillers"  supposed  to  make  the  theater  an  emotional  bombshell  suc- 
ceeded only  in  making  it  an  emotional  tea  room.  However,  we  are  now 
rid  of  Mrs.  Jay  for  a  while  and  instead  of  fooling  around  there  is  a  definite 
polic}',  with  a  basis  of  substantial  plays. 

Miss  Russell  is  not  proposing  to  upset  any  canons  of  art  or  shoot  off 
new  ones,  but  in  her  own  words,  "proposes  to  give  classical  and  modern 
comedies  which  have  a  just  claim  to  the  intelligent  playgoer."  Previous 
productions  have  already  demonstrated  her  ability  to  do  this.  Being 
familiar  with  Miss  Russell's  work  the  disappointments  associated  with  the 
Little  Theater  were  forgotten,  and  on  the  opening  night  everybody  en- 
tered the  quaintly  decorated  lobby  in  a  receptive  and  kindly  mood. 
The  feeling  of  intimacy  and  comfort  was  predominating  in  the  theater. 
When  the  curtain  went  up  on  "The  School  For  Scandal"  it  was  evident 
that  plajr,  spirit,  and  theater  were  congruous.  Seeing  Sheridan's  satiri- 
cal comedy  so  well  presented,  was  like  getting  a  glimpse  into  the  18th 
century.  One  almost  expected  to  find  that  one's  neighbor  was  a  fox- 
hunting squire  or  other  character  of  the  period ;  the  spirit  was  so  vivid  on 
the  stage  that  it  spread  out  into  the  audience.  Everyone  upon  leaving 
the  theater  felt  that  at  last  this  playhouse  had  found  its  proper  level. 

The  Little  Theater  is  now  worthy  of  support.  Relative  to  this  from 
student  playgoers  Miss  Russell  said :  "  I  am  not  going  to  follow  a  highbrow 
policy,  but  hope  to  draw  support  from  the  intelligent  playgoer.  Among 
these  the  students  ought  to  be ;  they  of  all  are  in  a  position  to  appreciate 
the  classical  comedies."  This  is  borne  out  by  the  endorsement  of  Clayton 
Hamilton  and  Brander  Matthews,  who  have  both  recommended  students 
to  see  Miss  Russell's  performances.  The  English  speaking  theater  public 
is  hardly  aware  of  the  fact  that  there  are  any  English  classics  besides 


Alumni  Department  75 

Shakespeare.  All  prochictions  out  of  the  way  of  the  current  are  devoted 
to  the  presentation  of  "modern"  drama,  meaning  by  that  something  "ad- 
vanced" orhighstrung.  Miss  Russell's  venture  is  not  concerned  with  any 
such  studies  in  pathology  and  unrest.  Instead  it  is  based  upon  the  sane, 
wholesome  English  classic  comedies,  and  hers  is  the  only  company  that 
produces  them  today.  The  Germans  and  the  French  keep  their  classics 
alive;  wh)-  shouldn't  it  be  possible  for  the  English  to  do  the  same?  Miss 
Russell  has  all  the  critical  and  academic  approval  in  her  attempt. 

W.  P.  Eaton  writes:  "If  you  want  future  good  things  at  your  local 
theater  patronize  present  worth.  When  she  comes  to  your  city  see 
Annie  Russell."  Miss  Russell  has  not  alone  come  to  our  city,  but  if 
adequate  support  is  given  she  will  stay  there,  and  Philadelphia  will  have 
a  theater  on  a  par  with  the  Kammerspiel  of  Berlin,  the  Burg  Theater  of 
Vienna,  the  Antoinc  of  Paris,  the  Gayety  of  Manchester,  the  Abbey  of 
Dublin,  and  the  Little  Theater  of  London.  Unless  defeated  by  a  lack  of 
support  Miss  Russell  will  establish  in  Philadelphia  a  playhouse  that  is  not 
alone  unique  for  this  country,  but  also  a  plaj'house  devoted  to  the  best 
ideals  of  dramatic  art.  Louis  Sherwin,  keenest  and  usually  the  most 
rancorous  critic  in  New  York,  says:  "Miss  Russell  is  rendering  a  real 
service  as  well  as  giving  performances  that  give  genuine  pleasure  to 
lovers  of  high  comedy."  Nor  need  we  go  as  far  as  New  York  or  even 
Philadelphia  for  aiithoritative  and  laudatory  recommendation  of  Miss 
Russell's  work. 


Alumni  IDepartntent 

It  is  our  painful  dvity  to  record  He  belonged  to  several  economic 
in  this  number  the  death  on  March  societies,  and  was  the  author  of 
the  second  of  Stuart  Wood,  a  the  "New  Theory  of  Wages." 
member  of  the  Class  of  1870.  Mr.  By  his  death  Haverford  loses  a 
Wood  was  bom  in  Philadelphia,  true  friend  and  staunch  supporter. 
May  30th,  1853  and  entered  Haver- 
ford in  1866.  After  his  graduation  An  affair  of  considerable  interest 
he  studied  at  Harvard  University,  to  Haverfordians,  both  because  of 
and  was  the  first  man  to  take  a  the  attitude  taken  by  the  College 
Ph.D.  in  Pohtical  Economy  at  that  and  because  of  the  number  of 
institution.  Mr.  Wood  was  a  mem-  Alumni  present,  was  the  meeting 
ber  of  the  well-known  firm  of  R.  D.  held  at  Drexel  Institute,  Philadel- 
Wood  and  Son,  Iron  Manufacturers,  phia,  on  March  1 4th,  for  the  purpose 


76 


The  Haverfordian 


of  organizing  the  Society  for  the 
Promotion  of  Liberal  Studies. 
Henry  V.  Gummere,  '88,  Dean  of 
the  Drexel  Institute,  served  as 
presiding  officer  and  deHvered  the 
address  of  welcome  on  behalf  of 
the  Institute.  At  the  afternoon 
session  President  Sharpless  gave 
an  address  on  "The  Liberal  Studies 
and  Vocational  Training  in  Amer- 
ican Education."  F.  A.  Dakin 
(A.  M.  '94)  presented  the  Consti- 
tution of  the  new-bom  society. 

Other  Haverfordians,  both  ac- 
tively engaged  and  present  by 
invitation,  were  S.  R.  Yamall,  '92; 
W.  W.  Haviland,  '94;  R.  C. 
Brown,  '97;  R.  M.  Gummere,  '02; 
H.  A.  Domincovich,  '03;  F.  W. 
Ohl,  'OS;  E.  C.  Bye,  '16,  and  Dr. 
W.  W.  Baker,  professor  of  Greek 
at  Haverford. 

The  New  York  Haverford  Akim- 
ni  will  hold  their  annual  ban- 
quet at  the  Manhattan  Club,  Madi- 
son Square,  on  April  the  twenty- 
eighth.  All  members  of  the  New 
York  Association,  as  well  as  any 
others  who  can  be  present,  are 
requested  to  hold  open  this  date 
pending  further  notification  from 
the  Committee.  E.  C.  Rossmaess- 
ler,  440  4thAve.,  N.Y.,  is  chairman. 

In  "The  Nation"  for  March  12th 
appears  a  page  review  of  Alden 
Sampson's  ('73)  Studies  in  Milton 
and  an  Essay  on  Poetry,  pubHshed 
in  New  York  by  Moffat  Yard  and 
Company.     It  is  neither  adequate 


nor  politic  to  attempt  a  rehash  of  a 
review  and  doubtless  Haverfordians 
will  investigate  the  article  for 
themselves,  from  whence  it  will  be 
a  matter  of  a  short  time  until  they 
obtain  a  personal  acquaintance  with 
Mr.  Sampson's  book.  As  the  re- 
viewer remarks:  "  Fulness  of  read- 
ing and  depth  of  loving  meditation 
are  evident  on  almost  every  page.   . 

it  is  a  book  which  we 

have  read  with  much  interest  and 
profit." 

'76 
David  Bispham  is  at  present 
touring  Catiada,  doing  concert  work. 
He  reaches  California  in  April  and 
will  then  work  back  East,  ending 
his  tour  in  June. 

'85 

Dr.  Augustus  T.  Murray  of 
Leland  Stanford  Jr.  University 
is  editing  Homer's  "Odyssey"  for 
the  Loeb  Classical  Library.  This 
library  of  Greek  and  Latin  authors 
contains  the  original  text  with  an 
English  translation  on  the  opposite 
page. 

Dr.  Murray,  who  is  at  present 
having  a  sabbatical  year,  spent  a 
week  at  Haverford  during  March, 
giving  several  informal  talks  to  the 
undergraduates  and  delivering  a 
lecture  in  Roberts  Hall  on  the 
"Spiritual  Message  of  Whittier." 


"The  Kallikak  Family,"  by  Dr. 
Henry  H.  Goddard,  has  gone  into  a 
second  edition.     This  is  published 


Alumni  Department 


77 


by  the  Macmillan  Company,  who 
will  bring  out  in  May  a  larger  book 
by  Dr.  Goddard,  relating  to  the 
heredity  of  feeble-mindedness. 


William  Draper  Lewis,  Dean  of 
the  Pennsylvania  Law  School,  has 
been  selected  by  the  nominating 
committee  of  the  Washington  party 
in  Pennsylvania  as  their  candidate 
in  the  coming  primary  gubernato- 
rial elections. 

'89 

Dr.  William  R.  Dunton,  head  of 
the  Shepherd  and  Pratt  Hospital 
at  Towson,  Md.,  is  chairman  of  the 
Committee  of  Diversional  Occupa- 
tion of  the  American  Medico- Psy- 
chological Association.  Dr.  Dun- 
ton  also  manages  the  drum  in  a 
doctors'  orchestra — the  only  one 
of  its  kind  in  America. 

Ex- '89 
William    H.    Evans   is   spending 
the  winter  in  Pasadena,  California. 

'92 

Christian  Brinton  recently  lec- 
tured at  the  Carnegie  Institute, 
Pittsburgh,  and  Columbia  Univer- 
sity, New  York,  on  the  life  and  art  of 
the  Belgian  sculptor,  Constantin 
Meunier,  for  the  exhibition  of 
whose  works  in  America  he  prepares 
the  official  catalogue.  In  the 
February  Cosmopolitan  also,  Mr. 
Brinton  has  an  interesting  article 
about  the  Swedish  artist,  Anders 


Zorn.  In  it  he  traces  the  career 
and  achievements  of  this  "painter 
of  strength  and  beauty"  and  in 
closing  likens  his  work  to  that  of 
the  great  Spanish  artist  Sorolla. 
Mr.  Brinton' s  text  is  accompanied 
by  copious  illustrations  of  the 
painter's  work  which  verify  more 
clearly  than  any  words  his  epitome 
of  Zom's  canvases  as  "harking 
back  to  days  when  the  world  was 
younger  and  freer  than  it  now  is." 

S.  R.  Yamall  has  been  named  in 
the  will  of  Wm.  H.  Dun  woody  as 
a  trustee  for  the  new  Dunwoody 
Free  Home  for  Convalescents  at 
Newtown  Square,  Pa. 

'93 
A  volume  of  interest  to  a  num- 
ber of  Alumni,  as  well  as  to  a  great 
many  not  connected  with  the 
College  is,  "A  Theory  of  Interest" 
by  Clarence  G.  Hoag,  '93,  which 
has  just  been  released  from  publica- 
tion by  the  Macmillan  Company. 
In  the  preface  Mr.  Hoag  states  that 
the  purpose  of  his  book  "is  not  to 
give  a  history  of  the  problem  of 
interest  or  to  discuss  in  detail  all 
the  supposed  solutions  of  it,  but  to 
try  to  solve  it  correctly."  The 
root  of  the  whole  misunderstanding 
between  Capital  and  Labor,  he 
continues,  is  a  difference  in  ac- 
counting for  the  surplus  called 
interest.  Wage-earners  and  capi- 
talists can  work  together  for  the 
common  good — a  thing  now  im- 
possible— "just    as    soon    as    they 


78 


The  Haverfordian 


agree  on  the  interest  problem." 
This  of  course  will  be  as  soon  as 
both  sides  see  the  truth. 

Mr.  Hoag  concludes  his  preface 
by  defining  his  theory  as  the 
nominal  value  theory,  for  the  key- 
stone of  it  is  his  conception  of  nomi- 
nal value. 

The  list  of  obligations  includes 
the  names  of  Professors  Barrett  and 
Wilson,  of  the  Haverford  faculty. 

'96 

Homer  J.  Webster  has  been 
elected  an  Honorary  Fellow  in 
History  at  the  University  of  Wis- 
consin for  the  second  semester  of 
the  college  year.  Mr.  Webster  is 
writing  a  thesis  on  the  "Democrat- 
ic Party  Organization  in  the 
Northwest,  1828-1840."  In  col- 
lecting material  for  this  he  has 
traveled  over  much  of  the  "Old 
Northwest" — Ohio,  Indiana,  Illi- 
nois and  southern  Michigan. 

L 

J.  Henry  Scattergood,  who  is 
very  much  interested  in  a  negro 
industrial  school  at  Christiansburg, 
Virginia,  has  been  making  an  inspec- 
tion trip  of  similar  institutions  in 
the  South. 

'97 

At  the  January  meeting  of  the 
Philadelphia  Booksellers'  Associa- 
tion, held  at  the  Franklin  Inn 
Club,  Richard  C.  Brown  read  a 
paper  in  which  he  discussed  va- 
rious plans  for  improving  the 
book  trade,  as  seen  from  the  book- 
seller's standpoint.    This  paper  has 


been    printed   in     the    Bookseller, 
Newsdealer  aiid  Stationer. 

On  March  1st  George  M.  Palmer 
accepted  the  position  of  General 
Sales  Manager  of  the  White  Adding 
Machine  Company  with  head- 
quarters at  New  Haven,  Connecti- 
cut. Mr.  Palmer  was  formerly  Dis- 
trict Manager  in  Newark,  N.  J.,  for 
the  Wales  Adding  Machine  Com- 
pany. 

'98 

Robert  N.  Wilson  is  teaching  in 
the  Department  of  Chemistry  at 
Trinit}^  College,  Durham,  North 
Carolina. 

'01 

Walter  Mellor,  of  the  architectu- 
ral firm  of  Mellor  and  Meigs,  has 
been  commissioned  to  be  the 
architect  of  the  new  bird  house  at 
the  Philadelphia  Zoological  Gar- 
dens. The  Princeton  Charter  Club — 
the  largest  upper  class  club  house 
at  Princeton  University — has  just 
been  completed  from  plans  of  Mr. 
Mellor' s. 

William  S.  Baltz  is  studying  at 
the  Princeton  Theological  Semi- 
nar J^ 

G.  J.  Walenta  has  been  elected 
President  of  the  Interscholastic 
Cricket  League. 

'02 
C.    Linn    Seller,    who    has    long 
enjoyed  a  considerable  reputation 
as  an  amateur  composer,  has  taken 


Alumni  Department 


79 


up  music  as  a  profession.  The 
marked  success  of  his  operetta, 
"The  O.  C.  Punch,"  written  for 
the  Orpheus  Club  this  spring,  has 
been  largely  instrumental  in  bring- 
ing Seiler  to  this  important  step. 
He  moved  to  New  York  early  in 
February  and  now  has  a  studio  at 
12  Gramercy  Park.  G.  Schirmer 
is  publishing  four  of  Seiler' s  songs, 
The  Spirit  of  Summer,  Till  I 
Wake,  Nocturne,  and  Spring- 
lime,  while  a  ntmiber  of  others 
are  imder  consideration.  A  con- 
cert is  to  be  given  at  the  Art  Club 
of  Philadelphia,  April  14th,  with 
a  program  consisting  entirely  of 
Seiler' s  compositions  and  including 
his  choral  work,  "The  Palace  of 
the  King." 

At  present  Seiler  is  working  on 
a  new  operetta,  which  is  to  be 
finished  before  the  end  of  April. 
The  words  of  his  songs  are  taken 
largely  from  the  poems  of  C. 
Wharton  Stork,    '02. 

'03 

Modern     Language    Notes     foi 

March  contains  an  interesting  letter 

from  H.  A.  Domincovich  referring  to 

the  interpretation  of  the  lines  in 

Macbeth,   V,   ii,   3-5;  which  read: 

"their  dear  causes 

Would    to    the    bleeding    and 

the  grim  alarm 

Excite  the  mortified  man." 

Mr.   Domincovich  first  refers  to 

the    discussion    which    has    raged 

around  the  phrase  "  tlie   mortified 

man"    without    satisfactory   inter- 


pretation, and  then  proceeds  to 
attack  the  situation  from  a  different 
angle.  The  Clarendon  Editors 
point  the  way  by  their  method  of 
rendering  mortified;  to  them  the 
word  appears  in  its  primary  mean- 
ing of  "dead."  Reasoning  in  this 
same  fashion  Mr.  Domincovich 
includes  the  "  seemingly  innocuous" 
excite  which  has  hitherto  escaped 
the  commentator's  grasp.  Orig- 
inally excite,  the  Latin  excito, 
showed  the  meaning  of  "call  up 
from  the  dead";  vide  Cicero:  "Sulla 
ab  inferis  excitandus."  Other  more 
modern  passages  show  that  this 
sense  was  known  in  the  English 
form  of  the  word  as  well. 

Mr.  Domincovich  would  then 
paraphrase  the  clause  so  as  to 
read: 

"The  justice  of  their  cause 
should  rouse  even  the  dead  to  an 
interest  in  the  bloodshed  and  din 
of  the  battle." 

Joseph  K.  Worthington  is  prac- 
tising medicine  at  Roslyn,  Long 
Island.  A  third  daughter  was  born 
to  Dr.  Worthington  last  October. 

L  S.  Tilney  is  acting  as  secretary 
of  the  United  States  Drainage  and 
Irrigation  Company.  He  has  offic- 
es in  the  Whitehall  Building,  17 
Battery  Place,  New  York.  Mr. 
Tilnej^  has  recently  had  a  son 
born. 

James  B.  Drinker  is  now  in  the 
employ  of  the  Seaboard  Steel 
Casting  Company,  of  Chester,  Pa. 


80 


The  Haverfordian 


This  work  is  in  addition  to  Mr. 
Drinker's  regular  work  with  the 
Mercer  Rubber  Company,  of  Phila- 
delphia. 

Franklin  E.  Barr  has  recently 
been  appointed  as  Assistant  District 
Attorney  of  Philadelphia. 

'04 
A  1904  class  letter,  now  in  course 
of  preparation,  will  be  published 
some  time  in  April  or  May.  We 
hope  to  be  able  to  print  a  summary 
of  the  contents  in  an  early  issue. 

P.  D.  Folwell  is  on  a  fishing  trip 
along  the  west  coast  of  Florida. 

W.  S.  Bradley  and  family  are 
visiting  southern  California. 

'05 
Chester  J.  Teller,  who  has  been 
actively  identified  with  the  work 
of  the  New  York  Bureau  of  Educa- 
tion, is  this  summer  starting  a 
series  of  boys'  camps, — the  Arcadia 
camps — with  the  ultimate  purpose 
of  organizing  them  into  a  school 
system  to  be  located  in  the  neigh- 
borhood of  New  York. 

E.  C.  Murray  has  settled  down 
as  a  farmer  at  Chappauqua,  New 
York. 

'06 

Francis  B.  Morris  is  now  on  a 
trip  to  the  Panama  Canal.  Colum- 
bia and  the  West  Indies  are  also 
included  in  his  itinerary. 

Richard  L.  Gary  has  been  ap- 
pointed   head    of    the    bureau    of 


Reserved 
for 

F.  M.  ACTON 

29  S.  7th  Street 

Philadelphia 


Zimmerman's; 

An  improved  English  model,  receding  toe,  broad 
shank,   low   heel  effect,   in   Russia  or  Wax  Calf 

$4  to  $7 


The  authentic  fashion  in  "classy"  shoes.  Ac- 
knowledged unequalled  in  fit  and  style  by  men 
who  know. 


1  to  5 

Mint  Arcade 


Shops 


916 

Chestnut  St. 


1232   Market   Street 


Almuni  Department 


81 


state    and    municipal    research    in 
Baltimore,  Md. 

'07 
George  Hallock  Wood  is  mana- 
ger of  the  Commercial  Vehicle 
Department  of  the  Waverly  Com- 
pany at  Indianapolis,  Indiana. 
His  marriage  with  Miss  Hazel 
Bessie  Oler  was  celebrated  the 
fourth  of  last  October. 

'OS 
The  class  held  its  annual  dinner 
at  Haverford  on  Friday  the  sixth  of 
March.  Thirteen  members  were 
present :  Messrs.  Brown,  Burtt, 
Edwards,  Elkinton,  Emlen,  Guen- 
ther.  Hill,  Linton,  Longstreth, 
Morriss,  Sargent,  Strode  and  Thom- 
as. The  most  important  busi- 
ness passed  was  the  resolution  to 
join  with  classes  1903-1909  in  a 
reunion  on  the  night  before  the 
Swarthmore  game  next  fall. 

'09 
Clarence  C.   Killen  has  just  ac- 
cepted a  position  with  the  Wilming- 
ton Chamber  of  Commerce. 

The  engagement  of  Miss  Mary 
Wetherhill  to  Richard  H.  Mott  has 
been  announced. 

'10 
Harrison  S.  Hires  wrote  one  of 
the  four  poems  awarded  prizes  at 
the  annual  m.embers'  contest  of  the 
Philadelphia  Arts  and  Letters  So- 
ciety. Mrs.  H.  S.  Hires  was  also 
the  author  of  a  prize-winning  poem. 

Ex-'IO 
H.  Earlham  Bryant  has  re- 
turned from  the  West  and  is  now 
enrolled  in  the  Civil  Engineering 
Department  at  Penn.  His  address 
is  Windermere  Ave.,  Lansdowne,  Pa. 


"Careful  Handling  and  Quality  " 

Send  us  Your  Suitings  to  be 

Dry-Cleaned,   Scoured 
ana    Pressed 

At    Reasonable  Rates 


Our  College  .Agent 

Mr.  I.  Thomas  Steere 

For    the   gentlemen    who    appreciate 

the  refinement  of  good  grooming. 

Our    Barber   Shop  was   inaugurated 

50  years  ago.      No  Tipping. 


13th  above  Chestnut, 


Phil 


Ardmore  Shoe  Store 

C.   F.   HARTLEY 

Lancaster  and  Cricket  Avenues 

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Send  for  a  Catalogue.         TROY,  N«Y» 


82 


The  Haverfordian 


W.  C.  Greene  has  a  splendid 
article  en  "The  Sea  in  the  Greek 
Poets"  in  the  North  American 
Rezicw  fcr  March.  This  essay 
was  awarded  the  Charles  Oldham 
Prize  at  Oxfcrd  in  1913. 

'11 

1911  is  preparing  to  get  cut  a 
class  letter.  On  account  of  the 
absence  of  the  President,  L.  Arnold 
Post, who  is  now  a  Rhodes  Scholar 
at  Oxford,  communications  on  this 
score  should  be  addressed  to  the 
secretary',  E.  H.  Spencer,  55  Con- 
gress St.,  Boston;  Mass. 

Lucius  R.  Shero,  the  fourth 
graduate  of  Haverford  and  the 
second  member  of  1911  to  obtain  a 
Rhodes  scholarship,  will  take  up 
his  residence  in  Oxford  with  senior 
standing  next  October.  Shero  has 
been  admitted  to  New  College, 
where  Post, '11,  is  now,  and  where 
Morley, '10,  received  his  degreelast 
July,  Williams,  '10,  the  fourth 
Haverfordian,  studied  at  Merton 
College. 

'12 

"Albert "  Baily  will  be  married  to 
Miss  Helen  Smedley  of  Bala,  Pa., 
on  April  14th.  "Joshua"  Baily,  who 
is  at  present  at  La  Jolla,  California, 
will  come  East  for  his  brother's 
wedding. 

'13 

P.  H.  Brown  is  now  settled  at 
Earlham  College,  Richmond,  Ind. 
He  is  an  assistant  in  the  Chemistry 
Department  and  also  has  charge  of 
the  woodworking  in  Manual  Train- 
ing. "Mr.  Brown"  chief  work,  how- 
ever, is  in  the  line  of  athletics.  He 
supervises  the  gymnasium  classes 
and  is  also  coaching  the  basketball 
and  track  teams.  Under  his  tui- 
tion Earlham  expects  to  turn  out  a 
winning  track  team  this  spring. 


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THE    HAVERFORDIAN 


ASSOCIATE  EDITORS 
F.  M.  Morley,  1915  K.  P.  A.  Taylor,  1915 

E.  M.  Pharo,  1915  D.  B.  Van  Hollen,  1915 

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The  Haverfordian  is  published,  on  the  first  of  each  month  during  College  year.  Its  purpose 
is  to  foster  the  literary  spirit  among  the  undergraduates  and  to  provide  an  organ  for  the  discussion  of 
questions  relative  to  college  life  and  policy.  To  these  ends  contributions  are  invited,  and  will  be  con- 
sidered solely  on  their  merits.  Matter  intended  for  insertion  should  reach  the  Editor  not  later  than  the 
fifteenth  of  the  month  preceding  the  date  of  issue. 

Entered  at  the  Haverford  Post-Ofl^ce,  for  transmission  through  the  mails  as  second-class  matter. 

VOL.  XXXVI.  HAVERFORD,  PA.,  MAY,  1914  No.  3 


Cbitorial  Comment 

"What  is  SO  sweet  and  dear 

As  a  prosperous  mom  in  May, 

The  confident  prime  of  the  day, 
And  the  dauntless  youth  of  the  year. 
When  nothing  that  asks  for  bliss, 

Asking  aright,  is  denied. 
And  half  of  the  world  a  bridegroom  is. 

And  half  of  the  world  a  bride?" 

— William  Watson. 

NO,  we  are  not  going  to  oppress  you  with  the  usual  Spring  ravings. 
The  robins  will  chirp,  the  grass  will  shoot,  and  you  will  loaf  and 
be  merry  whether  we  describe  to  you  the  ecstasies  of  Spring  or 
not. 

To  Haverfordians  the  incarnation  of  festive  Spring  is  Junior  Night, 
and  this  occasion  is  made  possible  by  the  Cap  and  Bells.  This  organiza- 
tion, started  only  five  years  ago,  has  been  a  most  wonderful  success. 

Formerly  the  Junior  Night  entertainment,  the  Glee  Club  and  the 
Mandolin  Club  were  like  mushrooms  that  started  up  each  year  only  to  die 


84  The  Haverfordian 

away.  Now,  systematized  under  the  Cap  and  Bells,  these  clubs  roll  along 
year  after  year  accumulating  experience,  music,  scenery,  money  and 
support. 

The  Cap  and  Bells  handles  more  money  than  any  other  organization 
at  Haverford,  has  a  patroness'  list  of  over  a  thousand  names,  and  perhaps 
binds  the  Alumni  to  the  undergraduates  more  intimately  than  any  other 
organization. 

The  Cap  and  Bells  has  produced  two  musical  comedies,  while 
"  Engaged"  is  their  fourth  classical  piece.  Under  their  auspices  Roberts 
Hall  has  a  real  stage,  while  a  velour  curtain  will  henceforth  enrich  morn- 
ing collection. 

We  hope  that  the  undergraduates  will  more  and  more  come  to 
regard  the  Cap  and  Bells  as  their  club  rather  than  an  institution  separate 
from  the  college  bodj^  We  bear  in  mind  a  certain  dress  rehearsal 
attended  by  some  thirty  undergraduates  whose  support  of  the  Cap  and 
Bells  was  to  ridicule  the  actors.  The  Cap  and  Bells  success  is  our  success, 
her  failures  will  be  due  to  our  lack  of  support. 

When  we  think  of  conservative  old  Haverford  twenty  years  ago  and 
the  Haverford  of  today  graced  with  the  Cap  and  Bells,  a  thought  that 
has  been  in  our  mind  again  arises. 

It  is  that  the  college  authorities;  the  Board  of  Managers,  the  Facul- 
ty and  the  Alumni  have  always  been  on  our  side.  No  such  thing  as  the 
undergraduates  versus  the  authorities  exists.  It  were  foohsh  to  mention 
this  were  it  not  for  the  fallacy  we  sometimes  fall  into,  when  we  regard  the 
instructor,  who  has  given  us  a  "  D,  "  as  against  us  rather  than  for  us. 

Therefore  let  one  of  the  evidences  of  our  spring  spirit  be  an  apprecia- 
tion of  the  fact  that  as  far  as  the  authorities  go, 

" nothing  that  asks  for  bliss, 

Asking  aright,  is  denied." 


<Kf^ 


3ros!iat)*£{  f  ubilec 

KemptonP.  A.  Taylor,  '15. 

AND  this  bounteous  prosperity  we  may  attribute  to  the  management 
of  the  Society  of  Friends,  which,  in  a  century  and  a  half,  has 
brought  upon  us  the  unanimous  verdict  of  these  United  States, 
— namely,  that  the  greatest  educational  institution  of  the  country  is 
Haverford  College." 

Thus  ended  the  golden  words  of  Governor  Francis  Polk  of  Massachu- 
setts, '35,  as  reprinted  in  the  February  issue  of  Old  Haverford  from  the 
oration  delivered  at  the  celebration  of  the  Hundred  and  Fiftieth  Anni- 
versary of  Haverford  College  in  the  year  1983. 

The  Rev.  Josiah  Quimby,  Pastor  of  the  Seventeenth  Presbyterian 
Church  of  JoHet,  Wis.,  let  the  gray-covered  number  of  Old  Haverford  slip 
to  the  floor  unnoticed.  From  the  battered  Moody  and  San  key  and  Con- 
cordance on  his  desk  his  dim  eyes  wandered  to  the  time-honored  maxim 
calendar  done  in  red  and  blue  ink,  and  distributed  annually  by  the  persua- 
sion in  Philadelphia,  which  hung  from  an  unpretentious  pin  on  the  bare 
wall  of  his  study. 

The  Rev.  Josiah  Quimby  sighed  as  he  read  the  legend  printed  between 
a  waxing  and  a  waning  moon:  "Do  it  now!"  A  smile  played  over  his 
worn  features  as  he  recalled  the  old,  old  story, — "the  office  boy  blew  the 
safe  and  went  West,  and  the  head  clerk  eloped  with  the  stenographer." 
This  indiscretion  on  the  part  of  the  head  clerk  seemed  to  bring  with  it  a 
train  of  sombre  reflection,  for  the  Rev.  Josiah  bowed  his  silvery  head  in 
his  hands  and  remained  for  some  minutes  in  deep  thought. 

In  imagination  the  year  was  1924  and  the  month  April.  The  moon 
that  shone  on  the  rustic  arbor  of  the  Smith  Memorial  Garden  was  no  less 
fair  than  that  moon  which  was  destined  some  six  hours  later  to  cast  a 
bright  beam  on  the  lions  of  St.  Mark's,  nor  to  the  shadowy  form  of  the 
two  lovers  the  scent  of  the  red  rose  less  sweet  than  the  spiced  aroma  of  the 
cherry  blossom  to  little  Yoshio  as  he  wooed  Hanako  in  far  Nippon.  It 
was  Junior  Night,  and  the  gaily-clad  crowd  that  had  just  witnessed  a 
snappy  revival  of  that  old  favorite  "Bought  and  Paid  For"  was  firmly 
imbedded  in  ice-cream  and  cake  (a  custom  that  still  retained  its  popular- 
ity) .  The  campus  was  decorated  with  a  species  of  beanpole  which  were 
annually  exhumed  from  the  cellar  in  the  sidewalk  in  front  of  Founders' 
Hall,  and  which  someone  whispered  had  seen  duty  since  '03.  Josiah, 
however,  who  had  pilgrimaged  all  the  way  to  S2nd  St.  in  West  Philadel- 
phia in  the  uncomfortable  blunt-toed  shoes  and  ruffed  shirts  then  so 


86  The  Haverfordian 

much  in  vogue,  to  snatch  the  fair  Elizabeth  Wales  from  the  bosom  of  her 
Quaker  family,  had  eschewed  the  haunts  of  men  and  led  the  blushing 
creature  to  the  mysterious  Garden.  There,  on  the  white  bench  beneath  the 
fir  tree,  he  told  her  of  his  love. 

Up  to  this  point  the  Rev.  Josiah  Quimby  found  his  meditation  quite 
entertaining.  He  smiled  comprehendingly  and  beat  a  youthful  rat-tat  on 
the  Moody  and  Sankey  at  the  recollection  of  what  a  brave  figure  he  must 
have  cut  in  the  moonlight.  Suddenly,  however,  his  features  contracted 
with  pain  as  he  thought  of  the  elopement  so  carefully  planned  and  so  in- 
gloriously  thwarted  by  the  inability  of  a  step-ladder  to  bridge  the  gap 
between  52nd  Street  and  Elizabeth's  bedroom  window. 

For  a  bachelor,  and  a  divine  at  that,  the  chain  of  thought  from  the 
"Doitnow!"  to  the  frustrated  elopement  and  back  again  to  the  motto  had 
been  concluded  with  remarkable  speed.  A  glance  at  the  calendar  con- 
firmed his  suspicion  that  the  month  was  April.  The  Rev.  Josiah  bowed 
his  head,  and  one  might  have  been  led  to  suppose  that  he  was  seeking 
Divine  blessing  upon  the  undertaking  outlined  in  his  mind  had  not  an 
emphatic  and  reiterated  "Do  it  now!"  escaped  his  lips. 

Then  he  rose,  packed  his  grip,  and  caught  the  nine  o'clock  Transcon- 
tinental Air  Line  Express — first  stop  Philadelphia. 

:{:  ^  :f:  H^  ^  :'  i^ 

As  Foimders'  Bell  tolled  noon,  Merriman,  Usher  No.  4,  moved  up  to 
the  place  at  the  head  of  the  bench  just  vacated  by  Tustell,  Usher  No.  3, 
composed  his  Senior  gown  about  his  trim  young  figure,  and  set  to  work 
with  renewed  energy  at  his  "History  of  Twentieth  Century  Eugenics." 
In  so  doing,  Merriman  showed  imquestioned  zeal,  for  seldom  had  April 
crowned  Haverford's  campus  ■ndth  a  more  glorious  day.  But  he  must 
be  pardoned  when  we  take  into  account  the  number  of  inquisitive  visitors 
the  young  Senior  had  piloted  about  the  place  during  the  forenoon.  The 
double  lure  of  Spring  and  Junior  Day  had  brought  such  a  throng  of 
strangers  eager  to  investigate  the  highly-renowned  College  that  Merriman 
was  glad  to  snatch  a  few  moments'  rest  in  the  shade  of  that  same  tree 
where,  seventy  odd  years  before,  the  Sons  of  Israel  were  wont  to  stand 
guard  over  their  precious  store. 

Rest,  however,  was  not  for  the  weary,  for  at  the  Founders'  Hall 
Hangar  there  appeared  a  small  'plane  of  the  station  bus  type  (mosquito- 
hawk,  Merriman  called  it),  from  which  descended  an  elderly  man  in  pos- 
session of  a  grip.  Seeing  that  the  man  was  in  some  bewilderment,  Merri- 
man closed  the  "  History  "  with  a  bang  and  advanced  to  greet  the  stranger, 
who,  as  you  may  have  surmised,  was  none  other  than  the  Rev.  Josiah 
Quimby,  of  Joliet,  Wis. 


Josiah's  Jubilee  87 

"Good  morning,  sir.  Can  I  be  of  assistance?"  he  asked  in  his  most 
affable  tone. 

The  stranger,  ignoring  the  young  man's  offer,  adjusted  his  spectacles 
on  the  tip  of  his  nose  and  surveyed  his  surroundings  with  evident  emo- 
tion. 

"Changed!  How  changed  it  all  is!"  he  said  at  length,  groping  for 
Merriman's  gown  and  clinging  to  it  desperately. 

"Ah!  Then  you  are  a  Haverford  man!"  cried  Merriman,  pumping 
his  hand  vigorously,  "what  class?" 

"Twenty- four,"  replied  the  Rev.  Josiah  with  a  little  prayer-quaver. 

For  a  moment  Merriman's  sky  blackened.  Twenty-four!  Heavens, 
here  was  an  antediluvian  curiosity!  Regarding  him  with  the  awe  due 
to  a  relic  of  bygone  days,  he  asked  in  what  particular  the  Rev.  Josiah 
noticed  the  greatest  change. 

"Ah,  my  young  friend,  so  many  buildings!  We  thought  we  were 
complete  when  the  L  of  Lloyd  Hall  was  finished.  That  was  during  my 
Freshman  year.  But  now — why,  it  looks  almost  as  old  as  Barclay!  I 
suppose  Barclay  is  still — er — inhabited?" 

"  Oh  yes,  that  is,  by  the  help,  you  understand.  It's  a  substantial  old 
rock,  you  know,  and  when  renovated  made  quite  decent  quarters,"  this 
last  with  a  slightly  patronizing  tone. 

The  Rev.  Josiah  stiffened  a  little.  He  remembered  with  some  senti- 
ment the  pleasant  hours  he  had  whiled  away  with  tennis  ball  and  cricket 
bat  within  those  dark  confines  while  he  was  yet  a  foolish  little  Freshman. 
Somehow  it  seemed  a  shame  to  turn  over  that  splendid  recreation-hall  to 
unhallowed  feet. 

"You  see,"  continued  Merriman,  passing  his  arm  through  that  of  the 
older  man  and  leading  him  slowly  along  Route  A  (for  visiting  alumni), 
"it  was  soon  found  that  the  ideal  unit  for  grouping  students  was  eight. 
All  the  new  dormitories  are  built  on  this  plan.  Each  section  has  accom- 
modations for  eight  men,  and  a  professor,  with  his  wife  if  he  is  fortunate, 
presides  over  the  section.  It's  quite  a  humanizing  influence,  to  have  a 
Christian  man  and  his  wife  in  such  close  touch.  I  fancy,"  with  modesty, 
"  we  fellows  are  a  good  deal  more  careful  what  we  run  around  our  rooms  in 
than  the  old-timers,  and  we  shave  quite  regularly.  Then,  too,  with  the 
new  dormitories  there  is  very  little  choice  as  regards  location,  so  the 
fellows  try  for  the  section  kept  by  their  favorite  prof.  Of  course  there 
are  a  great  many  more  profs,  than  formerly, — fifty,  in  fact,  for  three  hun- 
dred men.  This  enables  greater  specialization  in  courses,  lightens  the 
burden  on  the  professors,  and  gives  them  a  little  spare  time  which  they 
can  spend  with  their  individual  wards." 


88  The  Haverfordian 

"But  the  expense,"  protested  the  Rev.  Josiah,  whose  financial  in- 
stinct had  not  been  dulled  by  a  life-time  of  meditative  celibacy,  "must  be 
tremendous." 

"As  for  that,"  said  Merriman,  "we  owe  our  success  to  our  liberal 
endowment.  With  the  support  of  a  generous  and  able  Society,  Haver- 
ford  has  been  able  to  experiment  during  the  last  twenty  years.  We  think 
we  have  hit  upon  the  ideal  scheme,  and  you  have  only  to  pick  up  a  daily 
paper  to  read  of  the  kind  of  men  we  are  turning  out.  We  teach  general 
culture  still,  but  we  specialize  in  it.  We  have,  in  the  first  place,  quite  a 
select  body  of  undergraduates — seventy-five  chosen  yearly  with  reference 
to  mental,  physical  and  social  fitness  from  several  hundred  applicants. 
This  is  not  revolutionary.  A  hundred  years  ago  competition  was  keen 
for  admission  to  Annapolis  and  West  Point.  These  men  come  to  college 
with  the  serious  intention  of  getting  what  they  need  to  build  successful 
careers.  Our  Freshmen,"  he  smiled  apologetically,  "are  quite  different 
from  what  they  once  were.  But  it  is  lunch-time,  and  here  is  a  hall  which 
you  must  surely  remember." 

"Why,  bless  me!"  said  the  Rev.  Josiah,  "it  is  Founders',  and  as 
yellow  as  ever!  May  I  enter  by  the  Upper-Class  door — but  I  suppose  that 
sort  of  nonsense  has  gone  long  ago?" 

"On  the  contrary,"  corrected  Merriman,  "we  are  openly  sentimental 
when  it  comes  to  Founders'.  Of  course  it  had  to  be  enlarged  to  accommo- 
date our  increase,  but  you'll  find  it  the  same  old  hall." 

To  this  last  assertion  the  Rev.  Josiah  could  not  agree,  for,  although 
the  same  grim  founders  stared  down  from  the  walls,  and  although  he  had 
tea  in  a  cup  closely  resembling  the  one  whose  rim  he  had  nicked  seven 
times  to  celebrate  the  great  victory  over  Swarthmore  in  1922,  the  food 
was  served  by  mechanical  appliances,  and  from  behind  a  bank  of  palms 
in  a  balcony  an  orchestra  discoursed  sweet  music.  Pre-digested  brain- 
foods,  served  in  measured  quantities,  he  found  tame  in  comparison  with 
the  porkchops-fried  bread-baked  beans-mince  pie-lunches  he  had 
pitted  himself  against  in  his  palmy  days.  So  it  was  with  a  sense  of  relief 
that  he  escaped  the  politely  inquisitive  eyes  of  the  fietcherizing  under- 
graduates and  found  himself  at  Merriman' s  elbow  on  the  stone  steps. 

A  breeze  from  the  south  blew  on  the  Rev.  Josiah' s  wrinkled  face,  and 
lifted  the  gray  locks  clustering  at  the  back  of  his  head.  Breathing 
deeply,  he  was  unable  to  detect  any  of  the  wide-world  aroma  which  he, 
from  his  room  in  old  Lloyd,  had  been  wont  to  associate  with  Tuesday's 
lunch.  Across  the  campus  was  Roberts,  vine-covered  and  hoary,  and 
farther  along,  the  Union,  weather-stained  and  ravaged  by  time.  Here 
and  there  in  unexpected  comers  strange  buildings  raised  their  gray-stone 


Josiah's  Jubilee  89 

heights.  Where  once  had  stood  the  tranquil  waters  of  the  College  Pond 
a  magnificent  structure  spoken  of  by  Merrimanasthe  "  Hall  of  Language." 
sprawled  luxuriously  in  the  spring  sunshine.  Changed  it  might  be,  none 
the  less  the  Rev.  Josiah  felt  a  thrill  of  pride  for  this,  his  Alma  Mater. 

"We  were  talking,"  Merriman's  business-like  voice  interrupted  his 
thought,  "of  the  Freshman's  education.  The  first  month  of  the  college 
year  is  given  over  almost  entirely  to  a  series  of  lectures  on  vocation- 
choosing,  delivered  by  men  who  have  been  conspicuously  successful  in  the 
line  they  represent.  Ninety  per  cent  of  the  Freshmen  decide  at  this  time 
what  their  Hfe-work  is  to  be.  Then  come  courses  in  philosophy  which 
strengthen  their  newly-made  resolves  and  make  of  the  Freshman  what 
the  average  Senior  of  fifty  years  ago  might  have  been.  After  this  pre- 
liminary training  they  are  willing  to  specialize  to  a  degree  repellent  to 
the  ordinary  student.  With  the  intimate  help  of  professors  the  safety 
of  this  measure  is  assured." 

"But  who,"  saidthe  Rev.  Josiah  with  horror,  "ever  heard  of  teaching 
Freshmen  philosophy?" 

"Oh  come,  sir,  you  hardly  do  them  justice.  Freshmen  are  more  in- 
telligent creatures  now  than  they  were  sixty  years  ago.  Healthy  and 
boyish,  to  be  sure,  but  with  little  instinct  to  patronize  the  theatres  in 
Ardmore.  The  management  of  the  Olympic  cancelled  all  his  bookings 
for  the  past  winter  and  attempted  to  revive  moving-pictures.  Even 
then  he  couldn't  lure  our  undergraduates.  The  social  life  of  the  college, 
although  it  does  not  touch  the  high-water  mark  set  by  the  influx  of 
moneyed-sons  in  the  late  sixties,  is  still  well  enough  established  to  satisfy 
the  average  student.  One  custom  in  particular  has  retained  all  of  its 
former  popularity, — that  of  having  a  dance  one  night  every  week.  This, 
as  you  may  know,  was  started  on  invitation  from  Bryn  Mawr  in  the 
forties,  when  their  Board  of  Directors  made  bold  to  live  down  a  years-old 
popular  prejudice.  They  were  stiff  affairs  and  unsuccessful  in  any  direc- 
tion save  that  of  putting  the  two  institutions  on  a  more  friendly  footing, — 
and  initiating  the  weekly  dance  at  Haverford.  Swarthinore  has  had 
them  for  almost  a  hundred  years." 

"Scandalous!"  was  all  the  Rev.  Josiah  could  say. 

"Not  at  all,"  returned  Merriman,  "they  bring  the  world  to  the 
student  instead  of  making  the  student  go  out  to  meet  the  world.  But 
don't  think  we  are  coddled.  We  have  no  organized  athletics.  When 
Haverford  first  began  to  seek  prominence  she  did  so  through  her  baseball 
and  basketball  teams,  but  we  make  it  our  boast  that  of  all  American 
colleges  Haverford  was  the  first  to  actually  make  athletics  secondary. 
We  did  it  by  giving  up  intercollegiate  relations  and  playing  our  games 


90  The  Haverfordian 

among  ourselves  for  the  joy  and  good  there  was  in  them.  The  physically- 
unfit  and  unadventuresome  are  required  to  play  games  regularly,  whUe 
those  who  have  made  athletics  their  end  in  life  are  urged  to  turn  their 
talents  to  ends  more  directly  worth  while." 

"Ah,"  said  the  Rev.  Josiah,  who  was  thinking  of  the  year  he  was 
captain  of  his  class  Wogglebug  cricket  team,  "how  sad!" 

During  this  conversation  the  old  man  and  the  young  boy  had  made 
the  rounds  of  the  campus  and  now  brought  up  before  the  gymnasium. 
They  had  seen  the  two  hundred  thousand  volume  library,  the  hundred  and 
fifty  foot  swimming-pool,  and  the  radium  laboratory.  The  old  man  had 
also  been  delighted  to  watch  tennis  and  a  game  that  was  undeniably 
cricket. 

"The  gym,"  recited  Merriman,  ushering  the  Rev.  Josiah  into  the 
place  hallowed  by  associations  with  the  Freshman  Cakewalk  and  com- 
pulsory gymnastics,  "is  used  only  in  stormy  weather  by  those  desirous 
of  cramming  a  maximum  of  exercise  into  a  minimum  of  time.  This  in- 
strument determines  the  ratio  of  the  fatigue-poisons  in  the  blood  and 
indicates  just  how  much  and  what  kind  of  exercise  should  be  taken, 
whereas  all  those  machines," — indicating  a  score  of  wicked-looking 
mechanical  appliances, — "exercise  the  body  as  required  without  any 
effort  on  the  part  of  the  patient.     Very  convenient   in   the  winter." 

"Then,"  said  the  Rev.  Josiah,  with  a  sigh,  as  they  turned  to  go,  "the 
day  of  Swedish  gymnastics  is  past." 

Twilight  was  falling  fast  on  the  Haverford  campus.  The  Rev. 
Josiah  noted  with  secret  satisfaction  that  the  evening  mist  still  crept  up 
over  the  brown  field  back  of  the  Observatory.  In  the  dark  shadow  under 
Lloyd  two  crouched  figures  were  engaged  in  dingle-ball,  while  from  be- 
hind Barclay  came  the  crack  of  a  bat  that  was  "knocking  high  ones." 

In  company  with  the  faithful  Merriman  the  Rev.  Josiah  enjoyed 
dinner  and  the  Cap  and  Bells  production  of  "The  Fourth  Dimension." 
When  the  great  crowd  had  surged  out  of  the  enlarged  auditorium  of 
Roberts,  the  Rev.  Josiah  owned  to  an  overwhelming  desire  to  sit  in 
the  seat  he  had  graced  during  his  Senior  year.  This  satisfied,  the  pair 
found  themselves  once  more  on  the  gaily  decorated  campus.  From  the 
direction  of  Founders'  came  a  great  clatter  as  of  forks  and  spoons. 

"Do  they — I  suppose  it's  ridiculous — still  have  ice-cream  and  cake?" 
inqiured  the  Rev.  Josiah  tentatively. 

"They  do,"  said  Merriman  simply. 

"  Do  they  still  spend  large  sums  of  money  for  decorations?" 

"No.  They  limit  themselves,  and  the  Cap  and  Bells  Club  has  made 
enough  money  to  endow  an  annual  scholarship." 


Josiah's  Jubilee  91 

"  I  don't  suppose  the  Juniors  ever  gave  a  dance?" 

"Oh,  yes,  they  got  permission  once,  but  gave  it  up  in  favor  of  the 
Seniors,  who  give  a  Commencement  Ball  in  June.  But  then,  that's 
hardly  revolutionary." 

For  several  minutes  the  two  walked  on  in  silence.  The  old  man  had 
had  a  long  day  full  of  surprises,  and  he  was  beginning  to  tire. 

Midway  between  Barclay  and  the  gymnasium  there  was  a  great 
crowd  gathered  under  a  blaze  of  lights,  and  a  swarm  of  white-flannelled 
youths  were  seen  in  the  measures  of  a  wild  and  inconsequential  dance. 

"My  boy,"  said  the  Rev.  Josiah,  stopping  to  lean  on  his  cane,  "what 
is  that  bacchanalian  orgy?" 

"The  Junior  Maypole  Dance, — a  trifle  ahead  of  time,  to  be  sure," 
said  Merriman.  "It'sbeena  tradition  for  some  years.  The  pole  is  said  to 
be  one  of  the  original  ones  used  on  Junior  Day  for  Japanese  lanterns. 
They've  embalmed  it  and  expect  it  to  last  forever." 

"  Changed!  Changed!"  muttered  the  old  man  as  he  stared  wistfully 
at  the  gay  scene.  "Tell  me,  do  they  still  serve  ice-cream  Thursday 
nights?" 

"They  do." 

"Ah, — and  do  you  still  go  to  Collection  every  morning?" 

"Yes." 

"And  doze  for  ten  minutes?" 

"Yes." 

"Do  you  have  examinations,  and  are  your  grades  averaged  up  and 
made  public  concern?" 

"We  are  examined  thoroughly  in  our  courses  for  the  sake  of  review, 
but  there  is  no  grading  of  students.  We  have  no  intellectual  or  athletic 
castes,  few  cliques,  and  no  politics." 

"  Do  yod  still  sing '  Comrades'  ?" 

"Given  up  in  '38,  but  singing  in  the  showers  is  more  popular  than 
ever." 

"Does  the  college  still  support  two  papers?" 

"Three:  news,  alumni,  and  literary,  but  all  under  one  management. 
This  economy  saved  so  much  that  advertising  rates  have  been  cut  fairly 
in  half  and  subscription  prices  lowered." 

"Do  lights  go  out  at  12.15?" 

"Invariably." 

"And  are  candles  still  in  vogue?" 

"  Most  of  us  have  our  own  lighting." 

" My  boy,"  said  the  Rev.  Josiah  with  some  emotion,  "you  have  done 
yourself  proud.     I  can  never  begin  to  express  my  gratitude.     There  is, 


92  The  Haverfordian 

however,  one  more  question  I  would  put  to  you.  Is  there, — oh,  of  course 
there  isn't, — is  there — er — a  Smith  Memorial  Garden?" 

The  old  man  bent  forward  trembling  with  eagerness  to  catch  Merri- 
man's  answer. 

"Why  yes,  in  the  Library  Court." 

"  Could  we  go  to  see  it?     When  I  was  young  I — I — er — you — " 

"Of  course,  most  of  us  do,"  smiled  Merriman;  "if  we  hurry  we  may 
avoid  the  rush." 

Together  they  threaded  their  way  through  the  gathering  crowd, 
crossed  the  campus,  and  entering  through  a  rustic  gate  found  themselves 
in  the  same  moonlit  Paradise  that  had  been  witness  of  the  Rev.  Josiah's 
tender  romance  of  sixty  years  before.  The  hedge,  the  fir,  the  bench — all 
just  as  they  had  been.  Memories,  tender,  scented  memories  surged 
through  the  Rev.  Josiah's  mind.  Quickly  he  crossed  the  garden  and 
stood  with  head  bowed  before  a  blooming  red  rose.  The  moon,  the 
listening  sod,  the  flowers — all  were  hushed  by  the  spell  of  Love.  Silence, 
— and  the  Rev.  Josiah  snuffling  in  his  handkerchief 

"  This  is,  of  course,  the  original  rose,"  he  ventured  at  last  in  throaty 
tones. 

"No,  that  died.  This  one  is  identically  the  same.  It's  quite  cele- 
brated,— has  a  history.  When  the  old  one  died  this  was  planted  in  the 
exact  spot  by  our  dear  old  matron, — why,  as  I  live,  this  is  she  now!" 

In  the  rustic  arch,  shrined  by  twisting  vines,  stood  the  bent  form  of 
an  old  lady.  Close  about  her  thin  shoulders  was  a  silk  shawl ;  in  her  hand  a 
groping  cane;  on  her  smooth  white  hair  the  sparkle  of  moonbeams. 
Hesitating,  uncertain,  she  seemed  a  creature  close  to  another  world. 

Merriman  took  a  step  towards  the  newcomer. 

"She  has  been  here  many  years,"  he  whispered  to  the  Rev.  Josiah, 
"you  will  like  to  talk  to  her."  Then  aloud,  "Dr.  Quiraby,  it  gives  me 
great  pleasure  to  present  you  to  Miss  Elizabeth  Wales,  our  matron.  Miss 
Wales,  Dr.  Quimby  is  an  alumnus,  class  of  '24,"  (turning)  "he — " 

But  the  Rev.  Josiah,  his  coat-tails  stiffened  in  the  breeze,  had  turned 
his  back  to  romance  and  his  eager  nose  to  the  Phila.  and  Western  Air  Line. 


(Tfje  Wind 

By  Donald  H.  Painter,  '17. 

A  call  from  out  the  moaning  wind 
Unto  my  soul  and  me. 
A  charming  wildness  speaks  aloud, 
As  from  a  stormy  sea. 

Far  off  from  some  vague  shadow-land 
It  comes  like  one  astray; 
Far  off  from  some  sweet  loneliness 
It  comes  and  flees  away. 

A  moan  as  from  the  darkening  pines 
Of  the  Northland's  forest-sea; 
A  call  unto  the  quickened  heart 
To  listen,  and  be  free. 


^\)t  ^atjerforb=^toart})morc  (^ameg,  1902=1904 

By  J.  Henry  Scattergood,  '96. 

{Continued  from  April  Issue) 

In  1902  the  Swarthmore  game  was  played  at  Swarthmore  on  Nov. 
22,  and  was  won  by  Swarthmore  22  to  0.  Haverford  had  had  a  hard 
schedule  of  ten  games,  including  the  rough  Pennsylvania  and  Princeton 
games,  and  had  suffered  greatly  with  injuries  all  season,  besides  having 
several  new  and  inexperienced  men  on  the  team.  Swarthmore,  on  the 
other  hand,  had  played  together  almost  without  change  and  for  the 
most  part  was  the  same  team  as  had  played  the  year  before.  With  the 
change  of  coaching  Haverford  changed  her  offence  that  year  from  the 
Pennsylvania  guardsback  to  the  tackleback  tandems  (with  fullback 
and  one  halfback  lined  up  behind  the  tackle),  which  had  been  so  well 
worked  out  at  Harvard  the  previous  year.  Swarthmore' s  style  of  play 
was  unchanged  but  much  improved,  and  she  had  much  force  and  variety 
in  her  attack,  and  was  stronger  than  Haverford  throughout.  The  game 
was  lacking  in  spectacular  features.     There  was  a  good  deal  of  punting 


94  The  Haverfordian 

by  Lowry  and  Smith,  and  an  unusual  amount  of  fumbling  on  both  sides. 
Haverford  was  unable  to  make  continuous  gains;  although  at  various 
times  good  runs  were  made  by  Thorn,  Lowry,  Harold  Jones,  Eshleman 
and  Worthington,  yet  the  Swarthmore  goal  was  never  threatened. 
Swarthmore,  on  the  other  hand,  was  strong  enough  to  make  many  more 
first  downs  than  Haverford,  although  she  had  to  work  hard  for  them 
against  the  unwavering  Haverford  defence.  H.  W.  Jones  and  Simkin 
played  especially  well  on  defence  in  the  line,  while  Captain  Phillips  and 
Thorn  tackled  very  hard  in  the  backfield.  For  Swarthmore  Lippincott 
at  guard  played  a  very  strong  game,  as  did  also  fullback  Stev/art,  who 
was  Captain  that  year,  quarterback  Hall,  the  halfbacks  Smith  and  Sin- 
clair, and  Hurlej^  end.  Hurley  was  especially  good  at  hurdUng.  The 
score  of  the  first  half  was  Swarthmore  10,  Haverford  0,  and  consisted  of 
a  touchdown  by  Sinclair  and  a  field  goal  by  Smith  from  our  25-yard  line. 
In  the  second  half  Swarthmore  made  two  touchdowns  and  goals,  one  by 
Stewart,  the  other  by  Lippincott,  after  good  gains  by  Smith,  Sinclair  and 
Hurley.  Haverford's  team  was  as  follows: — B.  Eshleman,  'OS  (D.  J. 
Reid,  '06),  1.  e.,  H.W.  Jones,  '05, 1. 1.,  P.  D.  Folwell,  '04  (A.  G.  Priestman, 
'05),  1.  g.,  L.  M.  Perkins,  Jr.,  '04,  c,  R.  L.  Simkin,  '03,  r.  g.,  J.  K.  Worth- 
ington, '03,  r.  t.,  R.  L.  Pearson,  '05,  r.  e.,  A.  J.  Phillips,  '03,  q.  b.  and 
Captain,  H.  N.  Thorn,  '04,  1.  h.  b.,  E.  F.  Jones,  '06  (F.  R.  Winslow,'06), 
r.  h.  b.,  A.  T.  Lowry,  '06,  f.  b.  This  was  the  year  that  President  Swain 
came  to  Swarthmore. 

In  1902  the  rule  was  introduced  which  provided  for  the  change  of 
goals  after  a  touchdown  or  field  goal.  In  1 903  renewed  criticism  of  the 
game  broke  out  which  finally  led  in  1906  to  its  radical  revision  into 
modem  football.  The  changes  in  1903  and  1904,  however,  were  not 
fundamental,  except  that  the  one  who  kicked  was  thereafter  prohibited 
from  putting  the  ball  "  on  side,"  and  the  player  receiving  the  ball  directly 
from  the  snapper  back,  usually  the  quarterback,  was  permitted  to  nin 
forward  with  the  ball  in  the  territory  between  the  25-yard  lines,  provided 
also  he  did  not  cross  the  line  less  than  5  yards  distant  from  the  point 
where  the  ball  was  put  in  play.  This  led  to  the  lengthwise  marking  of 
the  field  which  lasted  until  1910.  The  desired  effect  of  immediately 
making  the  game  more  "open"  was  not  sufficient,  however,  to  quell  the 
criticism,  which  went  on  growing  until  the  famous  Conference  Committee 
of  1906  introduced  the  forward  pass  and  the  10-yard  gain,  and  afterwards 
in  1910  prohibited  all  assistance  to  the  runner. 

The  season  of  1903  was  opened  with  a  game  against  Pennsylvania, 
the  last  of  Haverford's  "big' '  games,  and  our  schedule  was  reduced  once 
more  to  the  normal  eight  games.     Haverford's  team  was  captained  by 


The  Haverford-Swarthmore  Games  95 

Norman  Thorn,  '04,  and  again  J.  H.  Scattergood,  '96,  was  the  head  coach, 
and  eleven  other  Alumni  assisted.  The  Swarthmore  game  was  played  at 
Haverford  on  November  21,  and  was  won  by  Swarthmore  16  to  6  in  a 
very  close  and  exciting  match.  Although  Haverford  had  an  unusually 
light  and  "green"  team,  yet  except  for  the  early  part  of  the  game  when 
she  seemed  "asleep,"  she  made  a  splendid  fight  against  the  heavier 
Swarthmore  team  and  really  proved  herself  fully  equal  to  it  except  for  the 
extraordinary  work  of  quarterback  Crowell,  whose  punting  and  wonder- 
ful field  goals  alone  won  the  game  for  Swarthmore.  Haverford's  team 
was  as  follows: — ^J.  L.  Scull,  'OS,  1.  e.,  L.  Lindley,  '04,  1.  t.,  A.  G.  Priest- 
man,  '05,  1.  g.,  T.  K.  Brown,  Jr.,  '06,  c,  G.  H.  Wood,  '07,  r.  g.,  A.  H. 
Hopkins,  '05,  r.  t.,  R.  L.  Pearson,  '05  (R.  P.  Lowry,  '04),  r.  e.,  H  N. 
Thorn,  '04,  q.  b.  and  Captain,  W.  H.  Haines,  '07,  1.  h.  b.,  H.  W.  Jones, 
'05,  r.  h.  b.,  A.  T.  Lowry,  '06,  f.  b.  Swarthmore  began  with  a  literal 
flying  start,  for  Captain  Smith,  her  veteran  halfback,  ran  the  kick-off 
back  70  yards  through  a  beautiful,  long  funnel  formed  by  the  Swarth- 
more team  in  the  centre  of  the  field  that  effectively  shut  off  our  tacklers. 
Only  by  fast  sprinting  by  "Buck"  Haines  was  a  score  prevented  on  the 
first  play.  The  score  soon  followed,  however,  for  after  two  strong  line 
plunges,  Lamb  made  a  15-yard  run  around  the  end  for  a  touchdown. 
Score :  Swarthmore  6,  Haverford  0.  This  was  the  only  touchdown  Swarth- 
more could  make  in  the  game  and  it  came  before  our  fellows  had  even 
"found  themselves."  In  the  face  of  this  bad  opening,  Haverford  started 
to  gain,  and  made  60  yards  before  losing  the  ball  on  downs.  Most  of  this 
was  in  a  splendid  run  by  Harold  Jones,  who  broke  through  guard  and 
tackle  and  ran  40  yards  before  being  stopped  by  Crowell  in  the  backfield. 
Swarthmore  could  not  gain  and  kicked,  but  soon  recovered  the  ball  on  a 
Haverford  fumble,  and  in  a  few  moments  Crowell  astonished  everyone  by 
dropping  back  to  the  40-yard  line  and  kicking  a  magnificent  field  goal 
squarely  between  the  posts.  Swarthmore  1 1 ,  Haverford  0.  On  the  kick- 
off  Crowell  ran  the  ball  back  3  5  yards  through  the  same  long  funnel  formed 
by  the  whole  Swarthmore  team.  Bell  made  20  yards  and  others  worked 
the  ball  down  the  field  until  Crowell  drop-kicked  another  fine  field-goal, 
this  time  from  the  35-yard  line.  Swarthmore  16,  Haverford  0.  Swarth- 
more then  carried  the  ball  by  two  good  tricks  and  some  good  running  to 
our  10-yard  line,  where  Haverford  braced  strongly  and  got  the  ball  on 
downs.  For  the  rest  of  the  half  the  ball  see-sawed  back  and  forth.  In 
the  second  half  Haverford  came  out  determined  to  live  down  the  tradition 
of  some  years  of  weakening  toward  the  last  of  the  game,  and  right  well  did 
she  do  it,  plajdng  the  game  with  indomitable  spirit  that  everyone  was 
proud  of,  and  outplaying  Swarthmore  the  rest  of  the  match.     From  the 


96  The  Haverfordian 

kick-off  she  never  lost  the  ball  until  she  had  scored  a  touchdown,  display^ 
ing  some  of  the  best  team-play  ever  put  up  by  a  Haverford  eleven.  A 
long  series  of  fine  gains  by  Haines,  Jones,  Hopkins  and  Priestman  brought 
the  ball  right  down  the  field  to  the  Hne.  Twice  Swarthmore  held  for  three 
downs,  but  Haverford  made  her  distance  on  the  fourth,  and  the  last  time 
Haines  went  over  for  a  touchdown.  LowTy  kicked  the  goal.  Swarthmore 
16,  Haverford  6.  Haverford  continued  the  same  aggressive  tactics, 
using  the  variations  of  the  tandems  with  excellent  effect,  and  worked  the 
ball  again  to  Swarthmore's  S-yard  line  where  we  were  held  for  downs. 
Crowell  punted  out  of  danger  and  again  Haverford  brought  the  ball  within 
striking  distance  only  to  lose  it  on  downs  once  more.  Haverford  kept 
pushing  the  play  all  through  this  half,  but  Swarthmore's  fine  defence  at 
critical  times  prevented  further  scoring.  Captain  Thoni  ran  the  team 
very  well  from  quarterback  and  once  made  20  yards  on  a  well-executed 
trick  play.  Jones,  Haines,  Hopkins  and  Lowry  ran  strongly  and  T.  K. 
Brown  followed  the  ball  well  at  centre.  Pearson  played  well  at  end  until 
he  was  hurt  and  carried  off  the  field.  For  Swarthmore,  Crowell's  pla3ang 
was  the  great  feature,  not  alone  in  his  wonderful  drop-kicking  and  punting 
but  in  his  guiding  of  the  team  at  quarter  and  his  back-field  tackling  and 
running.  Lippincott,  Jackson  and  Bell  played  well  in  the  line,  and 
Captain  Smith  and  Sinclair  ran  well.  This  game  was  the  last  of  those 
with  Swarthmore  played  on  the  Haverford  grounds,  and  goes  down  in 
memory  as  one  of  Haverford' s  pluckiest  fights  in  the  whole  series. 

The  season  of  1904  was  one  of  the  most  successful  in  Haverford 
football  history,  notwithstanding  that  it  culminated  in  another  defeat  by 
Swarthmore.  Not  only  was  every  other  game  won  and  all  the  teams  in 
our  own  class  decisively  defeated,  but  none  were  able  even  to  score.  This 
was  not  because  the  schedule  was  an  easy  one,  for  it  included  such  rivals 
as  Lehigh,  New  York  University,  F.  &  M. ,  Rutgers  and  Ursinus.  Haver- 
ford had  only  a  medium-weight  team,  but  what  it  lacked  in  weight,  it 
made  up  in  fine  spirit  and  team  play.  It  was  well  captained  by  Arthur 
Hopkins  and  splendidly  coached  by  Norman  Thorn,  the  previous  year's 
captain.  The  Alumni  Coaching  System  was  well  established  by  this 
time,  and  too  much  praise  cannot  be  given  to  Thorn  for  his  untiring  and 
loyal  work  not  only  in  1904  and  1905,  when  he  was  actively  in  charge  as 
head  coach,  but  also  for  the  many  years  of  assistance  that  he  has  given 
ever  since.  The  Swarthmore  game  was  played  at  Swarthmore  on  Nov. 
1 9  and  the  score  was :  Haverford  6,  Swarthmore  2  7.  Swarthmore  was  well 
under  way  in  her  new  football  dispensation  and  had  gathered  together  a 
wonderful  collection  of  players.  Her  line  from  tackle  to  tackle  averaged 
about  200  pounds,  and  included  the  giant  Maxwell;  the  backfield  was 


The  Haverford-Swarthmore  Games  97 

tremendously  strengthened  by  Wightman,  another  very  heavy  man,  who 
with  Maxwell  had  enjoyed  a  great  reputation  on  the  University  of  Chica- 
go team.  Crowell  must  again  be  mentioned  as  one  of  the  best  punters 
and  drop-kickers  any  college  ever  produced,  a  worthy  pupil  of  George 
Brooke  himself.  And  let  me  add  he  was  always  a  fine  sportsman,  of  the 
best  type  of  the  old  times.  Swarthmore  had  made  a  wonderful  record  for 
the  season,  even  against  the  several  big  college  teams  that  she  was  playing 
in  those  days.  It  was  the  general  expectation,  therefore,  that  she  would 
defeat  Haverford  without  much  effort  by  a  record  score.  Anyone  who 
knew  the  circumstances — and  almost  everyone  did — and  saw  the  magnifi- 
cent fight  put  up  by  our  team  against  the  overwhelming  odds  faced  that 
day  knows  full  well  that  they  showed  the  true  Haverford  spirit.  Swarth- 
more had  the  better  team  because  she  had  the  heavier  team.  The  game 
put  up  by  Haverford  would  have  won  against  any  team  of  equal  weight. 
And  even  against  this  giant  Swarthmore  team  Haverford  actually  march- 
ed down  the  entire  length  of  the  field  for  a  touchdown,  giving  Swarthmore 
a  real  scare  for  a  time.  This  splendid  effort,  however,  could  not  last,  and 
after  that  Swarthmore' s  superior  weight  gradually  bore  us  down.  Haver- 
ford's  team  was  as  follows: — E.  T.  Snipes,  '04  (M.  B.  Seevers,  'OS),  1.  e., 
H.  W.  Jones,  '05,  1.  t.,  G.  H.  Wood,  '07  (J.  C.  Birdsall,  '07),  1.  g.,  M.  W. 
Fleming,  '05,  c,  A.  G.  Priestman,  '05,  r.  g.,  A.  H.  Hopkins,  '05,  r.  t.  and 
Captain,  T.  K.  Brown,  Jr.,  '06,  r.  e.,  W.  H.  Haines,  '07,  q.  b.,  C.  T. 
Brown,  '08  (C.  C.  Morris,  P.  G.),  1.  h.  b.,  E.  F.  Jones, '07,  r.  h.  b.,  A.  T. 
Lowry,  '05,  f.  b.  Swarthmore  was  the  first  to  score,  never  losing  the  ball 
from  the  kick-off;  although  at  first  she  met  with  stubborn  defence,  yet 
Maxwelll,  Wightman  and  Pritchard  crashed  through  for  good  gains  and 
finally  on  a  beautiful  fake  cross-buck  Wightman  made  a  40-yard  run 
for  a  touchdown,  from  which  Crowell  failed  (for  once)  to  kick  the  goal. 
When  she  got  the  ball  again,  Swarthmore  started  in  to  repeat  the  process, 
and  by  some  hard  playing  and  a  good  trick  worked  down  to  Haverford's 
3-yard  line.  There  Haverford  showed  her  mettle  and  held  Swarthmore 
for  downs,  and  then  started  on  her  historic  march  down  the  field.  In- 
stead of  punting  Art  Lowry  took  the  ball  in  a  tandem  play  at  right  tackle ; 
he  broke  away  from  the  crowd  and  ran  25  yards  before  being  downed. 
Captain  Hopkins  made  4  yards  and  Lowry  added  5.  Haines  then  skirted 
left  end  for  a  30-yard  run.  E.  Jones  and  Lowry  made  another  first  down 
between  them.  Then  Lowry  hurdled  the  Swarthmore  line  for  10  yards. 
Hopkins  made  3  and  then  Ernest  Jones  slid  past  tackle  on  a  split  tandem 
and  ran  35  yards  for  a  touchdown.  The  goal  was  kicked  by  Haines  and 
the  score  stood:  Haverford  6,  Swarthmore  5.     The  making  of  this  score 


98  The  Haverfordian 

had  been  wholly  unexpected  and  was  one  of  the  finest  exhibitions  of 
fighting  spirit  and  perfect  team  play  that  we  have  in  Haverford  annals. 
Soon  after  the  kick-off  Haverford  got  the  ball  again  on  a  Swarthmore 
fumble  and  by  good  gains  by  Lowry  and  Haines  brought  it  to  Swarth- 
more's  35-yard  hne.  There  Swarthmore  held  Hke  a  wall  and  we  lost  the 
ball  on  downs.  Swarthmore  battered  away  with  her  big  men  for  a  while 
and  then  Crowell  worked  a  sensational  30-yard  quarterback  run  on 
a  fake  line  plunge,  after  which  Wightman  crossed  the  line  for 
a  second  touchdown.  Score:  Swarthmore  11,  Haverford  6.  In  the 
second  half  Lowry  ran  the  kick-off  back  40  yards  and  Carroll  Brown 
made  25  yards,  but  the  ball  was  then  lost  on  downs.  By  heavy  line  ham- 
mering, Swarthmore  then  worked  it  back  to  our  25-yard  line  where 
Haverford  held,  but  Crowell  kicked  a  pretty  goal  from  the  field.  This 
only  added  4  points  instead  of  5  as  theretofore,  the  value  having  been 
reduced  that  year.  From  then  on  Swarthmore  simply  crushed  us  down 
with  steady  advances  by  her  heavy  men,  Maxwell  making  one  touch- 
down, and  later  Wightman  making  a  magnificent  65-yard  run  down  the 
side  line  for  another,  which  ended  the  scoring  at  27  to  6  in  Swarthmore' s 
favor.  Occasionally  Haverford  got  the  ball  and  held  it  a  little  while, 
Lo'WTy  and  Hopkins  making  some  fine  gains.  But  the  great  display  of 
grit  against  overrs-helming  odds  was  in  the  desperate  defence  of  the 
Haverford  team  in  which  every  man  did  his  share.  Hopkins  and  H.  W. 
Jones  played  brilliantly.  Once  Christy  Morris,  who  took  C.  Brown's 
place  toward  the  close,  made  a  beautiful  backfield  tackle  of  Maxwell  at 
full  speed,  bringing  him  down  with  a  thud  that  stopped  one  touchdown 
at  least!  Art  Lowry  played  the  best  game  of  his  hfe,  while  E.  Jones  and 
Haines  also  deserve  special  mention.  For  Swarthmore,  Maxwell, 
"Wightman  and  Crowell  shone  conspicuously  and  were  good  enough  for 
any  team.  Although  the  score  of  this  game  added  another  defeat  for 
Haverford,  yet  it  was  one  that  we  were  all  proud  of. 

And  with  this  game  the  series  closed.  Twenty-three  games  in  all 
were  played,  of  which  Swarthmore  won  12,  Haverford  10,  and  one  was  a 
tie.  Swarthmore' s  ambitious  athletic  policy  of  branching  out  into  the 
big  college  field,  with  all  that  it  meant  for  her,  led  her  on  a  way  with  which 
Haverford  had  nothing  in  common,  so  the  game  was  quietly  dropped  from 
the  Haverford  schedule.  Ten  years  have  now  rolled  on  since  then,  and 
many  changes  have  taken  place  at  Swarthmore.  Among  these  is  an 
altered  attitude  as  to  football.  All  Haverfordians  therefore  rejoiced 
when  President  Sharpless  assured  us  of  this,  and  stated  that  he  felt  that 
Haverford  might  now  once  more  extend  an  invitation  to  Swarthmore  to 


The  Haverford-Swarthmore  Games 


99 


play.  This  has  been  done,  the  invitation  has  been  accepted,  and  again 
both  colleges  are  looking  forward  to  the  match  as  their  great  game. 
That  the  best  of  good  sport  and  good  feeling  in  friendly  rivalry  may  mark 
the  contests  of  the  future  is  the  wish  of  every  sport-loving  Haverfordian. 


SUMMARY  OF  HAVERFORD-SWARTHMORE  GAMES 


DATE 

PL.-\CE 

Haverford 
Captain 

WON  BY 

H.'s 

SCORE 

S.'s 

SCORE 

(l  goal 

1879 

Haverford 

R,  S,  Rhodes,  '83 

Haverford 

l\  t'ch'dn 
11  safety 

13  sfts. 

1883  Sp'g. 

Swarthmore 

S.  B.  Shoemaker,  '83 

Haverford 

/l  goal 
^2  s'ft's. 

I  tchd- 
G  sfts. 

1883  Fall 

Haverford 

W.  S.  HiUes,  '85 

Swarthmore 

9 

12 

1884 

Swarthmore 

|W.  S.  Hilles,  '85 
(S.  Bettle,  '85,  acting 

Haverford 

10 

6 

1885 

Haverford 

A.  C.  Garrett,  '87 

Haverford 

40 

10 

1SS7 

Swarthmore 

J.  T.  Hilles,  '88 

Swarthmore 

10 

32 

1888 

Haverford 

T.  P.  Branson,  '89 

Haverford 

6 

0 

1889 

Swarthmore 

H.  P.  Baily,  '90 

Haverford 

10 

4 

1890 

Haverford 

E.J.Haley,  '90&P.G. 

Swarthmore 

14 

30 

1891 

U.  of  Pa. 

W.  H.  Detwiler,  '92 

Swarthmore 

0 

62 

1892 

Swarthmore 

N.  B.  Warden,  '94 

Swarthmore 

6 

22 

1893 

Haverford 

W.  J.  Strawbridge,  '94 

Swarthmore 

0 

50 

1894 

Swarthmore 

W.  C.  Webster,  '95 

Swarthmore 

0 

32 

1895 

Haverford 

L.  H.  Wood.   '96 

Haverford 

24 

0 

1896 

Swarthmore 

C.  A.  Vamey,  '98 

Haverford 

42 

6 

1897 

Haverford 

A,  Haines,  '99 

Haverford 

8 

6 

1898 

Swarthmore 

H.  H.  Lowry,  '99 

Haverford 

12 

0 

1899 

Haverford 

S.  W.  Mifflin,  '00 

Swarthmore 

12 

34 

1900 

Swarthmore 

J.  S.  Fox,  '02 

Swarthmore 

10 

17 

1901 

Haverford 

J.  L.  Stone,  '02 

Tie 

G 

6 

1902 

Swarthmore 

A.  J.  Phillips,  'OJ 

Swarthmore 

0 

22 

1903 

Haverford 

H.  N.  Thorn,  '04 

Swarthmore 

6 

16 

1904 

Swarthmore 

A.  H.  Hopkins,  '05 

Swarthmore 

G 

27 

No  games  were  played  in  ISSO,  1881,  1882  and  ISSG. 

Won  by  Haverford 10 

Won  by  Swarthmore 12 

Tie 1 


Total 


23 


100 


The  Haverfordian 


RESULTS  OF  HAVERFORD-SWARTHMORE  CLASS  GAMES 


DATE 

GAME 

CLASSES 

WON  BY 

H.'s 

SCORE 

S/s 

SCORE 

1882 

Freshman 

'86  V. 

■86 

Swarthmore 

0 

Ugoal 
notch 

1883 

Freshman 

•87  V. 

'87 

Swarthmore 

0 

16 

1884 

Sophomore 

'87  V. 

■87 

Haverford 

25  (?) 

0 

1SS5 

Freshman 

'89  V. 

■89 

Swarthmore 

0 

35 

Sophomore 

'88  V. 

■88 

Haverford 

16 

12 

1886 

Sophomore 

■89  V. 

■89 

Swarthmore 

6 

28 

1887 

Sophomore 

'90  V. 

'90 

Swarthmore 

16 

18 

1S8S 

No  game 

1889 

Sophomore 

'92  V. 

■92 

Swarthmore 

0 

4 

1890 

Sophomore 

'93  V. 

■93 

Swarthmore 

0 

36 

1891 

Sophomore 

'94  V. 

'94 

Swarthmore 

0 

40 

1892 

Sophomore 

'95  V. 

'95 

Haverford 

14 

4 

©cmocracp 

By  Eugene  M.  Pharo,  'IS. 


These  the  hot  and  beaten  faces 

Lurid  from  the  fire  of  work, 
Gleaming  eyes  with  grim  intention 

Piercing  god-like  through  the  dark, 
Surging  heart  and  surging  muscle, 

Iron  engines  at  their  back; 
These  the  wakened  sons  of  labour. 

Gone  their  spirit's  deathly  lack. 
Equally  of  God's  creation 
With  the  poet  and  the  sage, 
Purpose  roused  from  dumb  inertion; 

Masters  of  an  iron  age! 


f:f)e  ^tUs:  of  ^tiaeton 

By  L.  Blackledge  Lippmann,  '14. 

Now  I  can  accord  precedence 

To  my  tailor,  for  I  do 
Want  to  know  if  he  gives  credence — 
An  unwarrantable  credence — 

To  my  proffered  I.  0.  U. 

Bills  for  carriages  and  horses, 

Bills  for  wines  and  light  cigar. 
Matters  that  concern  the  Forces — 
News  that  may  affect  the  Forces — ■ 
News  affecting  my  resources. 

Now  unquestioned  take  the  "pas." 

W.  S.  Gilbert. 

YESTERDAY  I  looked  over  the  diary  of  Phaeton.  It  had  lain  for 
years  in  the  old  box  where  I  had  placed  it  on  that  day  when,  in  all 
the  lustre  of  a  long  past  Spring,  we  whispered  farewell  and  bade 
him  rest.  Reader,  have  you  too  kept  a  diary?  Have  you  at  the  New 
Year  bought  for  yourself  a  little  book,  brave  in  golden  blazening  and 
faintly  pungent  with  the  subtle  aroma  of  morocco?  If  so,  perad venture 
you  were  faithful  for  a  space — with  ardent  pen  you  scrawled  its  virgin  pages 
with  the  manifold  doings  of  your  day.  Yes,  you  were  faithful  for  a  space, 
and  then  was  there  not  one  night  when  you  returned  tired  from  the  dance 
and  put  off  the  record  of  the  day  until  tomorrow?  And  tomorrow  was 
there  not  so  much  or  so  little  to  be  done  that  another  day  escaped  im- 
mortality and  then  another? — until  a  month  later,  while  reaching  for  a 
pen,  3^our  hand  came  upon  the  little  dusty  volume  and  as  your  fingers  ran 
over  the  neglected  pages  you  sighed  and  said,  "Oh,  well — next  year!" 
Such  was  the  diary  of  Phaeton,  a  scant  record  of  a  life  that  had  been 
crowded  with  joy,  and  love,  and  laughter;  a  life,  too,  that  had  known 
sorrow  and  shed  tears.  Yet,  as  I  gently  turned  the  pages  I  knew  that  not 
here  would  I  find  again  the  youth  of  Phaeton,  for  in  its  pathetic  incom- 
pleteness, in  its  simple  statements  of  past  days,  it  is  more  of  a  skeleton 
than  those  few  slender  bones  that  are  slowly  crumbling  beneath  the  sod. 
But  there  is  a  more  complete,  a  truer  record  that  lies  before  me  even 
as  I  write ;  a  httle  sheaf  of  yellowed  papers,  true  memoirs  of  that  young 
life — the  bills  of  Phaeton.    See,  here  they  he,  creased  and  torn,  yet  these 


102  The  Haverfordian 

old  statements  throb  with  the  life  of  him  I  loved.  Across  some  are  scrawl- 
ed, "Payment  received,  with  thanks";  at  the  foot  of  others  are  written 
little  importunate  notes.  I  am  afraid.  Phaeton,  that  there  are  more  of  these 
latter,  but  peace,  long  since  you  have  settled  that  last  and  greatest  score. 
You  were  beautiful.  Phaeton,  and  proud,  and  gentle,  but  whom  the 
gods  love — come,  let  me  read  once  more  these  eloquent  testaments. 
Here  is  one,  Phaeton:  it  is  written  on  a  torn  fragment  of  paper,  and  on 
the  back  is  a  much  thumbed  and  penciled  exercise: 

Arma  virumque  cano 

How  we  hated  our  Vergil  in  those  days.  Phaeton,  but  ah!  if  we 
could  but  go  back !  Yes,  here  is  the  bill,  written  in  your  own  round,  un- 
certain, schoolboy  hand:  "To  Smith,  minimus,  I.  O.  U.  3  shillings  for  the 
spotted  puppy.  I'll  pay  you  after  Michaelmas."  Many  a  Michaelmas 
has  come  and  gone  since  then,  and  the  spotted  puppy  became  a  dog,  grew 
old,  and  toothless,  and  died;  Smith,  minimus,  is  across  the  other  side  of 
the  world,  but  this  faded  paper  brings  us  together  again  as  some  talisman 
of  old  Merlin.  And  here  is  an  old  bill  owed  "to  Messrs.  Springes  of  the 
High  Street;  20  shillings  for  one  cricket  bat."  They  do  not  make  such 
bats  nowadays.  Phaeton,  and  the  crease  is  not  so  green  and  smooth,  or  is 
it  that  I  have  changed  with  the  hastening  years?  Those  were  long,  happy 
afternoons,  and  they  come  back  to  me  now  as  I  read,  "20  shillings  for  one 
cricket  bat."  How  drowsy  was  the  air,  how  soft  the  slow  humming  of  the 
bees  as  we  lay  side  by  side  in  the  shade,  our  heads  pillowed  on  our  blazers, 
and  idly  watched  the  leaves  and  thought  of  nothing  at  all!  Idlers,  both, 
if  you  will,  but  we  were  happy  and  the  spring  was  young.  There  were 
nights,  too,  when  as  the  moon  floated  lily-like  on  the  tranquil  surface  of 
the  heavens,  we  half-shamedly  told  each  other  of  our  dreams.  They  were 
brave  dreams.  Phaeton,  and  beautiful  as  the  mystery  that  gave  them 
birth,  but  that  was  long,  long  ago,  and  like  all  dreams  they  have  had  their 
waking. 

And  now  come  bills  for  gloves  and  ties  and  scents.  A  maiden 
claimed  you,  perhaps,  and  you  would  make  yourself  fair  in  her  eyes. 
There  were  many  maidens.  Phaeton,  and  you  loved  them  all.  Do  you 
remember  that  evening  in  summer  when  a  laughing  face  appeared  above 
the  vicarage  wall,  gloriously  foreshortened  in  the  fading  twilight?  And 
the  next  Sunday  found  you  in  church,  although  you  were  ever  a  young 
pagan  and  burned  acrid  incense  to  a  marble  Pan.  Phaeton,  Phaeton, 
I  am  afraid  that  you  knew  not  the  text,  but  I  am  sure  that  you  could 
tell  every  light  that  glinted  on  a  certain  head  beneath  the  organ  loft, 
could  number  every  smile  that  bent  two  roselike  lips.  Shame  on  you, 
you  were  inconstant,  for  the  very  next  week  were  you  not  sighing  at  the 


The  Bills  op  Phaeton  103 

feet  of  a  dainty  divinity  who  acted  as  female  Ganymede  at  the  Golden 
Hind? 

Then,  too,  are  many  accounts  rendered  by  Mr.  Fumer  of  the  Hay- 
market  ;  here  is  five  shillings  for  a  briar,  the  very  briar  perhaps  that  you 
would  pull  at  for  hours  at  a  time  in  that  shocking  old  jacket  that  you 
clung  to  so  fondly.  Also  come  reminders  from  Abdul, — Abdul,  whose 
cigarettes  were  ever  in  that  jade  and  golden  case  of  yours.  Records  also 
of  unnumbered  boxes  of  mild  Havanas,  all  gone  in  twisting  wreaths  of 
blue-grey  smoke.  There  are  some  who  will  shake  their  heads  at  these 
bills,  but  who  can  truly  point  to  money  wasted  ?  Pipes,  cigars,  and  cigar- 
ettes, each  had  their  place;  the  pipe  for  those  hours  that  beget 
thought ;  the  cigar  for  hours  post-prandial,  and  the  cigarette  for  the  lighter 
moments  of  life.  Through  that  ever  shifting  veil  of  smoke  I  can  even  now 
see  your  chambers — a  Whistler  nocturne  hanging  by  the  door  and  a 
Durer's  "Melancholia"  peering  out  from  the  shadows.  There  was  much 
to  talk  of  in  those  days,  and  much  to  see.  How  we  dabbled  in  the  pastel 
subtleties  of  Japan  like  true  disciples  of  the  Sunflower,  how  ardent  in 
our  advocacy  of  the  cult  of  the  Lily,  until  the  gentle  mockery  of  "  Pa- 
tience" caused  us,  half  shamefaced,  half  laughingly,  to  recant. 

And  your  books!  Here  before  me  lie  accounts,  mute  witnesses  to 
the  catholicity  of  your  taste.  Yours  was  not  the  mind  that  falls  easily  into 
a  rut.  It  is  your  book  bills.  Phaeton,  that  I  love  best  of  all,  for  in  them,  is 
sketched  a  chart  of  the  deeps  and  shallows  of  your  mind  and  soul.  Here 
is  "Vanity  Fair,"  and  the  "Newcomes,"  and  here  is  mention  of  "Hudi- 
bras";  an  old  copy  of  Lovelace  has  cost  you  a  guinea;  andlzaak  Walton 
appears  on  the  same  account  as  does  "Madame  de  Marlpin."  How  you 
loved  them  all.  Phaeton,  and  how  I  loved  you  for  it!  The  quaint  old 
Jacobean  volume  with  its  scrolled  bookplate  and  sonorously  verbose 
title  page  was  no  dearer  to  you  than  your  bound  edition  of  the  "Yellow 
Book,"  strangely  sinister  with  the  weird  grotesques  of  Beardsly.  Do 
you  remember  those  hours  by  the  roadside  when  first  we  read  "  Trilby"  ? 
How  we  planned  plans  and  dreamed  dreams;  we  too  should  live  that 
mad,  free  life  of  the  Quartier  Latin,  we  too  should  work,  and  suffer,  and 
attain.  Dreams,  Phaeton,  dreams,  but  a  yellowed  bill  remains  to  con- 
jure once  more  for  me  those  brave  days  when  we  were  twenty-one. ' 
Books,  too,  there  were  that  had  survived  on  your  shelves  since  those  days 
long  since  when  the  nursery  was  your  world  and  the  world  your  nursery. 
"  Eric,"  "St.  Winifred's,"  and  "  Tom  Brown"  (wasn't  the  fight  wonderful, 
the  fags'  rebellion  an  epic  in  itself?  but  were  you  not  always  rather  sorry 
that  Tom  reformed?). 


104  The  Haverfordian 

There  are  among  these  documents  no  records  of  those  vulgarities 
that  are  termed  "edition  de  Itixe."  No,  you  were  never  one  to  gorman- 
dize in  print;  a  dainty  titbit  here,  a  solid  joint  there,  with  now  and  again 
a  thin  deckel-edged  savoury,  was  more  to  your  taste.  Your  shelves  were 
never  cursed  with  that  deadly  glare  of  gold  and  morocco  uniformity  that 
is  the  mark  of  your  true  Philistine.  Your  library  was  like  yourself,  some- 
what shabby  but  cosmopolitan.  It  was  a  library  of  moods,  tuned  to  each 
changing  phase  of  mind  and  spirit.  How  you  loved  those  uneven  shelves, 
how  you  would  revel  in  your  dreams!  I  am  sure  that  Mr.  Midshipman 
Easy  was  more  real  to  you  than  Captain  Hawkins,  with  whom  you  talked 
daily  in  the  club;  that  for  you  the  lover  of  Beatrix  Esmond  and  Di 
Vernon  were  more  vital  than  the  languishings  of  Lady  Mary  Golding, 
with  whom  you  dined  thrice  in  the  month. 

Ah  yes!  You  dined,  and  right  well,  for  here  on  the  table  before  me 
lie  the  souvenirs  of  many  jolly  dinners,  here  is  enshrined  the  memory  of 
many  dusty  bottles  that  in  the  days  gone  by  poured  forth  their  soul  to 
enter  into  yours.  How  great  a  joy  when  you  returning  triumphant  from 
some  urban  argosy  could  lead  us  to  some  quaint  harbor  off  the  beaten 
track.  Y'ou  were  ever  a  favorite  in  these  old  hostelries.  Where  we  would 
but  get  the  accustomed  "vin  ordinaire"  did  not  Giovanni  bring  for  you 
long  cherished  Toquay  that  seemed  to  blink  in  the  unwonted  light  of  day? 
Was  not  the  little  table  by  the  leaded  window  always  yours  at  Simpson's 
raftered  alehouse;  did  not  old  Heinrich  bustle  forward  smiling  with 
napkin  on  arm  at  your  approach  ?  Happy  were  those  dinners  and  happy 
were  the  walks  home  along  the  crowded  Strand.  A  great,  ever  flooding, 
ever  ebbing  tide  of  traffic,  the  thunder  of  hoofs,  and  the  heavy  rumble  of 
the  lumbering  busses.  Hansoms  slinking  past  or  standing  in  sullen 
ranks,  black  birds  of  prey;  the  raucous  yelling  of  newsboys  as  they  darted 
in  and  out,  small  shuttles  in  that  great  web  of  humanity.  The  crimson 
blaze  of  windows  in  the  dying  sunlight,  the  faint  nocturnes  of  approach- 
ing dusk.  All  these  we  saw,  and  beyond  was  Pall  Mall,  while  pedestalled 
high  above  us  in  the  Circus,  Cupid  pointed  his  brazen  arrow  towards  the 
east. 

The  arrow  still  points.  Phaeton,  but  other  hearts  are  pierced ;  the  city 
still  speaks,  but  there  is  a  menace  in  her  voice.  The  club  remains  the 
same,  but  many  chairs  are  vacant.  There  has  been  change,  but  you  have 
known  it  not,  for  you  have  slept  these  many  years  agone.  Backs  that 
were  straight,  heads  that  were  proud,  are  stooped  and  bent,  for  the  high 
gods  have  robbed  us  of  the  precious  staff  of  youth.  Only  you  remain  the 
same,  your  spirit  vivid  in  these  yellowed,  crumpled  sheets.  You  had  your 


Storm  lOS 

day;  we  that  are  left  shall  have  soon  had  ours.  Other  stars  shall  rise,  and 
flare,  and  fade  from  view,  even  as  the  last  ember  dies  here  on  the  hearth 
before  me.  There  shall  be  other  men  and  other  manners,  but  their  ways 
are  not  our  ways  nor  their  gods  ours.  Old  friends,  old  books,  old  wines, 
and  then  the  darkness  of  a  candle  that  goes  out.  Ah  well,  wc  have 
loved  much,  and  have  been  little  loved.     Peace  ho! 


^torm 

By  a.  C.  Inman,  '17. 

Down  from  the  north  the  sea  birds  swept. 
As  the  winds  with  a  whining  anguish  wept ; 
Far  from  their  wind-lashed  homes  they  flew, 
By  the  tempest's  fury  urged  anew. 

And  on  the  ocean's  heaving  breast, 
Whirling  along  from  crest  to  crest. 
Fleeing  from  cold  and  wind  and  snow, 
Like  masses  of  great  grey  ghosts  they  go. 

And  many  a  ship  with  masts  made  bare 
By  the  fury  and  wrath  of  the  wind-god's  blare, 
Came  scudding  along  -vidth  tight-strung  stays, 
Made  lurid  and  dusk  by  the  sun's  last  rays. 


tB\it  Cabaret  ^tnser 

By   1915 

IT  IS  three  A.M.  by  my  Ingersoll  watch,  and  my  Ingersoll  is  worth  one 
American  silver  dollar — which,  as  all  economists  will  tell  you,  has 
been  a  trustworthy  creation  since  1792.  It  is  also  Saturday  night, 
or  rather,  I  should  say,  Sunday  morning. 

Midnight  is  a  time  when  I  am  unusually  stupid,  or  when  not  in  that 
state- — sound  asleep.  But  tonight  I  assure  you  I  am  not  asleep,  and  as  for 
stupidity — three  cups  of  "Lotos  Seed"  tea,  25  cents  a  pot  at  the  Far 
East,  59th  and  Broadway,  fixed  that. 

I  have  just  locked  the  door  to  my  apartment  and  placed  a  chair  in 
front  of  it.  I  have  also  put  up  the  blind  and  closed  my  window  to 
Lexington  Avenue.  Someone  might  enter  unnoticed  while  an  Avenue 
car  went  clanging  by;  but  the  great  spluttering  arc  light  from  outside 
affords  me  some  respite  from  my  anxiety.  I  have  faced  my  table  to  the 
door  and  slipped  my  automatic  in  my  pocket.  But  even  then  my  hand 
quakes  as  it  writes,  for  I  confess  I  am  terrified. 

Tonight  I  have  had  an  adventure  so  gruesome  that,  though  it  is  a 
sultry  August  night,  my  body  is  shivering  with  chills.  Furthermore,  not 
only  my  muscular  and  tactile  sense  is  so  affected:  I  can  scarce  breathe, 
though  my  chest  is  laboring,  for  the  putrescent  odor  that  lies  about  me. 
Yet  surely  there  is  no  odor  excepting  for  a  faint  pungency  of  my  hands. 

We  are  all  children  of  something — at  least  we  say  we  are.  It  is 
just  another  way  of  saying:  "  It's  not  my  fault,  blame  the  other  fellow!" 
Adam  was  the  child  of  dust.  Eve  the  daughter  of  a  rib.  And  since  then 
there  have  been  children  of  destiny,  environment,  slums,  fortune,  greed, 
etc.,  ad  infmittini.  Therefore  I  will  follow  this  ancient  custom  and  style 
myself  the  child  of  adventure — very  prosy  and  flat-footed,  but  as  good 
as  any  other. 

Now  I  think  I  can  find  adventure  anywhere — even  in  a  New  England 
church;  therefore  I  can  find  adventure  in  New  York.  Finding  adventure 
is  not  found  by  mining  deep  in  the  ground  of  society;  adventure  lies  in 
surface  veins  where  anybody  can  stumble  across  it.  But  to  be  a  child  of 
adventure  one  must  recognize  a  vein  at  first  sight  and  follow  it  to  a 
climax. 

I  have  been  in  New  York  about  a  month  and  have  had  four  episodes. 
The  first  three  struck  such  chords  as  sentimentality,  amusement  and 
excitement, — therefore  I  will  quickly  forget  them.     Tonight  the  chord  of 


The  Cabaret  Singer  107 

love  was  struck,  and  of  horror,  therefore  I  will  remember  this  last  adven- 
ture perhaps  a  few  days  longer. 

The  Peking  is  a  Chinese  and  American  cafe  located  at  the  conflux  of 
two  great  streets.  There  are  tables  loaded  with  awe-inspiring  silver; 
panels  and  draperies  too  rich  to  be  tawdry;  waiters,  nineteen  of  them, 
who  move  silently — and  always,  always  a  bill.  But  we  will  not  speak  of 
the  bill  tonight. 

Last  Wednesday  night  I  was  seated  in  the  Peking,  a  dish  of  celestial 
origin  and  a  glass  of  Sauterne  before  me.  My  eyes  were  half  closed; 
through  the  jingle  of  ice  in  fragile  glass,  the  soft  animation  of  conversa- 
tion, the  gentle  laughter  of  women,  I  felt  the  whole  scene.  Someone  was 
twiddling  a  piano,  a  long-haired  individual  with  dirty  fingernails  was 
ecstatically  swaying  a  Venetian  boat  song  on  his  violin.  As  soon  as  the 
barcarolle  ceased,  the  pianist  started  to  drum.  A  stocky,  deep-voiced 
man,  with  a  wrinkled  neck,  started  a  jolly  ballad  of  the  sea.  He  sang  it 
so  well  that  when  I  wasn't  looking  at  his  East  Side  Jewish  face  I  was  sure 
he  was  bow-legged.  After  him  followed  three  women — a  cabaret  team 
who  sang  cute  songs  of  men  and  love,  who  swung  their  dimpled  elbows 
and  shuffled  their  feet — whose  eyes  snapped  over  the  tables  T\dth  the  go 
and  the  swing  of  the  "rag  song."  They  ended  up  by  winding  in  and  out 
of  the  tables  singing,  "Just  see  those  Pullman  porters,  dolled  up  in — " 

Finally,  after  they  were  through,  a  fourth  woman  stepped  to  the 
piano.  I  hadn't  noticed  her  before,  but  I  certainly  paid  attention  now. 
She  was — well,  I'm  not  going  to  rave.  She  was  just  an  attractive  girl. 
She  had  a  saucily  tilted  nose,  a  chin  curving  softly  upward,  quick  little 
eyes,  dimpled  cheeks,  and  lips  that  were  firm  and  yet  yielding — little 
jelly  lips  that  longed  to  be  kissed. 

And  she  sang  a  song  of — ,but  what  does  that  matter?  I  looked  at  her 
and  all  that  I  could  think  of  was  a  little  lass  from  the  meadows  who 
sang  songs  of  flowers  and  birds  and  trees.  Then  she  finished  and  went 
tripping  off  the  dais.     The  whole  room  broke  out  into  applause. 

Then  she  came  down  the  aisle  and  past  me.  Just  as  if  I  had  known 
her  all  her  life  I  got  up  and  bowed,  just  as  naturally  she  thanked  me  and 
sat  down  opposite.  I  saw  that  her  dress  was  in  one  place  mended — a 
simple  v/hite  wash  dress  girdled  with  a  bright  Turkish  scarf.  The  only 
ornaments  she  wore  were  a  bracelet  and  a  locket,  such  as  any  country  girl 
might  have  worn. 

All  this  happened  so  quickly,  so  naturally,  that  I  scarce  realize  now 
from  what  an  insignificant  and  chance  occurrence,  so  horrible  an  ending 
came! 


108  The  Haverfordian 

"You  are  a  stranger?  How  do  you  like  this  little  village?  I 
rather  like  you."  What  a  bold  statement!  Yet  from  her  nothing  could 
be  bold. 

"  I  adore  New  York — after  having  seen  you." 

She  blushed,  then  laughed  a  silvery  little  tinkle  of  a  laugh.  And  then 
we  talked  a  little  while  and  I  found  that  she  was  a  hard-working,  level- 
headed girl. 

"Yes,  I  do  get  tired  of  this  life.  But  I  love  to  sing:  I  wish  I  could 
sing  something  fine,  something  beautiful.  But  that  wouldn't  pay  and 
there's  my  little  sister — yes,  I  have  a  sister  in  a  convent  school — she 
shan't  have  to  go  through  what  I  have.  Yes,  it  pays  well — ^seven  hours 
a  day  from  6  P.M.  until  1  A.M.  and  thirty  dollars  a  week.  No,  I've 
never  been  on  the  stage  and  I  wouldn't  go  if  I  could.  I  used  to  sing  in  a 
choir.  But  why  do  you  ask  me  these  questions?  Most  of  the  men  call 
me  fluffy  or  cuty,  want  me  to  drink,  which  I  never  do,  and  flirt  so  foolish- 
ly.    But  5'-ou — ^you  are  so  different !" 

"Oh,"  I  said,  "I  must  find  out  what  people  are — not  what  they 
play  at.  You  see  I  have  a  passion  for  knowing  just  how  this  old  world 
looks  through  the  eyes  of  others — whom  I  rarely  have  a  chance  to  meet." 

"  Then  you  think  I'm  a  new  specimen  on  your  bug  hunt,"  she  said 
saucily. 

"No,  no — but  still  I  think  you  are  right.  You  are  by  far  the  most 
beautiful  and  charming  butterfly  I  have  ever  found — and,  what's  more, 
you're  a  bear!  Shake,  old  pal!  Some  day  you  shan't  have  to  work  so 
hard — some  day  you  will  be  singing  the  beautiful  songs  you  love  to  sing, 
and  there  will  be  a  man  whose  eyes  will  be  damp  with  tears  when  you — " 

"Oh,  cut  it  out,  Mr.  Stranger.     Oh,  you  slushy!" 

But  I  saw  her  wipe  away  a  tear. 

Then  the  pianist  struck  up  and  she  jumped  up  to  sing  another  song — ■ 
to  earn  her  daily  bread.  She  snapped  her  little  fingers  and  tilted  her 
saucy  head  and  the  crowd  went  mad.  They  clapped  and  cried,  "More! 
more!"  She  bowed  to  right  and  to  left,  her  face  flashing  with  smiles. 
Then  for  a  moment  she  caught  my  eye — over  the  crowded  tables — and  I 
saw  the  smile  vanish  and  that  tired,  patient  look  came  for  a  second  and 
was  gone.     Then  she  smiled  again,  bowed  to  me  and  sang  another  song. 

About  me  were  men — or  rather,  pigs — hooked  nose,  coarse-lipped, 
guzzling  beer  and  gulping  their  Chinese  messes.  With  them  were  women, 
harsh  and  hard  of  feature,  ruby-lipped  and  powder-faced.  And  I  thought 
of  the  pearl  before  the  swine. 

Then  I  heard  a  foolish  dnmken  laugh  behind  me.  Somehow 
that  laugh  sounded  familiar.    I  turned  around.    To  my  utter  amazement 


The  Cabaret  Singer  109 

there  stood  Gus  Pouter.  Pouter,  a  pudgy,  oily  specimen,  with  bright 
eyes  and  a  sharp  wit,  had  been  expelled  from  Harvard  during  our  Sopho- 
more year.  He  had  been  thoroughly  disliked  on  accotmt  of  his  mean- 
ness, and  despised  as  a  man  who  had  indulged  his  every  appetite.  I  pre- 
tended not  to  see  him,  but  it  was  too  late.  I  had  been  the  object  of  his 
cackle. 

"Well,  I'll  be  shot,"  said  Pouter  as  he  extended  a  soft  white  hand,  "if 
it  isn't  Parmalee  Jones!" 

I  couldn't  do  anything  else,  so  I  asked  him  to  sit  down.  He  con- 
tinued, 

"Well,  Jones,  it's  good  to  see  you.  I've  changed  a  lot  since  college 
days;  yes,  I  look  at  life  more  seriously  now — have  to,  you  know,"  and 
Pouter  rubbed  his  rum-soaked  neck  reflectively. 

"How's  that?"  I  asked. 

"Well,  ever  since  I  had  to  leave  college  on  account  of  my  heart 
disease — "  he  was  lying  already,  but  I  kept  still — "I've  been  kind  of 
scared.    I  spent  two  years  in  a  sanitarium — " 

"Well,  you  certainly  don't  look  like  an  invalid  now,"  I  remarked 
as  he  drank  off  another  cocktail.  And  then  I  suddenly  remembered  the 
fits  he  used  to  fall  in  at  college,  especially  during  the  hazing  of  Freshman 
year  and  I  wondered  whether  he'd  been  telling  the  truth  after  all. 

"Pretty  lively  little  place,"  Gus  remarked,  "but  the  show  isn't  any- 
good." 

"The  devil  you  say!"  I  answered,  nodding  towards  my  new  ac- 
quaintance, "you  don't  often  see  a  coozie  like  her." 

"  Ha,  ha!  So  you've  got  your  eye  on  her,  have  you?  Why,  Jennie's  a 
good  friend  of  mine,  I'll  call  her  over." 

I  could  have  shot  Gus  for  the  familiar  way  he  talked  of  her.  The 
girl  came  towards  us. 

"  Hello,  Jennie,"  said  Pouter,  "  this  is  a  friend  of  mine — Mr.  Jones." 

"Mr.  Jonesandl  are  acquainted,  A/u/er  Pouter,"  said  the  girl  quietly, 
smiling  at  me. 

For  a  while  we  chatted  together  over  our  drinks,  but  I  noticed  that 
she  disliked  Pouter's  familiarity.  Every  once  in  a  while,  while  Gus  was 
talking  away — for  the  drink  had  gone  to  his  head — I'd  catch  her  eye. 
I  could  almost  hear  them  say,  "You  understand!" 

At  last  the  singing  stopped,  and  at  one  sharp  the  lights  began  to  go 
out  and  everybody  started  to  leave. 

Gus  and  I  were  on  the  pavement. 

"Where  are  you  going  now?"  I  asked. 

"Oh,  I'm  taking  Jennie  home."    Just  then  Jennie  came  out  and  the 


110  The  Haverfordian 

two  said  a  hurried  good-bye  to  me  and  started  down  towards  Times 
Square.  Jennie  looked  over  her  shoulder  once  and  waved  to  me.  For  a 
moment  I  thought  she  was  beckoning,  then  I  lost  her  in  the  crowd. 
I  hated  to  leave  her  to  Pouter,  but  he  knew  her  better  than  I  did.  It  was 
none  of  my  business. 

:{:  ^  :}:  H^  :{:  ^ 

Three  nights  later,  that  is  tonight,  or  Saturday  night,  I  went  to  the 
Peldng  again.  I  just  couldn't  keep  away  from  Jennie's  fascination.  She 
was  as  pretty  as  ever,  but  I  was  startled  to  see  her  so  pale — in  fact  she 
was  ghastly.  And  tonight  she  did  not  smile.  At  the  end  of  her  song  she 
came  down  the  aisle.  I  expected  her  to  at  least  nod  to  me,  but  instead 
she  glided  past,  her  eyes  sunken  and  her  face  blanched. 

Just  as  she  passed,  however,  she  let  drop  a  little  wad  of  paper. 
Something  was  evidently  the  matter.  I  held  the  menu  in  front  of  me 
and  unrolled  it.     I  read : 

"  I  am  in  trouble.     Help  me.     Meet  me  after  the  show." 

It  was  then  11.45,  but  it  seemed  hours  before  1  A.M.  came  around. 
I  was  again  on  the  pavement.     She  came  up  to  me  quickly. 

"Call  a  taxi." 

We  were  soon  going  up  Broadway. 

"Do  you  trust  me?"  she  asked. 

"Why,  of  course,"  I  answered. 

"Then  if  ever  you  loved  your  mother,  if  ever  you  believed  in  God, 
help  me  nov/.  By  all  that's  sacred  promise  me,  promise  me  that  you  will 
not  forsake  me — "  She  had  clutched  my  lapels  and  in  her  eyes  was  such 
a  gleam  of  terror  and  hopelessness  that  I,  too,  was  becoming  terrified, 
thinking  her  insane. 

"Come  now.  Miss  Jennie,"  I  said,  trying  to  control  my  nervousness, 
"I  promise  to  help  you  out.  What  has  happened?  You  must  tell  me 
everything.     Where  are  we  going?" 

"Wait!  I  will  tell  you  later,  only  do  as  I  say  now,"  and  she  lapsed 
into  an  hysterical  silence. 

The  taxi  finally  stopped.     The  chauffeur  looked  in. 

"Is  this  the  street,  mum?" 

She  nodded.  We  got  out.  It  was  somewhere  on  7th  Avenue. 
We  walked  for  a  couple  of  blocks.  She  led  me  into  an  eight-story, 
inexpensive  apartment  house.  It  had  started  to  drizzle,  and  the  streets 
were  deserted.  No  one  was  downstairs  in  the  lobby;  she  took  me  up  two 
flights  of  stairs  to  a  little  narrow  door.  For  a  time  she  hesitated,  then 
suddenly  making  up  her  mind  she  unlocked  and  shoved  open  the  door. 

It  was  pitch  dark  within;  a  peculiar  odor  reached  my  nostrils.    She 


The  Cabaret  Singer  111 

closed  the  door,  listened  awhile  in  the  dark.  I  struck  a  match.  Some- 
body else  was  in  the  room,  sitting  on  a  chair  in  the  corner,  watching  us. 
She  lit  the  gas  jet.  I  started  with  surprise.  It  was  Gus  Pouter  sitting 
there  in  the  chair.    I  was  disgusted. 

"  What  are  you  doing  in  here?"  I  said  menacingly,  though  my  knees 
were  shaking.     He  was  asleep.     I  shook  him.     He  rolled  his  head  up  in 
funny  way,  his  mouth  was  agape.     He  was  dead. 

Terrified,  I  sprang  for  the  door.  Jennie  was  in  front  of  it ;  she  shoved 
a  nickel  revolver  into  my  ribs. 

"You  coward!"  she  hissed,  "keep  quiet." 

"  Let  me  out  of  here — " 

"Now  you  listen  to  me. —  Last  Wednesday  Gus  insisted  on  coming 
up  to  the  apartment  with  me.  I  tried  to  keep  him  out,  but  I  couldn't — 
he  was  drunk.  He  then  tried  to  embrace  me;  I  struck  him  with  all  my 
might.     He  went  into  a  fit  and  died — ^there  he  is — " 

"  Last  Wednesday!     Why,  it's  Sunday  morning  now!" 

"  I  know.  I  couldn't  get  rid  of  him  and  I  was  afraid  to  call  the  police. 
I  have  been  waiting  for  you.  Now  you  are  here.  Take  his  body  away, 
or  I  will  scream  and  we'll  all  hang  together."  She  was  unusually  calm 
now. 

I  don't  know  what  happened  next — it's  too  horrible  to  think  of. 

The  only  thing  I  remember  is  saying  to  a  cab  driver,  "  Oh,  he's  only 
dnmk,"  as  I  carried  that  frightful  corpse  away. 

Now  it  is  four  a.m.,  wagons  are  rattling  outside,  dawn  is  lightening 
the  city.  The  pavements,  all  aglitter  with  rain,  reflect  the  now  dimming 
arc  light  most  uncannily.  In  spite  of  the  roar  of  the  traffic,  I  have  to  throw 
up  my  window. 

The  corpse  of  Mr.  Gus  Pouter  is  crammed  beneath  my  bed. 


CROWDS 
Gerald  Stanley  Lee,  Doubleday,  Page  and  Co,   igij. 

THAT  art  and  poetry  are  being  bruised  unto  death  by  this  age  of 
commercialism  is  a  platitude  to  which,  a  little  less  than  a  week 
ago  I  would  have  added  my  feeble  second.  But  in  that  week 
I  have  read  Crowds  and  have  learned  something  of  Machines  and  the 
still  potential  mightiness  of  the  Dollar. 

Crowds  is  not  a  new  book,  its  last  chapters  were  written  a  year  ago. 
It  is  a  long  book,  its  pages  number  five  hundred  and  sixty-one,  and  at  the 
end  "Finis"  is  not  written,  but  "The  Beginning."  Its  sub-title  is,  "A 
moving-picture  of  Democracy,"  and  its  spirit,  an  American  spirit,  is 
prophetic. 

Let  the  poets  read  the  first  division,  "Crowds  and  Machinery,"  and 
if  they  can  conceive  anything  more  sublimely  poetic  than  Mr.  Lee's  con- 
ception of  our  "sordid"  industrial  life,  let  them  do  it.  They  can  do  it. 
Crowds  is  a  "Beginning."  But  poetry  is  not  to  be  commercialized: 
commerce  is  to  be  poetized.  It  is  being  poetized  by  the  gods  of  the 
"Almighty  Dollar"  when  news  such  as  that  from  the  Ford  factory  is 
spread  broadcast  upon  the  nation,  and  when  such  a  store  as  Wanamaker's 
graces  Market  Street. 

Crowds  is  a  picture  of  Democracy,  American  Democracy,  as  it  is, 
as  it  is  beginning  to  be,  and  as  it  will  be.  But  what  it  will  be  depends 
upon  us.  It  would  be  a  great  shame  to  let  such  help  as  Mr.  Lee  is  offering 
us  go  by  unheeded.  If  we  are  to  be  business  men,  engineers,  journalists, 
preachers,  artists,  poets,  anjrthing,  here  in  one  book,  the  living  utterance 
of  one  man  who  believes  with  all  his  poet's  soul  in  our  souls,  is  the  spirit 
which  will  make  tts  poets.  Here  is  the  spirit  which  will  make  every  hard, 
milled  dollar  a  lyric;  every  bank,  factory,  mine,  or  department  store  a 
temple  to  a  God  of  men — of  men  who  face  a  mighty  age  fearlessly,  and 
instead  of  bewailing  the  death  of  art,  make  of  all  living,  all  barter  and 
grinding  toil,  an  art,  a  religion. 

Although  Mr.  Lee's  book  is  on  crowds,  he  himself  is  an  individualist 
and  looks  to  the  individual  in  the  crowd  for  the  salvation  of  the  crowd. 
He  frequently  quarrels  with  Socialism  for  its  omission  of  the  individual. 
All  men  are  not  created  alike  or  equal.  There  are  "inventors"  and 
"hewers,"  and  the  man  who  makes  them  co-operate,  the  "artist."  So- 
ciety consists  of  individuals  with  individual  capacities.  The  artist  is  the 
man  who  makes  the  individuals  efficient  in  their  places.     Socialism  would 


Lyrics  and  Dramas  113 

do  away  with  capitalists,  inventors  and  such  men  as  A.  G.  Bell,  Marconi, 
Shakespeare,  and  Hill. 

In  a  section  devoted  to  "Newsand  Crowds"  Mr.  Lee  demonstrates  that 
if  capitalists  and  laborers  knew  each  other — had  the  news  about  each 
other — the  labor  problem  would  take  care  of  itself.  In  this  'section  there 
is  much  inspiration  for  the  journalist. 

If  the  capitalists  studied  the  laborers  had  faith  in  them,  and  created 
faith  in  capitalists  upon  the  part  of  laborers,  by  a  careful  and  efficient 
study  and  ministration  to  their  needs  many  problems  would  be  obviated. 
Let  the  man  who  is  going  into  business  read  this  section.  I  have  only  hinted 
at  the  contents  of  one  page  of  it. 

Crowds  is  not  purely  visionary.  Specific  cases  of  "inspired  mil- 
lionaires' '  who  have  had  the  vision  and  joyously  worked  it  out,  stand 
behind  Mr.  Lee's  message. 

The  book  is  big,  its  ideas  are  many  and  big,  and  cannot  be  transcribed 
here.  Many  of  us  have  "heard  about' '  the  book.  Let  many  of  us  read 
it !     It  has  a  broader  vision  of  life  to  give  us,  a  bigger  purpose. 

— E.  M.  Pharo,  '15. 


LYRICS  AND  DRAMAS 
Stephen  Phillips.  John  Lane  &  Co. 

STEPHEN  PHILLIPS'  latest  volume  of  poems,  Lyrics  and  Dramas, 
is  somewhat  disappointing  to  ardent  admirers  of  this  popular  poet. 
Each  of  his  previous  volumes  has  included  at  least  one  long 
poem  of  singular  beauty  and  poetic  expression,  such  as  Marpessa,  Endy- 
mion  or  Orestes,  magnificent  poems  dealing  with  episodes  from  Greek 
mythology.  But  the  present  volume  contains  no  such  work;  with  the 
exception  of  three  short  dramas,  the  poet  has  confined  his  genius  to  lyrics 
on  varied  subjects. 

There  are,  however,  several  beautiful  songs  in  the  present  volume 
which  are  impressive  both  on  account  of  their  exquisite  poetry  and  the 
deep  feelings  which  they  contain.  Lyrics  are  generally  subjective  and 
come  from  the  poet's  real  inner  consciousness.  One  of  them  is  entitled, 
"  Ay,  but  to  die"  and  it  expresses  weariness  with  the  affairs  of  hfe,  and  a 
desire  to  be  rid  of, — 

This  ignoble  war  of  "  how"  and  "  whence," 
The  unglorious  fight  for  necessary  pence. 
Is  the  poet  thinking  of  himself  when  he  writes  that?  Perhaps.   Death, 


114  .^^     The  Haverfordian 


however,  has  often  been  treated  in  his  poems  previously.  He  seems 
fascinated  by  it,  and  loves  to  dwell  on  it.  A  knowledge  of  his  philosophy 
shows  why  he  continually  writes  on  sad,  gloomy  subjects.  He  often 
pictures  the  dead  as  returning  to  the  earth  in  dreams,  as,  for  example,  in 
"My  Dead  Love"  and  "The  Miser  Mother."  He  believes  in  life  after 
death,  a  life  full  of  work  to  make  up  for  sins  committed  on  earth. 

Poems  of  a  more  pleasant  nature  in  the  volume  are  those  dealing 
with  the  different  seasons,  such  as  "An  October  Day,"  "Winter  Dawn," 
"A  Winter's  Night."  Also  the  author  has  a  few  realistic  poems  describ- 
ing phases  of  life  in  the  poverty-stricken  parts  of  the  city.  These  are  clever, 
in  that  they  present  vivid  pictures  in  a  few  well-chosen  words,  but  he  has 
excelled  them  himself  in  his  earlier  volumes  by  such  masterpieces  as  "The 
Woman  with  a  Dead  Soul"  and  "The  Wife." 

Humor  seems  to  have  no  scope  in  Mr.  Phillips'  plan  of  poetry,  but 
for  the  first  time,  in  the  present  volume,  we  find  him  indulging  in  light, 
airy  sketches.  Thus  he  has  an  elaborate  poem  on  cricket,  miodeled  after 
Walt  Whitman  and  called  "Cricket,  I  Sing."  Again,  he  whimsically 
describes  an  up-to-date  suitor  in  "The  Modem  Lover."  There  are  also 
several  poems  on  literary  subjects,  notably  a  sonnet  on  Keats,  and  a 
vivid  poem  describing  Beatrice  Cenci's  murder  of  her  old  father. 

In  the  second  part  of  his  book,  Stephen  Phillips  has  inserted  three 
short  dramas  written  in  his  beautiful  blank  verse.  The  first,  "Nero's 
Mother,"  in  one  act,  deals  with  the  murder  of  Agrippina  by  order  of  her 
royal  son.  This  was  to  have  been  appended  to  the  author's  play  of 
"Nero,"  but  was  omitted  on  account  of  the  length  of  the  drama  as  it  was. 
It  tmdoubtedly  woidd  make  a  good  one-act  play,  as  Mr.  Phillips  suggests, 
but  it  seems  too  short,  and  its  theme  is  one  which  would  meet  with  a 
sympathetic  response  only  from  the  more  educated  class  of  society. 

"The  Adversary,"  another  one-act  drama,  is  not  so  good;  its  theme 
is  old  and  lacks  interest.  The  third  play,  "  The  King,"  is  a  tragedy  in  the 
Greek  style ;  that  is,  it  is  not  divided  into  acts ,  as  the  Elizabethan  plays  are, 
but  it  is  constructed  in  a  continuous  series  of  scenes.  The  portrayal  of  the 
character  of  the  King  is  excellent,  and  the  other  personages  in  the  play  are 
also  well  drawn.  The  scenes  remind  us  somewhat  of  "  Herod,"  especially 
the  livel}'  court  scenes.  "  The  King  "  will  conclusively  answer  the  critics 
who  assert  that  the  work  of  Stephen  Phillips  is  deteriorating,  for  here  he 
exhibits  all  his  former  power. 

By  the  manj^  references  to  Keats  in  his  poetry,  we  suspect  that  Mr. 
Phillips  is  a  devotee  of  that  poet.  In  fact,  his  poetry  resembles  that  of 
Keats,  especially  in  its  Grecian  touches  and  in  its  profuse  word-painting. 
His  poems  do  not  abound  in  music  and  melody  like  Swinburne's,  and,  in 


Eternity  115 

more  recent  days,  Alfred  Noyes'.  On  the  other  hand,  they  are  surfeited 
with  beautiful  and  unusual  thoughts,  expressive  of  all  emotions,  from  the 
most  joyful  to  the  most  tragic.  Stephen  Phillips,  as  a  poet,  is  a  worthy 
although  perhaps  humble  successor  to  the  great  Victorians,  Tennyson 
and  Browning.  As  a  poet-dramatist,  he  easily  excels  them,  for  his 
"  Herod' '  and  "  Nero' '  attained  greater  success  than  anything  ever  staged 
by  them,  or  indeed,  by  any  of  the  modern  poets. — G.  A.  Dunlap,  '16. 


€ternitp 

By  Felix  M.  Morley,  'IS. 

Amid  soft,  rosy  clouds  breaks  forth  the  dawn, 
The  golden  sands  rtm  out  to  meet  the  foam, 
Above  the  stm-kissed  blue  the  seagulls  roam; 
Another  day  is  born. 

Dark,  rain-presaging  clouds  obscure  the  sun, 
Gray,  sullen  waves  roll  dully  in  to  land. 
The  wind  blows  chill  across  the  barren  strand; 
Another  day  is  done. 


Alumni  2Bepartment 


Colonel  Norwood  Penrose  Hal- 
lowell,  ex-  '57,  and  one  of  the  last 
of  the  group  of  Haverfordians  who 
put  the  tenets  of  their  faith  behind 
the  country's  need  during  the  Civil 
War,  died  suddenly,  April  11th, 
at  his  home  in  West  Medford, 
Mass.  Colonel  Hallowell,  while  a 
Harvard  graduate  of  '61,  had 
always  maintained  a  keen  interest 
in  the  affairs  of  his  first  Alma 
Mater  and  one  of  his  last  public 
appearances  was  at  the  New  Eng- 
land Alumni  Association  dinner  held 
in  Boston  on  March  7th.  Here,  as 
president  of  the  Association,  he  was 
the  first  speaker  of  the  evening, 
discussing  the  modem  revival  of 
Quaker  ideals  in  a  way  which  those 
present  will  long  remember. 

Mr.  Hallowell  was  bom  in  Phila- 
delphia April  13th,  1839,  entered 
the  Introductory  Department  at 
Haverford  in  1851,  leaving  two 
years  later.  In  1857  he  entered 
Harvard  University,  from  which  he 
enlisted  as  a  private  in  the  Union 
Army  in  the  Spring  of  1861.  Being 
stationed  in  Boston  he  was  able  to 
take  the  final  examinations  with 
his  class  that  June,  and  besides 
graduating  with  honor  was  the 
deliverer  of  the  Class  Day  oration. 
In  September  of  that  year  he  was 
ordered  to  the  front  with  the  rank 
of  first  lieutenant,  and  remained  in 
active  service  till  severe  wounds 
received  at  the  Battle  of  Antietam 


ultimately  forced  his  retirement 
from  fighting,  though  not  from 
active  service  in  the  cause  of  aboli- 
tion. Perhaps  the  most  noteworthy 
incident  of  Mr.  Hallowell' s  wartime 
experiences  was  his  appointment 
as  colonel  of  the  second  colored 
regiment  ever  enlisted  under  the 
American  flag.  This  was  in  every 
way  a  fitting  honor  to  one  of  the 
most  high-minded  and  devoted 
upholders  of  universal  freedom  this 
country  has  ever  seen,  and  it  is  told 
of  him  that  his  men  "loved  him 
like  a  father." 

After  the  war  he  entered  the 
wool  commission  business  in  New 
York  with  his  brother,  Richard 
Price  Hallowell,  '55,  and  later 
became  a  member  of  the  New  York 
firm  of  Hallowell,  Prescott  and  Co. 
In  1869  he  moved  to  Boston,  where 
he  practised  the  profession  of  wool 
broker,  together  with  many  im- 
portant offices  in  and  around  Bos- 
ton. At  the  time  of  his  death  he 
was  president  of  the  Boston  Na- 
tional Bank  of  Commerce,  presi- 
dent of  the  Middlesex  School,  and 
a  trustee  and  member  of  numerous 
other  organizations. 

By  his  sudden  death  Haverford 
loses  a  most  distinguished  and 
loyal  alumnus,  the  nation  a  citizen 
worthy  of  being  ranked  with  any 
of  the  high-minded  patriots  pro- 
duced by  the  Civil  War. 


Alumni  Department 


117 


Present  Day  Papers  for  April 
contains  several  articles  by  Haver- 
fordians,  George  A.  Barton,  '82, 
has  written  an  epitome  of  the  great 
religious  experience  of  "The  Burn- 
ing Bush,"  which  is  narrated  in 
Exodus  3:  1-15. 

President  Sharpless  has  written 
on  "The  Japanese  Question"  with 
the  strength  and  authority  of  one 
who  has  not  only  been  over  the 
ground  and  made  a  careful  external 
study  of  the  problem,  but  also  with 
the  insight  which  frank  converse 
with  some  of  Japan's  public  men 
has  given  him. 

Allen  C.  Thomas,  '65,  has  con- 
tributed a  scholarly  criticism  of 
Professor  Henry  C.  Vedder's  "The 
Reformation  in  Germany,"  pub- 
lished by  the  MacMillan  Company 
of  New  York. 

Also  the  April  Wcslonian.  A 
number  largely  devoted  to  a  dis- 
cussion of  the  place  various  types 
of  literature  should  occupy  in  the 
minds  of  Friends,  both  young  and 
old,  contains,  among  several  others, 
an  article  on  "Friends'  Attitude 
toward  Fiction,"  by  Alfred  C.  Gar- 
rett, '87,  and  an  editorial  on 
"Reading  Habits  of  Children,"  by 
President  .Sharpless. 

A  matter  of  considerable  interest 
to  all  interested  in  the  Haverford 
Campus  is  the  report  of  C.  Cresson 
Wistar,  '65,  a  member  of  the  Col- 
lege Campus  Club,  that  the  Penn 
Treat}'  Elm  slips  will  be  ready  for 


planting  out  next  year.  In  the 
meantime  the  Campus  Club  will 
select  suitable  locations  for  the  slips 
on  the  college  lawn. 

The  Haverford  luncheon  of  the 
New  York  Alumni  Association  was 
held  on  Tuesday,  April  7th,  at  the 
Machinery  Club,  New  York  City. 
All  present  voted  it  a  most  success- 
ful affair. 

Camp  Timkhannock  is  the  at- 
tractive name  which  Messrs.  C.  M. 
and  Hans  Froelicher,  Jr.,  have 
given  to  the  summer  camp  for 
boj's  which  they  have  founded  in 
the  Pocono  Lake  Preserve,  Pocono, 
Pa.  A  deHghtful  prospectus  de- 
scribing the  aims  and  attributes  of 
the  camp  may  be  had  upon  applica- 
tion to  the  business  manager,  Hans 
Froelicher,  Jr.,   '12. 

'65 

Benjamin  A.  Vail  retired  from  the 
office  of  Circuit  Court  Judge  of  the 
State  of  New  Jersey  at  the  expira- 
tion of  his  term,  January  8th, 
1914.  Since  then  he  has  returned  to 
the  practice  of  law  with  the  firm  of 
Vail  and  McLean,  EUzabeth,  N.  J. 

'75 

Chas.  E.  Tebbetts  has  been 
General  Secretary  of  the  American 
Friends'  Board  of  Foreign  Missions 
for  the  last  six  years,  having  his 
headquarters    at    Richmond,    Ind 


118 


The  Haverfordian 


During  the  past  winter  he  has  been 
leader  of  the  Indiana  State  team  in 
the  United  Mission  campaign,  hold- 
ing conferences  throughout  the 
State. 

'79 

Francis  Henderson  returned  on 
April  first  to  his  home  at  3033 
Queen  Lane,  Philadelphia,  after  a 
short  trip  to  Europe. 


'97 

Edward  Thomas  has  recently 
been  elected  a  member  of  the 
Local  School  Board  for  the  12th 
District  in  New  York,  where  for 
several  years  he  has  been  actively 
engaged  as  an  expert  in  patent 
law. 

Ex-'97 

W.  H.  Macafee  on  January'  first 
of  this  year  obtained  a  desirable 
position  as  Sales  Manager  for  the 
firm  of  Knaush,  Nachod  &  Kuhne, 
international  bankers,  at  1 5  Wil- 
liam Street,  New  York. 


'99 

A.  Clement  Wild,  who  is  in  the 
legal  department  of  the  Chicago 
City  Railway  Co.,  has  moved  his 
ofifices  to  600  Borland  Building, 
105    South    LaSalle    St.,    Chicago. 

His  home  address  is,  1363  East 
50th  St.,  Chicago. 


'01 


E.  Marshall  Scull  has  recently 
announced  his  engagement  to  Miss 
Anne  Price  Johnson,  of  Chestnut 
Hill,   Philadelphia. 


•02 

Arthur  S.  Cookman  is  now  a 
member  of  the  firm  of  Ayres, 
Bridges  &  Co.,  wool  merchants,  of 
Boston  and  New  York.  Mr.  Cook- 
man  is  in  the  New  York  office. 


'03 

We  are  in  receipt  of  an  advance 
number  of  a  carefully  prepared 
class  letter,  from  which  the  follow- 
ing are  excerpts; 

Cary  V.  Hodgson,  of  the  United 
States  Coast  and  Geodetic  Survey, 
left  for  the  West  on  April  16th, 
where  he  will  perform  a  season's 
work  of  latitude  observations. 
Hodgson  will  outfit  at  Denver  and 
employ  a  motor  truck  in  his  oper- 
ations. Starting  from  Denver  he 
will  run  to  western  Texas,  thence 
through  the  arid  districts  of  New 
Mexico,  Arizona  and  California  to 
San  Diego ;  then  over  the  Colorado 
river  and  up  the  state  boundary 
line  of  California  and  Nevada  to 
Lake  Tahoe. 

The  work  of  Robert  L.  Simkin 
has  assumed  such  commanding 
proportions  in  West  China  during 


Alumni  Departmext 


119 


the  last  two  years  that  a  pamphlet 
has  been  issued  giving  a  brief  but 
comprehensive  account  of  his  mis- 
sionary life.  Besides  a  description 
of  his  work  at  the  Chengtu  Union 
University,  is  included  Simkin's 
own  narration  of  the  thrilling  ex- 
periences he  went  through  in  the 
recent  revolution,  known  to  more 
sedentary  Americans  merely  from 
fragfmentary  newspaper  reports. 

Mr.  Simkin  is  now  returning  to 
this  country  via  Europe,  and  his 
address  during  next  year  will  be, 
4  Everett  Ave.,  Ossining,  N.  Y., 
or  after  September  2  5th,  the  Union 
Theological  Seminary,  Broadway 
and  120th  St.,  N.  Y.,  at  which  in- 
stitution he  will  spend  a  year  of 
study. 

J.  E.  Hollingsworth,  of  Green- 
castle,  Ind.,  is  temporarily  manag- 
ing the  Greek  Department  at  De 
Pauw  University,  owing  to  the  ill- 
ness of  Professor  Swahlen,  head  of 
the  department. 

Dr.  George  Peirce  will  be  in 
charge  of  the  Chemical  Research 
Laboratory  of  the  Brady  Urologi- 
cal  Clinic  when  it  opens  next 
October. 

•06 

Francis  R.  Taylor,  '06,  and 
Louis  W.  Robey  announce  that 
they  have  formed  a  partnership 
for  the  general  practice  of  law 
under  the  firm  name  of  Taylor  and 


Robey,  with  offices  in  the  Stephen 
Girard  Building,  Phila. 


Ex- '06 

Donald  Evans,  resident  in  New 
York,  has  admitted  to  the  classifi- 
cation of  a  real  "futurist  poet," 
although  he  decries  the  label.  Mr. 
Evans  has  evolved  a  new  "philos- 
ophy of  inversion"  in  which  he 
declares  that  dilemmas  are  not  to  be 
solved.  One  should  always  act  in 
contradiction  to  the  natural  in 
order  to  experience  impressions 
unknown  by  the  ordinary  person. 
As  is  the  case  in  art,  the  chief 
mission  of  poetry  is  to  make  an 
indelible  picture.  In  order  to  bring 
about  the  desired  effect,  words 
which  appeal  not  merely  to  one, 
but  rather  to  all  the  senses  should 
be  used.  For  instance,  Mr.  Evans 
thinks  the  most  expressive  ad- 
jective for  a  scream  is  "scarlet": — 

And    then     the    scarlet    screams 

stood  forth  revealed. 

Another  line,  considered  by  its 
author  as  worthy  of  attentive 
analysis,  is  the  following: 

A  noise  was  in  her  eyes  that  sang 

of  scorn. 

As  Mr.  Evans  says,  he  endeavors 
to  make  his  phrases  unforgettable. 


'07 

Alexander  N.  Warner  is  now 
President  and  General  Manager 
of  the  Warner  Oil  Co.,  with  offices 


120 


The  Haverfordian 


in     the     Second     National 
Building  of  Titusville,  Pa. 


Bank 


Wilbur  H.  Haines  is  Senior 
Resident  Physician  at  the  German 
Hospital,  Philadelphia. 


The  April  Book  News  Monthly 
contains  an  article  on  Joseph  Con- 
rad by  C.  D.  Morley,  '10.  Andrew 
McGill,  a  well-known  member  of 
the  same  class,  is  conducting  a 
fortnightly  literary  "causerie"  in 
the  Toledo  (Ohio)  Times. 


'08 

Carl  F.  Scott  will  marry  Mis€ 
Dorothea  FauUsig  at  Yonkers,  N. 
Y.,  on  April  the  twenty-fifth. 


'09 

The  Class  will  celebrate  the 
fifth  anniversary  of  its  graduation, 
with  a  banquet  on  Class  Day  night. 

The  engagement  is  announced  of 
Miss  Edna  Louise  Smith,  of  Harlan, 
Iowa,  to  Joseph  Warrington  Stokes, 
of  Holmesburg,  Pa. 

James  W.  Crowell,  who  took  his 
M.  A.  in  Romance  Languages  at 
Haverford  in  1911,  has  been  ap- 
pointed to  a  Teaching  Fellowship 
at  the  University  of  Pennsylvania. 


•10 

Mr.  and  Mrs.  James  Whitall  are 
sailing.  May  9th,  for  England, where 
they  expect  to  stay  for  an  indef- 
inite period.  Whitall  will  contin- 
ue his  study  of  Enghsh  at  the  Lon- 
don University. 


'11 

Henry  S.  Bernard  is  now  return- 
ing from  a  three-year  government 
appointment  in  the  Philippines  as 
supervisor  of  a  department  of  the 
scholastic  sj^stem. 

Frederick  O.  Tostenson,  who  has 
been  studying  in  Europe  lately,  is 
now  at  Heidelberg  University. 

V.  F.  Schoepperle  has  bought 
a  house  in  Maplewood,  N.  J. 

'12 

James  M.  Carpenter  shares  a 
Teaching     Fellowship     at     Cornell 


Aubrey  Howell 


Richard  S.  Dewees 


Insurance 

HOWELL  &  DEWEES 

SPECIAL   AGENTS 

Provident    Life  and   Trust   Co. 

Fourth  and  Chestnut  Streets 
Philadelphia 


Alumni  Department 


121 


which  involves  considerable  in- 
structive duty.  Carpenter  took 
his  M.  A.  in  Romance  Languages  at 
College  last  June. 


'13 

Frederick  A.  Curtis  has  left  the 
employ  of  the  Jessop  and  More 
Company  of  Wilmington,  Delaware, 
and  is  now  in  the  Chemical  Labora- 
tory of  the  American  Writing 
Paper  Compan}'  at  Mount  Holj'oke, 
Mass.  His  address  is,  171  Cabot 
Street. 

Norris  F.  Hall  has  been  ap- 
pointed an  assistant  in  the  Chemis- 
try Department  at  Harvard  for  the 
year  1914-15. 

John  V.  Van  Sickle  has  won  the 
Henry  Lee  Memorial  Fellowship  in 
Economics  at  Harvard  for  next 
year.  This  fellowship  for  resident 
study  is  worth  five  hundred  and 
fifty  dollars  and  is  the  most  val- 
uable award  of  the  department. 

Joseph  M.  Beatty,  Jr.,  will  spend 
next  year  as  a  teacher  in  the  Pom- 
fret  School  of  Pomfret,  Connecticut. 

Norman  H.  Taylor  will  study 
medicine,  probably  at  Harvard. 


Ex-'IS 

The  Lothrop,  Lee  and  Shephard 
Co.  of  Boston  have  just  published 
a  book  by  Mousa  J.  Kaleel,  entitled, 
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122 


The  Haverfokdian 


many  books  about  the  children  of 
other  countries,  but  no  other  group 
like  this,  with  each  volume  written 
by  one  who  has  lived  the  foreign 
child  life  described,  and  learned 
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Haverfordians  will  join  in  wishing 
for  Kaleel  the  success  of  which  this 
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THE    HAVERFORDIAN 


ASSOCIATE  EDITORS 
F.  M.  Morley,  1915  K.  P.  A.  Taylor,  1915 

E.  M.  Pharo,  1915  G.   C.  Theis,  1915 

E.  C.  Bye,   1916 

BUSINESS  MANAGER  SUBSCRIPTION   MANAGER 

Albert  G.  Garrigues,  1916  Edward  R.  Moon,  1916 

Price,  per  year $1.00  Single  Copies $0.15 

The  HaTerfordian  is  published  on  the  first  of  each  month  during  College  year.  Its  purpose 
is  to  foster  the  literary  spirit  among  the  undergraduates  and  to  provide  an  organ  for  the  discussion  of 
questions  relative  to  college  life  and  policy.  To  these  ends  contributions  are  invited,  and  will  be  con- 
sidered solely  on  their  merits.  Matter  intended  for  insertion  should  reach  the  Editor  not  later  than  the 
fifteenth  of  the  month  preceding  the  date  of  issue. 

Entered  at  the  Haverford  Post-Office,  for  transmission  through  the  mails  as  second-class  matter. 

VOL.  XXXVI.  HAVERFORD.  PA.,  JUNE,  1914  No.  4 


Cbitorial  Comment 

DO  WE? 

WE  want  baseball!  Do  not  be  alarmed.  This  is  not  a  universal 
cry.  But  it  is  undeniable  that  it  really  is  the  echo  of  a  more 
or  less  intermittent  voice  that  sounds  in  our  dining-room,  on 
our  campus  and  in  our  halls.  This  cry  also  implies,  we  do  not  want 
cricket,  for  it  is  an  obvious  fact  that  cricket  and  baseball  cannot  both 
have  a  vigorous  existence  at  the  same  time  in  such  a  small  institution 
as  Haverford.  Let  us  turn  for  a  moment  to  the  game  of  cricket  and 
see  if  it  seems  unworthy  to  retain  its  high  place  at  Haverford. 

To  prove  that  we  are  not  going  to  idealize  in  regard  to  this  sport 
we  state  at  the  outset  that  cricket  has  never  had  a  very  impressive  vital- 
ity in  the  United  States.  There  are  very  few  clubs  throughout  the 
country  and  the  games  at  those  places  are  in  truth  few.  This  by  some  is 
accepted  straightway  as  a  proof  that  cricket  as  a  sport  is  quite  unworthy  of 
consideration  by  the  real  American.  The  group  who  make  these  hasty 
conclusions  also  point  out  that  their  belief  is  a  growing  belief.  They 
point  at  the  abandonment  of  cricket  at  Harvard  and  Cornell.  They 
point  at  the  closing  of  such  a  club  as  Belmont.  They  call  to  our  atten- 
tion the  condition  of  cricket  in  the  schools  as  compared  to  former  times. 
But  you  who  feel  your  cricket-loving  hearts  torn  by  the  pain  of  their 


124  The  Haverfordian 

revelations  we  implore  not  to  lament.  There  is  a  bright  path  before  you 
that  has  been  overlooked. 

To  disclose  this  path  to  best  advantage  a  short  narrative  will  suffice. 
Some  two  or  three  weeks  ago  the  third  cricket  eleven  had  a  match  with 
one  of  the  well-known  city  schools,  a  school  which  is  fighting  to  have 
cricket  instated  as  a  major  sport.  The  boys  from  this  school,  as  good  a 
crowd  as  Philadelphia  boasts,  arrived  at  College  at  10.30  A.  M.  and  the 
match  was  on  by  eleven.  The  day  was  a  beautiful  one.  The  big  trees 
that  line  College  Lane  waved  their  fresh,  green  foliage  with  a  faint,  hushed 
whisper.  The  sky  was  perfectly  blue,  as  it  had  been  for  days,  and 
the  crease  was  hard.  On  the  cricket  pavilion  in  the  midst  of  this  wonder- 
ful scene  which  every  Haverfordian  knows  so  well,  the  schoolboys,  except 
their  two  batters  in  action,  in  company  with  some  of  the  first  eleven 
men  and  other  College  cricket  enthusiasts  had  taken  comfortable  places. 
Others  chose  to  walk  in  the  shade  of  the  maples  and  view  the  game  from 
a  difiEerent  angle.  Nowhere  was  there  the  raucous  sound  of  the  nervous 
screams  of  ecstatic  or  fearful  "rooters."  There  was  no  band  playing.  No 
flags  were  waving,  I  should  say,  but  one,  the  stars  and  stripes  on  the  pole 
by  the  pavilion,  but  it  was  not  over  a  frenzied  mob.  It  was  over  a 
group  of  American  schoolboys  actually  sitting  quietly  and  talking 
seriously. 

From  this  little  incident  above,  two  or  three  important  truths  may 
be  drawn.  One  is  the  fact  that  school  cricket  is  a  growing  and  not  a 
dying  thing.  Many  schools  in  Philadelphia  have  recognized  the  value 
of  the  sport  within  a  few  years.  Many  of  the  players  of  these  schools 
we  will  find  are  also  getting  education  in  the  sport  in  the  neighboring 
cricket  clubs.  Then  we  may  state  without  fear  of  presumption  that  when 
the  "baseballers"  object  to  cricket  they  are  objecting  to  a  sport  which 
nevertheless  is  at  present  rapidly  growing. 

In  face  of  the  persistent  baseball  plea,  some  definite  form  of  cricket 
campaign  should  be  planned.  It  is  not  possible  here  to  outline  any  such 
thing  in  detail.  However,  the  fundamental  truth  on  which  the  distinc- 
tion between  right  and  wrong  campaigning  is  to  be  based  can  be  con- 
cretely stated.  The  game  of  cricket  must  either  be  altered  to  suit  the 
Americans  or  the  Americans  must  be  altered  to  suit  the  game.  The  first 
method  has  been  the  unfortunate  method  which  much  American  cricket 
has  tried  to  use.  The  result  was  a  sad  decUne  in  the  sport.  The  ner- 
vous "  bottled-lightning"  individuals  of  the  last  age  turned  from  it  more 
or  less  in  disgust.  It  did  not  fit  them  and  they  wotdd  go  no  further. 
At  last  the  latter  method  is  having  a  trial.  The  effect  is  remarkable. 
Prejudice  being  cast  aside,  the  true  value  of  the  game  is  being  seen. 


Do  We?  125 

The  Americans  are  actually  condescending  to  alter  themselves  to  suit  the 
game.  That  is  why  many  schools  are  willing  to  play  under  such  diffi- 
culties in  order  to  be  able  to  play  at  all.  That  is  why  the  Philadelphia 
Cricket  Club  is  the  scene  each  year  of  a  gathering  of  more  than  forty 
Junior  players.  In  fact  it  is  the  reason  for  the  whole  recent  uplift  of 
the  game. 

What  the  Americans  see  in  the  game  that  is  winning  their  favor  is 
another  question.  They  see  first  of  all  a  sport  which  requires  a  healthy 
amount  of  physical  exercise,  without  endangering  the  heart  or  other  part 
of  the  body.  Then  they  see  the  social  side  of  it — the  pleasant  chatting 
beneath  great  trees,  while  the  moderate  tension  of  the  game  is  ever 
active.  But  the  great  result,  the  result  that  both  players  and  spectators 
are  bound  to  feel,  is  the  inspiration  of  quiet,  gentlemanly  demeanor. 
Every  man  appearing  on  the  cricket  field  is  a  gentleman.  That  is  a 
truth  which  the  whole  history  of  the  game  has  upheld.  Furthermore,  it 
is  a  truth  which  is  happily  making  its  appeal  to  more  and  more  Americans. 
In  the  first  ecstasy  of  freedom  it  seems  that  the  United  States,  revelling 
in  its  new  energy,  ran  along  completely  unbridled  forgetting,  or  not  taking 
time  to  remember  in  many  cases,  the  essentiality  of  being  a  gentleman.  Now 
she  is  waking  up  and  is  grasping  for  everything  conducive  to  this  quality. 
Cricket  has  happily  begun  to  have  its  just  share  in  this  awakening.  That 
is  why  we  urge  every  one  who  possibly  can  to  attend  our  games  on  Cope 
Field.  It  will  not  take  long,  we  feel  sure,  to  discover  and  desire  the 
''cricket"  atmosphere  and  when  there  echoes  across  the  campus  the  cry, 
"We  want  baseball!"  you  will  straightway  answer  with  a  decided 
tinge  of  sarcasm  in  yovu  voice,  "Do  we?" 

John  K.  Garrigues,  Capt.,  '14. 


3n  Mtmovp  of  ?|itjtjarb  Barrett 

No  gift  actuated  by  a  more  beautiful  spirit  has  ever  been  presented 
to  Haverford  students  than  the  endowment  lately  donated  by  Mrs. 
Cornelia  Garrett  in  memory  of  her  son  Hibbard.  This  endowment  is 
dedicated  to  the  fostering  and  encouraging  of  literary  merit  among  the 
undergraduates.  It  seems  to  us  especially  appropriate  that  the  memory 
of  Hibbard  should  in  this  wise  be  recorded.  Yet  in  another  sense  to 
those  of  us  who  knew  him  no  memorial  seems  necessary  other  than 
his  own  words: 


126  The  Haverfordian 

0  Sailor,  weary  of  your  watch, 

Be  not  discouraged  by  night's  pall. 
In  truth,  we  cannot  ever  match 

The  canvas  with  some  Grecian  wall. 
A  mooring  wall  paved  thick  with  vines 
That,  reaching  wide,  the  chain  entwines. 
And  crowning  all,  the  brilliant  flowers — 
Dream-urging,  to  impede  the  hours. 

'Tis  work,  not  dreams,  before  you  now, — 

Strength's  greatest  test  in  labor  lies! 
So  keep  your  gaze  beyond  the  prow. 

And  bravely  straining  salt-filled  eyes. 
However  scorned  the  part  you  play. 
Bear  up,  spray-dashed,  until  the  day. 
Keep  well  the  trust  your  mates  invested 
Your  only  task,  tho'  sorely  tested. 


[To  A  Shipmate.] 


Commencement 

By  Douglas  Waples,  '14 

'Tis  dawn;   upon  a  housetop  stands  the  youth, 

Viewing  the  busy  mart  of  trade  below, 

Where  beggars,  gentlefolk  and  men  uncouth 

Finger  the  wares,  pass  gravely  to  and  fro. 

Intent  he  gazes,  as  each  worthy  man 

Makes  estimation  of  his  property; 

When  these  are  many,  low  he  breathes:  "I  can," 

When  few,  though  brave,  he  sighs  despondently. 

Thus  in  the  agony  of  silent  hope 

Youth  beholds  Manhood  in  its  imminence, 

With  Faith,  like  David's  sling,  prepared  to  cope 

The  armored  Giant  of  Experience. 

The  Patron ;  fancies  he  what  is  to  sell  ? 

The  Future;  yields  it  thorns  or  asphodel? 


Cricfeet  at  i^aberforb  College 

By  a.  C.  Wood,  Jr. 
Reprinted  by  the  kind  permission  of  the  American  Cricketer 

CRICKET!"  exclaimed  Thomas  Hughes  in  his  immortal  "Tom 
Brown  at  Rugby,"  "Cricket!  it's  more  than  a  game,  it's  an 
institution!" — and  there  are  many  men,  some  of  them  Hav- 
erfordians,  some  of  them  not,  some  of  them  still  keen  for  the  game 
through  the  long  summer  afternoons,  some  of  them  content  now  to  sit 
in  the  shade  of  the  pavilion  porch  and  applaud  the  slashing  drive  past 
cover  or  the  quick  catch  in  the  slips,  who  in  echoing  Mr.  Hughes'  words 
will  realize  that  they  are  applicable  in  a  striking  degree  to  Haverford 
College  athletic  history.  Fi-om  that  little  institution  came  the  first  in- 
centive to  the  introduction  of  the  game  of  cricket  in  America;  from  her 
playing  fields  have  come  a  goodly  number  of  the  ablest  cricketers  America 
has  known,  and,  with  the  cricketing  atmosphere  which  she  has  always 
fostered  and  given  to  her  sons,  she  has  also  given  them  ideals  of  high, 
clean  sportsmanship  which  they  can  never  forget. 

Early  Days  of  the  Game 
The  game  was  introduced  at  Haverford  by  one  William  Carvill,  an 
Englishman  who  served  at  the  institution  in  the  capacity  of  gardener. 
This  was  in  1840-41,  when  the  college  was  in  a  precarious  condition  and 
its  actual  existence  was  threatened.  The  crisis  was  passed,  however,  and 
new  life  began.  The  game  was  re-introduced  and  played  by  a  few  of  the 
undergraduates  during  the  next  ten  or  eleven  years,  when  it  began  to 
assume  goodly  proportions  and  command  an  enthusiastic  following. 
There  was  a  zeal  and  vigor  about  this  early  cricket  which  sets  one's  blood 
a-tingle.  Back  in  the  days  of  the  Fall  Term  of  1 85  7  there  were  two  cricket 
clubs  at  the  college  composed  of  the  older  boys,  which  bore  the  classic 
names  of  Delian  and  Lycean.  The  miserable  Freshman  was  in  no  way 
permitted  to  enter  into  this  sport  with  the  higher  gods,  but  was  given  the 
privilege  of  watching  at  a  respectful  distance,  while  his  superiors  slogged 
and  rushed  'round  to  their  hearts'  content.  It  was  a  condition  not  to  be 
borne.  They  determined  that  they  too  would  have  a  cricket  club  and 
play  the  game.  Behold  them  then  collecting  bats  made  by  a  carpenter 
out  of  American  willow,  the  handles  wrapped  with  tarred  twine,  a  set  of 
stumps  made  of  hickory,  and  an  india  rubber  ball  approximating  the 
size  of  a  cricket  ball,  the  whole  outfit  costing  one  dollar  and  fifty  cents. 
Thus  they  were  ready  to  play.     It  was  during  mid-winter  vacation  that 


128  The  Haverfordian 

these  preparations  were  made,  and  when  college  convened  again  the 
ground  was  covered  with  snow,  on  which,  however,  there  was  a  rigid  crust. 
Can  you  imagine  it,  gentlemen,  you  who  play  year  after  year  on  your 
beautiful  fields  with  their  perfect  turf  and  accurate  wickets,  these  boys 
began  their  cricket  career  on  the  crust  of  the  snow !  An  historian  remarks 
that  the  india  rubber  ball  came  in  well  at  this  time  on  account  of  its  water- 
proof quahties.  They  called  their  club  the  Dorian,  and  continued  to 
play  with  much  zeal  through  the  winter,  and  with  redoubled  enthusiasm 
when  the  warm  weather  came.  With  all  these  abstud  conditions  they 
were  developing  a  quick  eye  and  a  steady  hand,  and  the  year  had  not 
passed  before,  out  in  the  meadow  where  the  grass  was  tmmown  and  the 
pitch  was  smoothed  only  by  the  batsmen's  feet,  they  crushed  both  their 
rivals,  and  so  became  in  time  the  focal  point  of  cricket  activity  at  Haver- 
ford,  finally  changing  their  name  to  The  Haverford  College  Cricket  Club. 
Those  were  the  times  when  boys  sold  old  books  and  clothes  for  cricket 
apphances,  sodded  and  rolled  the  creases  themselves,  made  nets,  Uved  in 
the  thought  of  the  game  and  the  chance  of  victory,  but  always  in  the 
love  of  the  sport  of  it  all. 

They  were  great  days,  those  of  the  Dorian  Club.  The  grass  beyond 
the  actual  pitch  being  uncut  offered  a  decided  obstacle  to  the  progress  of 
the  ball,  and  the  scoring  strokes  were,  therefore,  those  which  lifted  the 
ball  above  the  grass  and  the  fielders'  reaching  hands.  Absolutely  unor- 
thodox many  of  them  must  have  been.  Witness  the  fact  that  the  most 
responsible  field  position  was  quite  deep  on  the  leg  side  about  midway 
between  the  wickets.  This  position  was  called  "cover  point  over,"  and 
history  records  that  he  had  much  work  to  do.  On  the  treacherous,  bumpy 
wickets  there  were  few  of  the  niceties  of  play,  few  of  the  brilliant  reper- 
toire of  strokes  which  are  now  at  the  command  of  a  reasonably  good 
batsman.  But  oh,  the  joy  of  those  long-handled,  mowing  swipes  when  a 
good  pitch  was  pulled  off  the  middle  stump  and  sent  soaring  away  to  leg! 
and  oh,  the  delight  of  the  swiper  when  he  saw  "cover  point  over,"  in  a 
vain  attempt  to  stop  the  ball,  leap  bodily  into  the  brook  which  flowed 
below  the  old  playing  field,  in  order  to  save  its  loss !  Good  old  times, 
indeed !     Many  an  eye  kindles  at  the  memory. 

Development  of  Players 
From  strong  beginnings  such  as  these,  mighty  results  must  naturally 
follow.  And  follow  they  did.  The  standard  of  play  was  steadily  raised, 
until  in  Johns  H.  Congdon,  of  the  class  of  '69,  there  was  developed  a 
cricketer  of  the  first  grade.  A  most  skillful  bowler,  a  sound  bat  and  an 
excellent  fielder,  he  stood  at  the  head  of  the  college  players  and  developed 


Crickiit  at  Haverford  College  129 

such  ability  that  he  was  selected  to  play  against  All-England  in  1871. 
He  was,  without  question,  one  of  the  very  best  cricketers  Haverford  ever 
produced.  Joseph  H.  Fox,  '73,  looms  large  on  the  pages  of  the  college 
cricket  history  and  was  considered  the  finest  player  of  his  time.  Then 
Henry  Cope,  '69,  beloved  by  all  the  younger  generation  of  Haverford 
cricketers,  and  F.  H.  Taylor  and  George  Ashbridge,  and  m^any  another 
one  who  to  us  now  are  but  names,  graced  the  Haverford  elevens. 

Little  by  little  a  body  of  active  cricketing  alumni  grew  about  the 
college,  and  in  1879  over  one  hundred  of  her  loyal  sons  gave  her  the 
present  beautiful  playing  field  beyond  the  line  of  maples  and  just  within 
the  shadow  of  Barclay  Hall.  Ten  years  later  the  services  of  a  regular 
professional  coach  were  procured,  that  the  boys  might  have  skilled  in- 
struction, and  shortly  after  that,  the  cricket  shed  for  winter  practice, 
at  the  time  of  its  building  the  only  contrivance  of  its  kind  in  the  world, 
was  given.  The  old  days  of  toil  and  play  with  imperfect  appliances  were 
no  more.  Yet  they  had  borne  ample  fruit.  Now,  however,  there  was 
the  opportunity  for  the  development  of  first-class  players,  and  these 
rapidly  began  to  make  their  appearance. 

"  Some  speak  of  Alexander, 

And  some  of  Hercules, 
And  others  of  Lysander, 

And  such  great  names  as  these  "■ — ■ 

but  it  is  for  me  to  speak  of  the  great  men  of  the  wicket  who  wore  scarlet 
and  black  and  brought  victory  again  and  again  to  their  colors.  George 
S.  Patterson  played  for  the  college  through  two  seasons,  captaining  the 
team  of  1886,  and  set  a  new  standard  for  Haverford  cricket.  Who  does 
not  remember  the  performances  of  this  great  player?  His  splendid 
patience,  his  fierce,  timely  aggressiveness,  his  fine  qualities  of  leadership 
and  field  captaincy.  It  is  pleasant  to  think  that  his  training  was  in  part 
at  least  given  under  the  maples  on  the  old  field  at  Haverford.  Then  in 
the  class  of  '90  came  H.  P.  Baily,  who  proved  conclusively  that  a  bowler 
can  be  bom  arid  then  made.  Many  hours,  history  tells  us,  were  spent  by 
Baily  bowling  at  a  spot,  experimenting  with  different  types  of  breaking 
ball  and  working  for  perfect  control.  The  results :  victory  after  victory 
gained  for  Haverford  through  his  heady  attack  and  later  an  assured  place 
on  any  international  side  representing  Philadelphia.  In  him,  also,  was 
developed,  and  has  lived,  an  enthusiasm  for  the  game  which  has  been  an 
inspiration  to  many  a  young  player.  John  Muir,  '92,  Charles  Rhoads,  '93, 
S.  W.  Morris,  '94 — all  were  good  men,  though  Muir's  is  the  best  known 
name  in  cricketdom.     But  one  likes  to  think  of  Charles  Rhoads  batting 


130  The  Haverfordian 

his  side  to  victory  against  heavy  odds  in  a  crucial  inter-collegiate  match, 
coming  off  with  a  fine  63. 

In  John  Lester,  Haverford  undoubtedly  turned  out  one  of  the  most 
finished  batsmen  this  country  has  seen.  One  of  his  seasons  at  the  college 
resulted  in  the  amazing  average  of  100  X.  The  bowling  of  all  the  Phila- 
delphia clubs  was  treated  by  him  with  quite  sublime  contempt.  Henry 
Scattergood  has,  too,  made  himself  known  as  one  of  the  most  excellent 
of  Philadelphia's  wicket-keepers. 

Tours  to  England 

In  the  year  of  Lester's  captaincy,  1896,  a  new  era  dawned  for  Haver- 
ford cricket.  It  had  been  thought  for  some  time  that  a  trip  to  England, 
where  the  elevens  of  the  best  public  schools,  Eton,  Harrow,  Winchester 
and  the  like,  could  be  met,  would  do  great  good  to  the  development  of 
the  game,  and  at  the  same  time  offer  a  very  rare  opportunity  for  our 
youngsters  to  meet  their  over-sea  relatives  in  friendly  rivalry.  Lester's 
eleven  was  quite  strong  and  set  forth  upon  its  journey  into  foreign  parts 
with  great  expectations.  Nor  were  the  expectations  ill-founded.  A  most 
commendable  number  of  victories  is  recorded,  and,  beyond  all  the  games 
won  or  lost,  there  was  established  a  firm  feeling  of  friendly  interest  be- 
tween the  English  and  American  lads.  Lester's  innings  at  Rugby,  when 
he  carried  his  bat  through  for  135,  and  Henry  Scattergood' s  utterly 
disrespectful  treatment  of  Maud  at  Lords,  when  he  beat  him  to  all 
parts  of  the  ground  in  an  innings  of  88,  are  incidents  which  must  be 
mentioned  as  we  pass. 

The  idea  of  the  English  trip  having  been  thus  well  established,  it  was 
decided  to  make  an  effort  to  send  a  team  over  once  every  four  years, 
thus  enabling  each  undergraduate  to  have  a  chance  of  making  the  coveted 
position  on  the  eleven.  The  stimulus  this  gave  the  game  at  the  college 
was  gratifying. 

In  1900  another  team  was  sent  abroad,  ably  captained  by  Walter  S. 
Hinchman.  The  writer  was  favored  in  being  a  member  of  this  side,  and 
memories  come  flocking  as  the  words  are  written:  The  great  reception 
tendered  us  at  Malvern,  where  the  gray  school  building  stands  on  the 
Malvern  Hills;  the  torchlight  procession  in  our  honor;  the  tremendous 
singing  and  cheering  of  those  six  hundred  boys  drawn  up  on  the  cricket 
field  below  the  school;  the  delightful  hospitality  of  the  masters;  the 
match  and  our  victory — Allen  with  109  and  Patton  with  88,  his  first 
forty-eight  runs  on  successive  boundary  hits ;  the  long  outing  and  inning 
at  Eton,  Roberts  saving  the  day  by  playing  out  time  and  compelling  a 
draw,  there  in  that  wonderful  field,  with  Windsor  Castle  staring  down  at 


Cricket  at  Haverford  College  131 

us  over  the  trees ;  the  dinner  at  Winchester  in  the  great  hall,  with  WilHam 
of  Wykeham's  portrait  looking  solemnly  down  upon  our  merriment,  won- 
dering at  our  levity  in  so  venerable  a  spot;  the  match  at  Lords,  P.  F. 
Warner  and  Stoddart  against  us — wonderful  memories,  all  of  them, 
and  he  is  rich  who  may  at  will  recall  them. 

Again,  in  1 904,  Haverford  cricketers  visited  England.  This  was,  in 
many  respects,  the  best  side  the  college  has  turned  out.  C.  C.  Morris 
captained  it,  and  his  men  right  down  to  the  eleventh  were  experienced 
players.  Morris  himself  batted  magnificently  through  the  trip,  but 
many  others  of  the  side  came  home  with  fat  averages.  One,  however, 
likes  most  to  think  of  the  match  at  Winchester,  when  defeat  seemed 
certain,  and  of  how  "Christy"  Morris,  with  the  help  of  two  faithful 
stickers  at  the  end,  played  through  Haverford' s  second  innings  to  the 
call  of  time  for  147  not  out,  compelling  a  draw  and  saving  the  match  for 
the  college. 

In  1910  England  was  again  invaded  by  a  friendly  Haverfordian 
force,  this  time  under  the  captaincy  of  Harold  A.  Fumess,  without  doubt 
one  of  the  ablest  cricketers  who  ever  played  for  the  college.  What  is  it  to 
speak  of  victories  or  defeats?  The  side  did  well — broke  a  little  better 
than  even  in  their  matches  and  earned  golden  opinions.  Fumess  three 
times  passed  the  century  mark  and  came  home  with  an  average  of  about 
fifty.     Any  one  who  knows  the  game  knows  what  these  figures  mean. 

In  Retrospect 

What  a  change  is  all  this  from  those  early  days  of  the  Dorian  Club, 
when,  for  the  sake  of  the  game,  the  boys  used  clumsy  wooden  clubs  and 
a  rubber  ball  on  the  snow  crust!  But  is  not  all  this  later  finished  per- 
formance a  fitting  heritage  from  that  early  effort  and  enthusiasm?  Cer- 
tainly we  believe  that  it  is. 

And  to  those  of  us  who,  each  in  our  own  time,  in  the  last  favored 
years  have  played  the  game  for  the  college,  memories  come  thronging  as 
the  spring  opens.  Who  can  ever  forget  the  lights  and  shadows  across 
the  campus  as  he  came  out  from  last  recitation  and  hurried  to  his  room 
for  the  change  to  his  cricket  flannels;  or  the  peace  and  beauty  of  the 
picture  as  he  ran  to  the  cricket  field  beyond  the  great  maples,  where  the 
white  figures  were  moving  to  and  fro  and  the  click  of  ball  on  bat  rang 
from  the  nets  through  the  still  afternoon?  Who  can  ever  forget  the  time 
when  his  turn  came  to  go  in  for  a  knock  on  an  afternoon  before  a  critical 
match,  when  it  was  an  even  toss  between  him  and  another  fellow  for  a 
place  on  the  eleven,  and  the  nervous  thrill  as  the  captain  and  the  coach, 
walking  along  behind  the  bowlers,  stopped  to  watch  him  as  he  batted, 


132  The  Haverfordian 

commenting  quietly  on  his  play  before  they  moved  to  the  next  net  ?  Who 
can  ever  forget  the  close-fought  match  when  runs  were  needed  and  the 
shadows  were  creeping  out  toward  the  wicket  and  the  bowlers  and  fielders 
of  the  enemy  were  working  like  well-oiled  machines;  how  he  went  in  at 
the  fall  of  the  sixth  and  patiently  plajdng  himself  into  confidence,  stayed 
with  the  first  batsman  who  was  playing  a  grand  innings  and  only  needed 
a  partner  to  help  him  save  the  day;  how  the  score  crept  up  and  up  in 
spite  of  the  bowling  changes,  and  how  the  Une  of  spectators  under  the 
maples  greeted  each  run  with  a  little  burst  of  applause,  instantly  hushed ; 
how  the  heaven-sent  opportunity  came  to  him  with  a  ball  pitched  up  and 
to  the  off  and  how  he  sent  it  tearing  past  cover  point  to  the  boundary  for 
the  winning  runs — and  the  captain's  triumphant  call,  "  Played  indeed, 
played  indeed!"  Later,  the  dehcious  lassitude  which  follows  successful 
effort  strong  upon  him,  who  can  forget  the  summer  night,  the  moon  over 
the  trees  and  the  shadows  across  the  lawns,  the  tinkle  of  the  mandolins 
from  a  portico  of  Lloyd  Hall,  the  peace  and  quiet  and  contentment  and 
beauty  of  it  all? 

Bright  college  days,  indeed,  and  pervading  them  all,  surrounding 
them  all  in  a  veritable  atmosphere,  is  the  memory  of  the  game  so  many 
of  us  have  played  and  learned  to  love  there. 

" '  Arms  and  the  man,' 

Virgil  began. 
Let  us  proceed  in  the  Mantuan  plan ! 

Arms  and  the  bat, 

Sing  we  of  that; 
The  war  of  the  wicket  knocks  other  wars  flat ! 
Swish !  whack !   hit  her  a  crack. 
Thirty  times  three  for  the  Scarlet  and  Black! 

"Oh  let  us  praise 

Glorious  days 
When  our  brows  were  crowned  with  victorious  bays! 

Who  else  can  be 

Gladder  than  we, 
Scarlet  and  Black  in  the  foremost  to  see  ? 

Swish !  whack !  hit  her  a  crack, 
Thirty  times  three  for  the  Scarlet  and  Black!" 


Ht  ilappeneb  at  Eugler's; 


(Dedicated  with  humblest  apologies  to  the  Class  of  igi4  by  a  mem- 
ber of  the  Class  of  ipij) 

Foreword 
Fellow  Classmates: 

This  little  book,  done  in  purple  and  yellow  at  the  advice  of 
Leonard,  our  budding  art  critic,  I  have  prepared  to  serve  a  double  pur- 
pose. The  first  of  these  is  to  give  to  the  world  Vol.  3  of  our  Class  Letters, 
and  the  second  to  keep  alive  the  memory  of  our  Tenth  Anniversary 
Banquet.  To  this  end,  I  have  set  down  my  impressions  of  the  Class 
as  it  gathered  on  that  immortal  night,  and  I  beg  to  state  that  I  may 
not  be  wholly  accountable,  for  the  exhilaration  of  drinking  a  cocktail 
with  Em  on  one  side  and  Howard  on  the  other  proved  irresistible. 

The  Banquet 

Nineteen-fourteen — ten  years  old!  Bowse,  with  an  eye  to  his 
watch,  assured  me  that  we  had  still  ninety-three  days,  fourteen  hours 
and  thirty-odd  minutes  to  go  (he  couldn't  be  positive),  but  I'm  sure 
we  all  considered  ourselves  ten  from  the  time  when  Champ  pounded 
Polly  with  the  mallet  to  direct  our  attention  from  goblets  to  table- 
places. 

One  empty  chair  out  of  thirty-six?  Who  was  the  absentee?  Specu- 
lation ran  rife.  Not  Capt.  Kelly,  for  everyone  knew  Theodore,  Jr.,  was  at 
that  moment  employing  his  M.D.  and  D.D.  to  convince  a  Chinaman 
of  the  sanitary  and  ethical  disadvantage  of  the  pig-tail.  Not  MacKinley, 
who,  still  under  the  influence  of  the  other  Mac  and  Champ's  famous 
class  classification,  was  showing  the  Bushman  how  religion  and  business 
could  be  combined  for  satisfaction  as  well  as  profit.     We  gave  it  up. 

Champ,  from  his  position  at  the  head  of  the  table,  told  us  how  hard 
it  had  been  for  him  to  break  away  from  the  Iowa  State  Legislature  just 
when  he  was  hoping  to  come  to  blows  with  a  gentleman  who  objected 
to  his  quotation  from  Wordsworth  as  applied  to  the  Six  Hour  Day  Bill. 
He  confessed  somewhat  reluctantly  that  the  woman's  vote  had  brought 
him  to  his  post  of  honor.  Champ  has  grown  a  very  precise  little  mus- 
tache, and  confesses  he  no  longer  weighs  in  as  a  Middle-weight. 

Meanwhile  Male  illustrated  with  Joe's  cutlery  just  how  his  new 
wireless  receiver  worked.  Not  to  be  outdone,  Joe  retaliated  with  a 
description  of  a  device  he  had  just  patented  for  keeping  the  President's 


134  The  Haverfordian 

pencil-point  continually  moist.  "Just  look  at  me,"  he  was  saying,  "I 
can't  seem  to  get  over  115  lbs.,  and  I  never  knew  it  was  the  pencils  gave 
me  lead-poisoning.  I  have  always  marveled  at  St.  Martin's  younger  set, 
and  it's  high  time  I  put  my  feet  in  the  matrimonial  straight- jacket"  (loud 
laughter).  "Anyhow,  I'm  as  tall  as  Doug  and  no  thinner  than  Bill,  so 
I'll  ride  along  some  day." 

At  this  thrust.  Bill,  our  first-married,  removed  his  nose  from  the 
gardenia  in  his  buttonhole,  held  Bob  Smith  and  Bob  Locke  with  the 
grape  in  his  eye,  and  said,  "Well,  it  is  fine  to  have  someone  to  bowl 
home  to  at  night  after  you've  spent  all  the  afternoon  with  a  gold  pen 
and  a  mahogany  desk.  Even  then,  life  would  be  a  hollow  mockery 
without  gardenias  and  Bock  Panatelas.  But  don't  think  I'm  on  easy 
street  because  Tommy  says  I'm  a  menace  to  society.  All  social  workers 
get  that  way  after  they've  made  a  fair  collection  of  jimmies  and  sand- 
bags. Something  that  would  interest  him  is  my  new  cocktail  parlor — 
made  out  of  glass,  with  a  grape-juice  fountain  in  the  middle.  But,"  he 
went  on,  taking  in  the  two  Bobs  again,  "I'm  continually  thankful  for  my 
quiet  wife!" 

A  chuckle,  broken  only  by  Bennie's  rhythmical  snort,  went  round 
the  table. 

Bob  Smith  blushed  as  modestly  as  ever  through  his  silken  whiskers 
and  muttered  to  himself  before  deigning  to  speak: 

"/  had  trouble  picking  a  good  woman  who  was  my  opposite," — 
Bill  looks  crushed, — "and  she  talks  mostly  to  the  little  ones  now — 
coons — I  should  say  croons  to  them!  Moreover,  I'm  very  happy,  be- 
cause I'm  up  on  machine  design  and  the  ambition  of  my  life  has  been 
realized.     I've  invented  a  furnace  that  rakes  and  coals  itself!" 

Pop  Locke  waited  uneasily  for  his  turn.  He  has  aged  more  than 
most  of  us.  There  is  a  small  bald  spot  on  the  back  of  his  head  about  the 
size  of  a  soccer-ball. 

"I  am  also  an  engineer,"  he  said  simply,  "still  living  in  Titusville  and 
interested  in  sound-producing  instruments.  In  that  line  I  have,  as  re- 
ferred to,  a  wife,  and  (though  perhaps  unsuspected)  children.  As  a 
compeer,  I  respect  Edison,  but  firmly  believe  that  complete  control  over 
the  human  voice  can  never  be  obtained.  During  my  hours  at  home  a 
phonograph,  mandoHn  and  comet,  played  loudly,  are  my  solace.  But 
Pat  is  married." 

Until  now,  many  of  us  had  hardly  dared  look  at  Pat.  It  was  so 
brave  of  him  to  come,  prison  pallor  and  all,  that  we  were  determined  to 
make  him  feel  easy.     With  all  his  old  good-nature,  however,  he  responded : 

"I  still  share  with  Edge,"    suiting  the  action  to  the  word,  "the 


It  Happened  at  Kugler's  135 

distinction  of  being  able  to  remove  my  front  teeth  at  will.  Regular  Dr. 
Jekyll  and  Mr.  Hyde.  This  trick  and  the  grass  story  always  take  best 
at  our  Pen-Yan  Minstrels.  In  fact,  it  may  have  led  to  my  downfall, 
for  I  found  that  I  was  just  as  effective  with  the  ladies  at  night  when 
they  were  removed,  and  my  identity  was  also  concealed.  I'm  not  hiding 
the  truth;  no  man,  no  matter  how  well-intentioned,  can  practise  bigamy 
out  of  Utah.  I'm  getting  back  the  respect  of  the  world  through  my 
mail-order  business.  I  never  believed  that  old  Potato-Bug-Extermina- 
tor game  could  really  be  worked!" 

Pat  was  interrupted  by  the  crash  of  an  overturned  chair  at  the  far 
end  of  the  table.  Polly  was  up  in  arms.  "No  waiter,"  he  snarled,  " can 
spill  soup  down  my  neck." 

"Well,"  came  the  slow  drawl  from  the  prostrate  waiter,  "be  sure  it 
is  a  waiter  first!" 

Up  from  the  floor  rose  the  soup-drenched  form  of  Kelsey.  Hell- 
Kelsey,  Bums'  only  rival,  the  greatest  sleuth  of  the  century,  stood  in  a 
state  of  dripping  pacification,  the  waiter's  livery — his  only  disguise — a 
majestic  ruin. 

"I  came,"  he  said  in  solemn  tones,  "all  the  way  from 'Frisco  to  collect 
that  thirty-five  cents." 

Polly  paid  with  good  grace,  and  after  Hell  was  seated  in  the  vacant 
chair,  undertook  to  explain : 

"  When  I  got  my  ice-rink  going  well,"  he  said,  "  Hell  came  in  disguised 
as  a  South  African  after  one  of  my  regular  patrons.  The  ice  was  oh ! 
just  fine  and  fresh-made,  so  every  time  he  fell  I  charged  him  a  nickel. 
Seven  folk  saw  him  on  his  way.  Ice-rinks  are  better  than  coaching 
football  at  De  Pauw  and  writing  sporting  columns.  But  Hell  isn't  our 
only  defective,"  continued  Pol  with  a  wicked  leer  as  he  flcked  a  ripe 
olive  at  Rich's  bald  pate. 

"Ah'm  not  a  detective,"  protested  Rich  with  his  broadest  grin, 
"  ah'm  only  city  Comptroller  and  sheriff,  of  Lord,  Texas.  Of  c'ose  ah  do  a 
little  detectin'  on  the  side,  and  ah  owe  my  presence  here  to  Hell,  who 
saved  mah  life  once  when  ah  was  doin'  a  little  disguise-shaderin'  in  the 
culud  quahtahs.     They  almost  lynched  me  foh  a  nigger!" 

A  high-pitched,  infectious  cackle  broke  the  dramatic  tension.  None 
other  than  Herb  was  enjoying  this  gruesome  recital. 

"That  reminds  me,"  he  said,  cooling  his  brow  in  Harold's  tumbler, 
"of thetimejimmie  Babbitt  and  I  cut  down  the  suicide  at  Chautauqua. 
Desperate  case, — man  had  poison  ivy  from  playing  ball  on  Sunday  and 
hung  himself  with  his  own  red  necktie.  Of  course  we  couldn't  touch 
him  till  the  coroner  came  and  he  died  from  cerebral  hemorrhage  after 


136  The  Haverfordian 

we  got  the  tip  of  his  skull  off.  Rather  a  pity  for  a  good  football  official 
to  die  out  of  harness." 

"  It  all  goes  to  show,"  said  Harold  evenly  as  he  fingered  his  dog-collar 
and  gazed  at  the  wasted  terrapin  before  him  with  aU  his  old  wistfulness, 
"  what  breaking  the  Sabbath  day  can  bring  a  fellah  to.  Still,  round  the 
manse  there's  only  ivy,  and  the  tennis  court  can't  be  seen  from  the 
street." 

"What  /  object  to,"  came  a  bored  voice  from  a  three-foot  cigarette 
tube,  "is  not  the  baseball."  Leonard  settled  himself  comfortably  to 
withstand  critical  inspection.  Bert)^  and  Cecil  luxurious  growths,  and 
— true  to  his  word — ^Augustus,  the  size  of  a  dime,  on  his  chin.  "  Base- 
ball is  rather  nice  in  its  way.  (I  see  Connie  Mack  fanned  thirty-one 
yesterday).  It  gives  nice  old  Italians  the  chance  to  sell  peanuts  and 
cones.  But  I  think  the  arbitrator-chap  showed  such  poor  taste  in  select- 
ing a  red  necktie.  Why,  it's  positively  rude  to  wear  anything  red  at  a 
funeral.  Shoulder  braces  would  have  been  so  much  more  appropriate. 
Some  day  I'm  going  to  write  a  book  called  "Red  Necktie,"  with  the 
scene  laid  in  England  and — " 

"Then  let  me  publish  it.  It's  just  what  the  Pelican  Publishing  Co. 
(that's  Grover and  me)  wants,"  shouted  Willie.  "We'll  make  Fifth  Ave. 
and  Donald  Evans  sit  up  and  take  notice." 

"Leonard,"  warned  Howard,  with  his  eye  on  the  diamond  shirt - 
studs,  "  if  you'll  take  n:y  advice  you'll  let  the  Pelican  have  none  of 
your  work.  Every  day  is  Friday  to  the  Pelican.  The  Elkinton  Cousins, 
as  you  may  know,  are  mantifacturers  of  soda  fountains,  I  am  supplying 
marble  slats,  Fritz — an  invalid  for  five  years  with  chronic  motorcycle 
diseases — furnishing  machinery,  and  I  gas."  (Loud  laugh  from  Benny). 
"  I  also  keep  up  the  literary  end  of  the  house,  write  trade-magazines, 
directions  for  using  milk-shaker,  etc.  Well,  we  let  the  Pelican  have  our 
1924  catalog  and  they  published  it  with  three  lines  and  a  Envoi  on  every 
page — ^nine  volumes  in  all !  Willie  should  have  been  business  manager  of 
the  Record." 

"  Better  still,  he  ought  to  attend  our  New  York  Y.  M.  C.  A.  services," 
added  Mac,  with  crispness.  "I  guess  you  all  know  I'm  director  of  our 
Eastern  Circuit  (that  is  when  I'm  not  in  the  coat-room),  and  making 
a  howling  success  of  it  too,  aided  by  Jessie  P.,  who  answered  the  call 
from  Romania  High  School  just  when  he'd  found  his  way  to  the  principal's 
office,  and  later  established  the  rep.  of  being  the  most  forceful  speaker 
that  ever  preached  on  Blackwell's.  Tommy,  too,  has  complete  supervi- 
sion over  all  the  gyms.     He  can  do  a  front  'most  any  old  time." 

"  Which,  as  the  tutored  mind  might  observe,  is  better  than  letting  the 
front  do  you,"  "Tomlinson,  J.  K.,"  said  a  low-pitched  but  insinuating 
voice  from  a  very  little  man  with  large  shoes  and  a  shock  of  iron-gray 
hair  who  swept  the  table  with  a  furtive  glance  before  continuing :   "  Since 


It  Happened  at  Kugler's  137 

it  seems  incumbent  upon  every  soul  gathered  herein  to  render  an  account 
of  him  or  herself,  I  hereby  take  it  upon  myself  to  state  that  after  my 
conspicuous  success  at  flogging  overgrown  12 -year-olds  at  the  Oilman 
School,  I  received  a  most  flattering  offer  from  Ohio  State  U.  to  teach 
the  world  the  art  of  living.  'Twas  then  that  I  wrote  my  book,  and  then 
that  I  took  unto  myself  a  child-wife  of  surpassing  beauty  and  wisdom 
who  keeps  all  of  my  three  sweaters  in  repair.  Afliliated  with  me  at  this 
institution  of  learning  are  Trubey,  who  graces  the  Grecian  chair,  and 
Bowse,  who,  weary  of  managing  insurance  companies,  one  day  'experi- 
enced the  incomparable  thrill  of  bursting  into  the  knowledge  of  higher 
math.'  But  times  have  changed:  the  society  man  and  the  philosopher 
can  live  in  the  same  house,  in  proof  of  which  I  have  to  confess  that  I  have 
learned  all  my  dancing  steps  from  Lane,  '  the  Vernon  Castle  of  the 
Middle  West.'  And,  unlike  some  members  of  the  class" — indicating 
Stecker — "  I  dance  in  my  own  home  town.     What-ho!"  (Thump). 

Ducking  below  the  table,  Doug  emptied  his  glass  in  Em's  ample 
lap. 

"  Living  on  the  Delaware  as  I  do,"  said  that  worthy,  resting  his  hands 
on  his  46  in.  waistband  in  the  professional  attitude,  "  and  having  a  well 
of  pure  water  in  the  back  yard,  I  have  no  need  of  this  christening.  Re- 
minds me  of  the  time  that  Bud  and  I  had  to  spend  the  night  on  our  own 
tables  in  the  dissecting  room  at  the  U.  of  P.,  and  old  John  laid  us  to 
rest  in  the  brine-box  with  the  rest  of  the  corpses.  Bud  said  he  didn't 
mind  the  stiffs,  but  it  was  awful  to  get  wet  on  such  a  cold  night  with  the 
pigeons  flying  around  and  everything.  I,  as  you  know,  am  the  seventh 
generation  in  Moorestown.  When  I  pass  the  cemetery  1  almost  weep 
to  think  of  what  has  passed  before  me!  Bud,  at  John's  advice,  has 
opened  his  sanitarium  at  Kennett  for  Seniors  suffering  from  the  new  trade 
disease, — Conjunctivitis  Thesis." 

"Yes,  crock  the  suckers,"  came  in  throaty  tones  from  the  grace- 
ful proprietor  of  Haverford  Township,  "  I  now  have  a  very  high  grade  ar- 
ticle of  schoolings,  which  yearly  snaps  out  very  fine  Seniors,  only  they 
have  pink-eye  from  over-workings.  I  am  the  originator  of  that  Cricket 
Infliction.  I  also  keep  my  eye  on  the  College,  and  have  very  fine  tene- 
mentings  at  Preston  with  lily  ponds  and  hayfields  laid  out  by  Ted 
Jones  and  supervised  by  Stew." 

"Oentlemen,"  said  Stew,  rising  with  the  alacrity  of  an  after-dinner 
speaker  who  likes  it,  "  let  me  hasten  to  correct  the  false  impression  that 
the  President  of  the  Main  Line  Commuters'  Association  is  a  landed  aristo- 
crat of  wealth  and  leisure.  My  only  hope  for  riches, — a  simple  device  for 
folding  '  Newses,' — was  promptly  stolen  by  that  ungrateful  sheet.  1  still 
retain  great  interest  in  the  Cap  and  Bells,  attending  the  annual  banquet 
regularly  and  speaking  whenever  possible.  Since  it  is  time  the  class 
began  to  think  of  her  gift  to  the  College,  I  would  suggest  upholstering 


138  The  Haverfordian 

the  seats  in  Roberts  Hall  with  softest  plush  and  candy  boxes,  and 
painting  on  the  ceiling  a  vista  of  Heaven  with  banjo-plapng  philosophers, 
births  of  Venuses  and  a  fair  scattering  of  pink  angels. 

In  concluding,  let  me  put  a  question  to  you:  Who  is  1914's  most 
famous?  Not  Rog,  the  bear  of  the  cotton  exchange;  not  Edge,  the 
man  who  drove  Cyclecars  out  of  the  automobile  field;  not  Jules,  who 
has  just  succeeded  Stotesbury;  not  Bennie,  the  owner  of  lumber 
yards  and  Rosa  Bonheur  horses  with  China  Leghorn  fluff  on  their  hoofs; 
not  Frog  Parker,  the  greatest  "get  away"  artist  the  Feature  Film  Co. 
ever  released;  not  Eddie  Rice,  six-time  candidate  for  the  Rhodes  and 
authority  on  international  law;  not  Ernie,  the  first  man  to  take  pictures 
of  the  peach  in  growth.  Who  then?  I  see  amazement  on  every  face; 
there  still  remains  one  unnamed,  Pivot  of  course.  Pivot, — ^lie  who  in- 
troduced leather  into  the  ice-cream  cone  industry,  blackmailed  by  the 
Bootblacks'  Union  for  his  shoes  that  need  no  polish, — the  man  who,  in 
ten  minutes' time,  converts  cowhides  into  buggy-tops." 

Stew  paused  for  effect  and  looked  around  him.  If  any  had  caught 
the  import  of  his  last  words  they  failed  to  betray  it.  SUd  down  in  their 
chairs,  sprawled  out  on  the  table,  the  class  of  1914  slept  the  sleep  of 
children.  Long  hours  before,  the  last  waiter  had  swept  away  the  last 
crumb  and  tip-toed  silently  from  the  room.  The  candles  were  gutted 
and  smoking;  scarlet  and  black  shades  clung  in  ashes  to  their  frames. 
Even  Pivot,  unmindful  of  his  encomium,  breathed  heavily.  Only  Doug, 
making  bread  piUs,  raised  his  head  and  said,  "  Very  good,  Stewart,  old 
king,  but  somewhat  florid." 

Then,  rising  to  his  feet,  he  pounded  the  table  till  the  fingerbowls 
sang,  and  screamed,  "We'll  jes'  jolly-d — n-well  have  to  sing 'em  a  song ! 
Are  you  with  me.  Stew?     Sing! 

''  In  this  world  of  strife  and  striving 
AU  our  joys  grow  cold — ' " 

Here  and  there  a  protesting  head  was  raised.  "  Cut  him  down," 
mumbled  Polly. 

Stew,  rising  and  tiptoeing  to  the  window  with  all  the  naive  deference 
that  was  "Parker's,"  raised  the  curtain,  and,  putting  his  hand  to  his 
eyes,  gazed  down  on  Chestnut  Street. 

"Gee!"    he  said  solemnly,  "it's  morning." 


An  Adaptation  of  the  Meter  of  R-  Tagore 
By  Jessie  Paul  Greene,  '14 

Farewell,  brother,  our  time  has  come  to  part. 

Four  years,  in  the  daily  round  of  duty,  have  we  toiled  and  rejoiced. 

The  Past  has  been  beautiful;   we  feel  its  force. 

The  Present  we  hold  but  as  a  drop  of  dew  struck  by  the  morning 
sun. 

The  Future  is  expectant  prismed,  spectrum-like,  in  the  knowledge 
of  lessons  learned. 

From  the  blossoming  garden  we  gather  fragrant  memories  of  vanished 
flowers. 

In  the  joy  of  our  hearts  we  feel  the  living  joy  that  oft  sang  heart  to 
heart. 


Farewell,  brother,  out  from  our  finite  selves  we  grow; 

Our  college  days  droop  toward  their  sunset  to  be  drowned  in  golden 
shadows. 

The  hours  trip  rapidly  away,  hiding  our  aspirations  in  their  skirts. 

Our  life  is  short;  it  yields  but  a  few  days  of  love. 

Were  it  but  to  work  how  dull  and  eternally  long  life  would  be. 

But  life  is  not  the  one  old  burden,  our  path  is  not  one  long  journey. 

So  the  joy  of  our  heart  bids  still  to  live  the  joy  that  ever  sang  heart 
to  heart. 


Farewell,  brother,  one  glad,  sweet  song  still  lingers  on  our  lips. 

Our  blood  flows  fast;   our  pulse  beats  sharp  and  strong; 

Ottr  eyes  see  visions  and  our  desires  are  keen. 

We  dream  fond  dreams  of  those  great  deeds  just  beyond  our  present 
ken. 

Freed  from  the  bonds  of  bigotry  and  narrow-mindedness  that  erst 
dragged  us  to  the  dust. 

We  wander  forth  from  Old  Founder's  door  glad  to  have  co-labored 
on  heights  before  unknown; 

And  ever  a  joy  within  the  heart  whispers  of  the  joy  which  once  sang 
heart  to  heart, 


140  The  Haverfordian 

Farewell,  brother,  a  clasp  of  the  hand  and  we  must  part. 

The  world  is  our  field,  full  of  briar-rose  and  hawthorn. 

The  heart  must  be  cheerful,  the  courage  must  be  strong,  the  soul 
must  be  perfumed  purged; 

The  mind  open  to  knowledge  which  ends  only  in  eternity. 

Send  one  bright  ray  into  a  darkened  life ;  place  one  small  flower  in  a 
Spring-less  soul; 

Just  one  clasp  of  the  hand ;  a  brother  is  lifted  and  aided. 

And  the  joy  of  our  hearts  will  feel  the  living  joy  that  oft  sang  heart 
to  heart. 


^f}t  "Cut"  B>vitm 

By  Dean  Palmer 

THE  problem  of  how  to  insure  attendance  at  recitations  and  lec- 
tures is  one  of  the  first  which  arises  in  the  history  of  any  educa- 
tional institution,  but  that  by  no  means  indicates  that  it  is 
one  of  the  first  to  receive  a  satisfactory  solution.  Since  it  is  ever  true 
that  "the  way  to  a  man's  heart  is  through  his  stomach,"  it  might  be 
well  to  require  attendance  at  daily  recitations  as  a  prerequisite  to  at- 
tendance at  the  daily  evening  me'al.  The  colleges  have,  however,  been 
somewhat  slow  in  adopting  such  extreme  measures  to  increase  their 
endowment  funds,  perhaps  because  a  certain  amount  of  contentment 
throughout  the  student  body  is  essential  to  the  very  existence  of  the 
college,  and  an  empty  stomach  spells  contempt,  not  content. 

A  few  of  the  methods  adopted  by  different  institutions  to  produce 
the  desired  result  are  as  follows: 

(1)  Absolute  attendance  is  required;  (2)  a  small  number  of  unex- 
cused  absences,  or  cuts,  is  allowed,  and  necessary  absences  are  excused; 
(3)  a  number  of  cuts  is  allowed  which  must  include  necessary  absences 
of  short  duration;  (4)  no  definite  allowance  of  cuts  is  made,  but  absences 
are  reported,  and  an  excessive  number  requires  explanation  to  the  dean; 
(5)  attendance  is  entirely  voluntary. 

The  first  method  is  that  of  the  preparatory  school,  the  second  and 
third  those  of  the  small  college,  the  fourth  that  of  the  large  college,  and 
the  last  that  of  the  graduate  school.  Nevertheless  an  examination  of 
the  history  of  a  single  institution  such  as  Harvard  College  reveals  a 
progressive  change  from  the  first  method  toward  the  last  which  has 


The  Cut  System  141 

taken  place  coincidently  with  an  advance  in  the  view-point  from  which 
both  faculty  and  students  regard  each  other,  and  marks  a  movement 
away  from  administrative  oversight  toward  student  responsibility.  Self- 
government  has  conquered  one  department  of  college  life  after  another, 
and  it  remains  only  for  the  adoption  of  voluntary  attendance  at  classes 
to  make  the  conquest  complete. 

So  far  as  Haverford  College  is  concerned,  I  do  not  believe  that  the 
process  of  evolution  has  brought  us  to  the  final  stage  of  development 
which  would  make  purely  voluntary  attendance  successful;  and  I 
think  any  one  who  had  listened  for  five  years  to  the  most  plausible, 
ingenious,  and  varied  excuses  which  can  be  invented,  would  agree  with 
that  conclusion.  The  "Cut  System"  now  in  force  is  briefly  the  third 
method  mentioned  above.  Seniors  and  Juniors  are  allowed  ten  cuts 
per  quarter;  Sophomores  and  Freshmen  eight.  Furthermore,  these 
must  be  so  distributed  that  not  more  than  three  are  taken  in  a  course 
meeting  three  times  a  week,  a  similar  proportion  holding  for  other 
courses.  An  "over-cut"  is  defined  as  a  cut  taken  in  excess  either  of 
the  total  number  allowed,  or  of  the  number  allowed  in  a  single  course. 
Stress  is  laid  upon  the  fact  that  necessary  absences  of  short  duration 
must  be  included  in  the  regular  allowance,  and  students  are  urged  to 
save  their  cuts  for  such  occasions.  Appropriate  penalties  are  provided 
in  cases  where  over-cuts  are  taken.  In  order  to  determine  whether 
the  present  system  might  be  regarded  as  working  satisfactorily,  and  also 
to  discover  the  factors  which  give  rise  to  the  over-cutting  which  exists, 
I  have  examined  the  statistics  covering  the  last  five  years,  during  which 
time  I  have  been  Dean. 

The  factors  which  might  be  supposed  to  affect  the  amount  of  over- 
cutting  are  as  follows: — (1)  the  cut  system  adopted,  (2)  the  spirit  through- 
out the  college  as  influenced  by  a  strong  or  a  weak  senior  class,  (3)  the 
individuality  and  experience  of  the  dean,  (4)  the  development  and 
growth  of  maturity  in  a  class  during  its  college  course,  (5)  the  individual- 
ity of  a  class,  (6)  the  seasonal  changes  with  resulting  presence  or  absence 
of  certain  forms  of  athletic  activity.  The  first  three  factors  would 
probably  affect  the  total  number  of  over-cuts  taken  by  the  whole  college ; 
the  next  two  would  cause  variations  in  the  number  taken  by  any  one 
class  during  its  four  years'  course ;  and  the  last  would  produce  differences 
in  the  over-cuts  taken  in  the  four  quarters  of  a  single  year.  I  have 
drawn  curves  showing  the  variation  of  the  number  of  over-cuts  actually 
taken  in  such  a  way  as  to  make  clear,  I  hope,  the  influence  of  the  above 
six  factors. 

Let  us  consider  Fig.  I,  which  shows  the  total  number  of  over-cuts 


142  The  Haverfordian 

taken  by  the  entire  college  during  each  of  the  last  five  years.  The 
numbers  are  obtained  by  adding  together  the  numbers  of  over-cuts 
existing  at  the  end  of  each  quarter.  That  for  the  present  uncompleted 
year  has  been  estimated  by  assuming  a  probable  number  for  the  fourth 
quarter,  and  adding  this  to  the  results  of  the  first  three  quarters.  It  is 
easy  to  see  that  in  1909-10  the  college  indulged  in  an  extraordinary  number 
of  over-cuts,  while  in  1910-11  the  number  was  unusually  small.  The 
maximum  in  1909-10  may  be  explained,  I  think,  by  the  joint  action  of 
three  of  the  above-mentioned  factors,  the  inexperience  of  the  dean,  the 
lack  of  restraining  influence  of  the  senior  class,  and  the  ineffectiveness 
of  certain  provisions  of  the  cut  system  then  in  force.  The  fact  that 
President  Sharpless  was  absent  from  college  during  the  second  half  of 
this  year  is  an  additional  circumstance  which  would  undoubtedly  tend 
to  produce  general  laxity  and '  therefore  an  increase  in  over-cutting. 
In  1910-11  the  dean  had  become  a  little  more  experienced,  a  stronger 
senior  class  had  developed  a  better  college  spirit,  certain  changes  had 
been  made  in  the  cut  system,  and  President  Sharpless  was  at  the  helm 
throughout  the  year.  As  these  circumstances  all  tend  toward  a  reduc- 
tion in  over-cutting,  we  find  a  corresponding  minimum  in  the  curve. 
Considering  the  trend  of  the  curve  during  the  last  three  years,  it  seems 
likely  that  the  most  important  element  in  reducing  the  number  of 
over-cuts  to  that  found  in  1910-11  was  the  change  in  the  cut  system. 

Five  years  ago  Seniors  were  allowed  ten  cuts,  Juniors  eight.  Sopho- 
mores six,  and  Freshmen  four,  per  quarter.  All  -necessary  absences 
such  as  illnesses  from  typhoid  fever  and  broken  bones  to  headaches  and 
stomach  aches,  dentist's  and  oculist's  appointments,  church  holidays, 
etc.,  were  excused,  so  that  a  student's  cut  allowance  was  used  almost 
entirely  for  pleasure,  or  in  case  of  unprepared  lessons.  This  attitude 
led  to  requests  such  as  the  following,  which  was  made  by  two  upper- 
class  men  with  regard  to  a  Freshman : 

"You  know  Mr.  S—  is  a  very  valuable  man  on  the  soccer  team,  and 
he  has  been  seriously  ill  in  a  New  York  hospital  for  some  time.  We 
hear  that  his  disease  has  affected  his  nerves  very  badly,  and  that  he  is 
continually  asking  to  see  some  of  his  college  friends.  So  we  thought  we 
woiild  run  over  to  New  York  to-morrow  and  see  him,  in  the  hope  that 
he  might  recover  more  quickly;  and  we  should  like  to  have  our  cuts 
excused." 

Under  the  present  system  that  trip  to  New  York  might  not  have 
appeared  as  "necessary"  as  it  did  at  that  time. 

Under  the  old  system,  too,  the  members  of  the  faculty  were 
required  to  make  a  report  of  absences  weekly  instead  of  daily,  which 


1909-10      ISio-il  I9II-IZ  I9IZ-I3         1913-M 

Fig.  I   Total  oi^er-cuts  in 
entire  colleoe  per uear. 


^^ 

^ 

10 

0 

/ 

pndi 


Quarter        Cfuarfer      Quarter 

F1G.3   AyeraoQ  number 
of  men  in  em/re  cof/c^e 
over-cuftino p&r  cfuarfer. 


Qaartfr 


144  The  Haverfordian 

made  it  impossible  for  the  dean  to  be  informed  of  over-cuts  until  ten 
days  after  they  might  have  been  taken,  thus  making  it  easy  for  a  stu- 
dent to  run  up  a  long  list  before  it  was  noticed. 

The  rise  of  the  curve  in  Fig.  I  during  the  years  1911-13  is  probably 
partly  normal,  and  partly  due  to  a  defect  which  developed  in  the  new 
cut  system.  A  record  is  kept  in  the  college  office  of  the  absences  reported 
daily  by  the  professors,  and  the  record  was  open  to  inspection  by  the 
students  at  their  pleasure.  There  resulted  a  sort  of  gambling  game 
between  students  and  faculty.  The  former  would  take  cuts  on  one  day 
and  then  rush  to  the  "cut  book"  the  next  to  see  whether  they  had 
actually  been  reported  or  not.  Whatever  else  the  Haverford  faculty  is, 
it  is  emphatically  human,  and  some  of  its  members  are  more  so  than 
others,  so  that  frequently  absences  were  forgotten  or  for  other  reasons 
not  reported.  This  meant  that  just  so  many  more  cuts  might  be  taken 
with  impunity;  and  the  excitement  of  the  game  increased  until  some 
unfortunate  chance  resulted  in  the  unexpected  reporting  of  an  absence 
by  an  ordinarily  forgetful  professor,  and  the  consequent  descent  of  the 
penalty  upon  the  head  of  the  victim  together  with  the  derision  of  his 
friends.     A  most  exhilarating  game! 

This  year  it  was  decided  to  make  the  "cut  book"  private  instead 
of  public,  and  at  the  same  time  to  encourage  each  student  to  keep  an 
accurate  written  record  of  his  own  cuts,  so  that  errors  could  be  readily 
corrected.  As  a  change  toward  greater  student  responsibility  this  was, 
I  believe,  a  move  in  the  right  direction.  A  glance  at  the  curve  shows 
that  the  estimated  number  of  over-cuts  for  the  present  year  marks  a  low 
record  for  the  college.  It  is  not  claimed  that  this  result  is  due  entirely 
to  making  the  "cut  book"  private  property,  but  merely  that  it  has  been 
a  potent  factor  which,  combined  with  an  excellent  college  spirit,  has 
made  over-cutting  less  than  ever  before.  When  it  is  considered  that  a 
single  over-cut  reduces  the  quarterly  grade  of  the  subject  in  wihch  it  is 
taken  by  three  per  cent,  it  is  easily  seen  that  marks  throughout  the 
college  have  suffered  less  than  usual  from  this  cause. 

Fig.  2  shows  the  variations  in  over-cutting  indulged  in  by  three 
different  classes  during  each  one  of  their  four  college  years.  The  old 
cut  system  was  in  force  during  the  entire  time  the  class  of  1910  was  in 
college,  during  the  first  two  years  for  the  class  of  1912,  and  the  class  of 
1914  has  known  no  cut  system  but  the  new  one.  All  three  curves 
show  clearly  a  state  of  affairs  which  we  have  long  known  to  exist  at 
Haverford,  namely,  that  an  increase  in  responsibiUty  and  maturity  out 
of  all  proportion  with  what  might  be  expected  takes  place  between 
Sophomore  and  Junior  year.     Upon  emancipation  from  the  subjection  of 


acfUtYii^/ 


I" 

•♦si 
o 

o 


146  The  Haverfordian 

Freshman  year  we  may  apparently  expect  to  see  the  normal  Sophomore 
class  exuberant  in  its  freedom  from  responsibility,  and  indulgent  in  the 
matter  of  over-cuts.  The  progressive  diminution  of  over-cuts  in  the 
Junior  and  Senior  years  as  shown  by  these  three  curves  indicates,  I 
think,  the  effect  of  the  changes  in  the  cut  system  already  mentioned. 
While  the  comparative  flatness  of  the  curve  for  the  class  of  1914  illus- 
trates well  what  I  have  called  the  effect  of  the  "  individuaHty  of  the 
class" ;  for  in  this  instance,  although  exhibiting  clearly  the  main  features 
of  the  other  curves,  the  actual  number  of  over-cuts  represented  is  very 
much  smaller. 

Upon  examination  of  the  curves  showing  the  variation  of  over- 
cuts  in  any  one  year  from  one  quarter  to  another,  no  definite  conclusion 
can  be  reached,  since  the  number  of  years  covered  by  this  investigation 
is  so  few  and  the  character  of  the  curves  so  varied  that  no  marked  ten- 
dencies are  apparent.  Another  point  of  view,  however,  suggests  itself 
from  which  light  may  be  thrown  on  this  point.  Fig.  3  shows  the  average 
variations  for  the  last  five  years  in  the  number  of  men  in  the  whole 
college  taking  over-cuts  per  quarter,  instead  of  the  number  of  over- 
cuts  taken  by  these  men.  This  curve  shows  an  almost  steady  increase 
from  an  average  of  thirteen  men  in  the  first  quarter  to  an  average  of 
twenty- nine  in  the  fourth  quarter.  Although  cricket,  track,  "spring 
fever,"  the  coming  of  the  close  of  the  term,  the  approach  of  summer 
and  the  consequent  remoteness  of  the  next  succeeding  quarter,  all  may 
have  an  influence  in  producing  this  result,  I  am  not  satisfied  that  the 
influence  is  great  enough  to  accotmt  for  the  observed  increase;  and  the 
obvious  inference  that  the  over-cutting  indulged  in  by  the  men  at  the 
beginning  of  the  year  is  "catching"  must  lead  to  a  search  for  some  new 
method  of  improving  this  situation. 

It  may  appear  that  in  this  discussion  I  have  used  the  ideas  of  cutting 
and  over-cutting  indiscriminately,  assuming  that  any  circumstances 
which  might  tend  to  make  a  student  cut  his  classes  at  all  would  tend  to 
make  him  over-cut  his  allowance.  Strange  to  say  this  is  apparently 
exactly  the  case,  and  it  has  been  brought  out  very  strikingly  as  well  as 
unexpectedly  from  a  study  of  the  above  statistics.  What  psychological 
law  may  be  cited  to  account  for  such  a  situation  I  cannot  tell,  but  that 
the  situation  is  a  real  one  I  have  no  reasonable  doubt. 

In  conclusion,  then,  I  think  it  has  been  shown  that  from  the  statis- 
tics of  the  last  five  years  it  is  not  difficult  to  trace  the  influence  upon 
over-cutting  of  the  original  six  factors  suggested,  namely,  the  cut  system, 
the  spirit  throughout  the  college,  the  dean,  the  four  years'  course,  the 
class,  and  the  four  quarters.     Whenever  several  of  these  combine  to  throw 


Where  the  River  Joins  the  Sea  147 

their  effect  in  one  direction  or  another  we  may  look  for  a  maximum  or  a 
minimum  in  the  number  of  over-cuts.  Furthermore,  I  believe  we  must 
conclude  that  the  new  cut  system  as  modified  this  year  is  better  adapted 
to  our  needs,  and  more  satisfactory  in  its  operation  than  any  system 
that  has  ever  been  tried  before  at  Haverford  College. 


^B^at€gtP>S/^^B'JJ»==:^SS!T 


W\}tvt  tfje  Eitier  Joins!  tfje  ^ea 

By  Felix  M.  Morley,  '15 

The  full,  round  moon  floats  lightly  through  the  sky. 
Weaving  her  radiance  in  the  woof  of  night ; 

On  either  bank  enchanted  landscapes  gleam 
Transfigured  by  the  soft,  etherial  light. 

From  the  fair  hills  that  guard  this  sheltered  plain 
Comes  purling  forth  the  pure,  sweet  spring  of  Life, 

To  go  a-winding  through  fresh  flow'ring  fields, 
Down  to  the  oft  tempestuous  sea  of  strife. 

Where  I  am  drifting,  midst  the  silent  reeds. 

The  shimmering  surface  shows  me  cloudless  skies; 

A  sullen  roar  beyond  the  rocky  point 

Proves  but  too  well  that  there  the  ocean  lies. 

Without  the  harbor  bar  the  moonbeams  dance, 
They  beckon  on,  away,  and  out  to  sea; 

When  the  dawn  breaks  above  that  trackless  waste 
God  grant  my  fairy  visions  stay  with  me ! 


tlTfje  ts:rutf)  is!  at  tljc  €nb 

ByG.  C.  Theis,  '15 

IN  view  of  the  fact  that  next  year  may  see  a  theatre  in  Philadelphia, 
which  will  carry  dramatic  production  in  America  further  than 
any  single  event  in  our  theatrical  history,  it  is  not  amiss  to  close 
this  department  for  dramatic  comment  for  the  year  with  a  few  words 
on  the  production  of  artistic  drama  in  America.  Whether  the  plans 
succeed  for  next  year  or  not,  the  sincere  playgoer  has  reason  to  believe 
that  an  artistic  theatre  is  not  far  off.  At  all  events,  the  more  opinion 
to  that  end  that  can  be  aroused  the  better.  With  two  courses  here 
next  year  devoted  to  drama  and  the  general  increase  of  interest  in  the 
field,  both  of  which  approach  the  subject  in  the  formative  stage,  much 
can  be  done  toward  starting  out  right.  The  students  of  now  will  be 
instrumental  in  determining  the  theatrical  production  which  they  will 
later  have. 

It  is  possible,  perhaps,  to  outline  the  entire  problem  and  make  it 
clearer. 

New  theatres  are  constantly  being  built,  to  which  there  is  a  very 
significant  economic  side,  but  not  one  of  the  large  number  has  been 
devoted  to  else  than  the  more  frequent  production  of  current  commer- 
cial plays  or  motion  pictures.  In  spite  of  the  increasing  popularity  of 
the  playhouse  in  America  no  venture  has  concerned  itself  with  the 
artistic  production.  The  cry  of  many  playgoers,  on  the  other  hand,  is 
that  there  exists  no  supply.  The  manager  who  is  able  to  reconcile  these 
two  sides  has  so  far  not  been  found,  and  America  has  still  to  see  its  first 
artistic  theatre.  [The  reader  will  kindly  endure  that  hackneyed  and 
horrible  word  "artistic" — and  accept  it  in  its  best  meaning.] 

Several  years  ago  a  New  Theatre  was  founded  in  New  York.  Ulti- 
mate failure  was  obvious  from  the  beginning:  the  venture  consisted  of 
money  only.  For  a  number  of  years  there  has  been  a  movement  of 
Little  Theatres.  Whether  these  are  anything  but  a  fad  is  doubtful, 
but  still  remains  to  be  seen.  So  far  the  productions  have  been  hardly 
more  valuable  than  the  commercial,  indeed,  they  are  emulating  them. 
A  fundamental  drawback  is  their  prohibitive  prices.  Winthrop  Ames 
has  given  up  the  repertory  idea ;  so  has  Mrs.  Jay  in  so  far  as  she  ever  had 
any  idea.  I»-J 

Both  of  these  movements  have  deceived  the  layman — for  a  while. 
He  justifiably  asks  what,  then,  does  or  will  mark  an  artistic  theatre. 


The  Truth  is  at  the  End  149 

He  is  skeptical  of  the  "uplifting"  and  experimental  nature  of  the  pro- 
claimed artistic  theatres,  after  being  misled  twice.  A  new  venture  will 
have  all  the  harder  a  row  to  hoe.  Rightly  his  attitude  is  "j'ou'll  have 
to  show  me."  Where  has  the  mistake  been  in  these  previous  ideas? 
It  is  really  obvious — but  he  insists  that  he'll  have  to  be  shown. 

Almost  undoubtedly,  at  least  chiefly,  the  mistake  has  been  in  the 
wrong  emphasis.  Dramatic  productions  consist  of  four  elements:  The 
plays,  the  acting,  the  public,  and  the  theatre.  So  far  the  emphasis 
has  been  put  on  the  last.  The  New  York  New  Theatre  was  a  colossal 
example  of  it;  no  money  was  spared  on  the  building  and  equipment. 
Big  fat  salaries  were  paid  to  everyone  from  director  to  scene  shifter. 
The  Little  Theatres  likewise  have  concerned  themselves  chiefly  with 
decoration— mechanical  appliances,  all  of  which  resulted  in  something 
very  ladylike  and  little  else.  No  wrong  emphasis  can  be  put  on  the 
necessity  of  the  public,  but  it  can  be  put  on  its  nature.  The  public 
always  shows  its  interest  in  a  new  project,  but  there  has  to  be  something 
to  make  it  return. 

What  was  not  emphasized,  all  the  time,  was  the  fundamental  ele- 
ments— plays  and  acting.  Beginning  with  these  and  properly  managing 
the  details  will  mean  the  success  of  an  artistic  theatre  sometime.  That 
this  is  not  impossible  is  evident  from  the  fact  that  it  is  constantly  being 
done  on  the  Continent.  As  a  matter  of  fact  it  is  being  done  in  America — 
curiously  enough  in  a  German  theatre.  At  the  Irving  Place  Theatre 
in  New  York  the  only  attractions  are  plays  and  acting.  The  theatre 
building  is  old  and  ordinary;  the  equipment  is  reduced  to  mere  necessities. 
Yet,  the  past  season  has  been  an  unqualified  success,  except,  of  course, 
nobody  made  a  million.  Although  located  'way  out  of  the  theatre 
center  one-half  of  the  audience  is  English.  Very  little  money  is  spent 
on  advertisement,  of  which  there  is  a  lot  gratis  by  way  of  frequent  men- 
tion and  comparison.  Just  shortly  the  company  from  the  Irving  Place 
went  uptown  to  the  Opera  House  and  the  profits  were  six  thousand 
dollars.  The  only  equipment  was  a  play  and  actors.  The  play  was  a 
German  version  of  Oedipus  Rex.  It  seems  strange  that  a  little  band  of 
players  speaking  in  a  foreign  language  should  be  able  to  succeed  with 
artistic  drama  in  this  country,  where  no  native  company  have  ever 
made  such  an  attempt  with  any  success.  This  company  likewise  pro- 
duced Shaw's  "Pygmalion"  for  the  first  time  in  America — one  of  the 
greatest  contemporary  English  dramatists  produced  in  an  English  speak- 
ing country  in  a  foreign  language! 

What  does  it  all  mean?  Merely,  what  has  just  been  said.  All 
attempts  to  produce  artistic  drama    in  America  have  been  marked  by 


ISO  The  Haverfordian 

placing  the  emphasis  on  the  wrong  elements.  This  is  not  alone  shown 
by  failures,  but  also  by  the  success  of  the  German  company.  The 
latter  have  also  absolutely  nothing  to  offer  but  plays  and  acting — no 
fine  building,  no  extravagant  scenery,  and  so  forth.  Any  student  can 
see  that  the  whole  problem  of  artistic  drama  is  one  of  plays  and  acting. 
Let  him  keep  in  mind  always  to  look  for  them  and  be  satisfied  when  he 
finds  them. 

How  to  determine  the  merit  of  plays  and  acting  is  a  purely  personal 
matter  depending  on  experience  or  knowledge.  One  ultimate  fact  about 
"the  public"  (to  which  the  student  belongs)  is  that  this  poverty-stricken 
body  will  always  applaud  two  things — the  worst  and  the  best.  When 
a  manager  finds  that  the  best  in  drama  consists  of  plays  and  acting 
the  students  will  support  him — the  prospective  theatre  in  Philadelphia 
counts  on  that. 

There  is  no  danger,  however,  that  less  college  students  will  attend  the 
burlesque  theatres.  Appreciative  only  of  vulgarity  there  is  not  a  small 
number  who  support  this  type  of  performance. 


la  Jflunfe'j;  a  Jflunfe 

By  Donald  B.  Van  Hollen,  'IS 

Come,  slam  that  book  and  let's  to  town 

An'  at  the  sign  of  ol'  Pekin 
We'll  have  chow  main  and  omelets  brown 
With  lots  o'  tea  to  guzzle  'er  down. 
We'll  smoke  and  chat;  we'll  philosophise 
An'  show  that  grades  don't  prove  one  wise. 
But  hark !  our  better  self — that  noble  dwarf- 
In  awful  Dean-like  tones  is  wailing  forth: 

"Oh,  seein'  life  is  good  'nuf  dope, 

But  a  flunk's  a  flunk 

And  must  be  passed 
When  65's  your  only  hope!" 


^quae  ^extac 

By  Douglas  C.  Wendell,  '16 

I 

Is  this  the  future  Scourge  of  Rome, 

This  herd  of  German  sheep? 
The  haughty  Roman  smiled. 

Are  these  the  men  of  Rome  we  see, 
These  Dwarfs  with  swarthy  cheek? 

With  scorn  the  Teuton  smiled. 

But,  by  the  night,  when  the  sun  had  set, 
The  ground  was  red,  and  bloody-wet. 

And  Germania  wept  for  her  slaughtered  sons. 
And  whispered  low  to  her  people  so — 

Not  yet!     Not  yet! 

II 

Teutons  fiery,  great  and  fair, 
Romans  wiry,  dark  their  hair, 
Met  at  Aquae  Sextae. 

Onward  pressed  the  serried  wedge, 
Germans  all,  and  each  a  giant. 
Calmly  stood  the  Roman  lines, 
Eager,  lithe,  and  smoothly  pliant. 

Crashed  the  Wedge,  and  pierced  the  line 
All  the  hosts  from  further  Rhine — 

Bloody  Aquae  Sextae ! 
Hold!     The  second  line,  on  edge. 
Breaks  at  last  the  blunted  Wedge — 

Roman's  Aquae  Sextae. 

Teutons  mourned  their  dead  that  night, 
While  Rome  made  merry  o'er  the  fight. 
Victor's  Aquae  Sextae. 

Ill 

Past  the  Time-posts,  ever  taking. 
Come  the  Teutons,  kingdom-making. 
Strength  of  Freemen  downward  rushes — 
Frees  the  lands  that  Empire  crushes, 
Centuries  after  Sextae. 


jaiumni  department 


Haverfordians  who  have  heard 
the  coming  event  forecast  from  the 
Haverford  standpoint  alone  will 
be  interested  to  read  these  Swarth- 
more  sentiments,  culled  from  letters 
read  at  the  New  York  Banquet  by 
A.  J.  Peaslee,  guest  of  honor  from 
Swarthmore. 

Samuel  T.  Stewart 
YO!  YO!  Haverford!— It  is  like 
a  bugle  call  to  an  old  war-horse  and 
I  for  one  will  be  glad  to  hear  it  once 
more  hurled  in  defiance  at  a  Swarth- 
more team. 

Many  times  I  have  held  up  the 
Swarthmore-Haverford  games  as 
examples  of  what  hard-fought, 
clean-played  games  should  be.  I 
do  not  believe  prettier  games  were 
ever  played. 

My  greetings  to  you,  Haverford, 
even  though  I'd  like  another 
chance  at  you  myself. 

Albert  Hall 
I  have  talked  to  many  Haver- 
fordians and  Swarthmoreans,  past 
and  present  devotees  of  the  gridiron, 
and  all  agreed  that  they  had  no 
longer  a  desire  for  the  watchful, 
waiting  policy  in  reference  to  the 
resumption  of  the  annual  football 
contests  between  the  Red  and 
Black  and  the  Garnet.  Further 
discussion  developed  that  "  General 
Disagreement"  should  be  given 
a  broadside  by  both  institutions  and 
that  they  should  meet  again  on  the 
sportsmanlike  basis  of  a  fair  com- 
petitive  contest   for   the   football 


honors  of  Pennsylvania's  real  Quak- 
er Colleges,  and  not  be  misled  by  a 
game  or  a  victory  (occasionally) 
over  the  so-called  U.  of  P.  Quakers. 

George  H.  Brooke 
It  was  very  sportsmanlike  of 
them  to  ask  a  Swarthmore  man  to 
their  dinner.  I  have  long  been  in 
favor  of  a  Swarthmore-Haverford 
game,  because  I  think  it  means 
everything  to  the  football  interests 
in  both  institutions.  They  are 
naturally  rivals  and  I  expect  to  see 
in  the  future,  nothing  but  pleasant 
and  cordial  relations  between  the 
two  institutions.  I  am  delighted 
that  the  old  days  will  be  renewed  and 
whenever  i  t  is  possible,  I  expect  to  be 
on  hand  to  see  the  annual  battle. 

Swarthmore  Club  of  New  York 
The  Swarthmore  Club  of  New 
York  sends  cordial  greetings  to 
the  Haverford  Alumni  in  New  York. 
We  rejoice  with  you  that  athletic 
relations  have  been  established 
between  us,  the  two  Quaker  Col- 
leges   We  expect  to  roll  you 

in  the  dust  of  defeat  next  fall,  but 
whether  we  do  or  not,  the  soil  on 
both  your  uniforms  and  ours  will 
be  the  mud  of  honorable,  sports- 
manlike contest 

Captain  Clime  of  Swarthmore 
It  was  with  the  greatest  plea- 
sure that  I  learned  that  we  were 
to  again  meet  on  the  athletic  field. 
I  am  glad  to  see  our  friendly  rela- 
tions resumed,  as  I  am  sure  that  it 


Alumni  Department 


153 


will  mean  increased  interest  in 
football  as  well  as  a  great  attraction 
for  alumni  of  both  colleges.  Es- 
pecially to  me,  it  is  significant  to 
have  been  chosen  the  leader  of  the 
first  team  to  meet  Haverford  in  ten 
years  and  I  sincerely  hope  that  this 
will  be  a  mere  beginning  of  what  is 
to  come.  In  closing,  may  I  add, 
that  it  is  my  most  sincere  wish  that 
the  better  team  will  always  win. 
With  best  wishes  to  Haverford 
next  year  for  a  successful  football 
team  iiiilil  they  play  Sicartumore, 
etc. 


One  of  the  most  successful  an- 
nual dinners  of  the  New  York 
Alumni  was  held  at  the  Fifth 
Avenue  Restaurant  on  April  28th. 

Almost  fifty  Haverfordians  were 
present,  including  President  Sharp- 
less  and  guests  from  Philadelphia, 
Boston,  Baltimore  and  Pittsburgh. 

It  was  an  enthusiastic  celebra- 
tion of  the  renewal  of  athletic 
relations  with  Swarthmore.  Messrs. 
Peaslee  and  Downing  of  Swarth- 
more, the  latter  a  former  football 
captain,  were  among  the  guests 
of  honor.  Mr.  Peaslee  read  num- 
erous letters  from  the  Swarth- 
more camp  which  indicate  the 
good  will  and  friendship  sure  to 
exist  between  the  two  colleges 
with  the  revival  of  the  football 
games.  With  the  kind  permission 
of  Mr.  Peaslee  we  are  printing 
some  of  these  letters .  Henry  Scat- 
tergood  stirred  up  old  memories  by 
a  review  of  the  Swarthmore  games 
of  days  gone  by  and  outlined  the 
Haverford  athletic  policy. 


Loyal  Haverford  spirit  knew  no 
bounds  when  President  Sharpless 
rose  to  respond  to  the  first  toast. 
Haverford  ideals  and  our  progress 
toward  them  were  subjects  that 
warmed  the  hearts  of  all  Haver- 
fordians. The  possible  physical 
growth  of  the  college  and  the  kind 
of  growth  we  want,  the  generous 
contributions  of  Alumni,  the  type  of 
Haverfordian  we  are  developing 
and  the  value  of  a  Haverford  de- 
gree— were  all  subjects  touched 
upon  by  the  President. 

Another  distinguished  guest  was 
Edward  J.  Hungerford,  alumnus 
of  Syracuse  University  and  author- 
ity on  transportation  problems. 
Mr.  Hungerford  delivered  an  in- 
spiring speech  on  "  The  College 
Man's  Influence  in  the  Small  Com- 
munity." 

Greetings  were  brought  from 
Baltimore  by  Dr.  W.  R.  Dunton, 
from  Boston,  by  Richard  Patton, 
and  from  Pittsburgh  by  Bernard 
Lester. 

Royal  J.  Davis,  of  the  Evening 
Post  editorial  staff,  was  a  prince  of 
toastmasters.  With  a  diplomacy 
truly  Bryanesque  he  welcomed 
the  representatives  of  the  Garnet 
into  the  Haverford  family  for  an 
evening. 

Officers  for  the  ensuing  year  are 
President  J.  S.  Auchincloss,  '90; 
Vice-President  A.  Buselle, '94;  Sec- 
retary V.  F.  Shoepperle,   '11. 

Those  present  were: — President 
Sharpless,  E.  J.  Hungerford,  of 
S^Tacuse  University,  Amos  Peaslee, 
of  Swarthmore  ;  Downing,  of 
Swarthmore,  Sedgwick,  of  Earlham 
College;  G.  R.  Allen  '96,  J.  S. 
Auchincloss,  '90,  H.  F.  Babbitt  '01, 


154 


The  Haverfordian 


W.  A.  Battey  '99,  A.  Buselle  '94, 
M.  P.  Collins  '92,  S.  W.  Collins  '83, 
A.  S.  Cookman  '02,  F.F.  Davis  '93, 
R.  J.  Davis  '99,  W.  R.  Dunton,  Jr. 
'89,  A.  Haviland  '65,  J.  D.  Kender- 
dine  '10,  F.  E.  Lutz  '00,  J.  I.  Lane 
'98,  C.  D.  Morley  '10,  E.  C.  Murray 
'05,  Dr.  A.  T.  Murray  '85,  J.  C. 
Parrish  '59,  S.  Parsons  '61,  R. 
Fatten  '01,  H.  C.  Petty  '99,  E.  R. 
Ritchie  '99,  E.  R.  Ross  '98,  E.  C. 
Rossmaessler'01,Wm.R.  Rossmaes- 
sler  '06,  C.  L.  Seller  '02,  J.  H. 
Scattergood  '96,  F.  Smiley  '12, 
S.  G.  Spaeth  '05,  F.  A.  Swan  '98, 
D.  S.  Faber  Jr.  94,  E.  Thomas  '97, 
W.  C.  Webster  '95,  J.  Wood  '93, 
L.  H.  Wood  '96,  P.  L.  Woodward 
'02,  J.  K.  Worthington  '03,  W. 
Whitson  '08. 

It  is  with  a  deep  sense  of  regret 
that  we  announce  the  death  on 
May  7th  of  Thomas  Lloyd  Baily 
'40,  one  of  the  oldest  of  Haverford 
alumni.  Mr.  Baily  was  born  in 
Philadelphia,  on  March  2nd,  1824, 
and  with  the  exception  of  George  F. 
Shotwell  ex- '38, and  Anthony  Kim- 
ber  '40,  was,  at  the  time  of  his 
death,  the  oldest  alumnus  of  Haver- 
ford. 

Mr.  Baily  entered  the  college 
introductory  department  in  1837 
and  left  during  his  Junior  year. 
After  being  engaged  in  business  in 
Philadelphia  for  some  years  he 
retired  and  in  1871  was  ordained 
to  the  Baptist  ministry, maintaining 
in  this  capacity  charges  at  West 
Chester,  Reading,  and  Pleasantville 
N.  J.  In  1854  Mr.  Baily  was  mar- 
ried to  Caroline  Adelia  Smith  of 
Bellefonte,  Pa.  He  was  author 
of  seven  books   dealing   with   the 


temperance  question  in  a  manner 
primarily  adapted  for  Sunday 
School  usage,  and  also  of  numerous 
poems,  many  of  which  appeared  in 
the  columns  of  Neal's  Gazette. 
During  the  latter  part  of  his  life 
poor  health  had  prevented  his  tak- 
ing an  active  part  in  church  affairs 
and  for  some  years  he  had  resided 
at  the  home  of  his  son.  Dr.  Alfred 
W.  Baily  of  Atlantic  City.  It  was 
here  that  his  death  occurred  in  the 
91st  year  of  his  age. 

During  the  past  month  letters 
have  been  received  from  two  of  the 
older  alumni,  William  Weaver  Potts 
'58,  and  Cyrus  Lindley  '60,  which 
we  take  the  most  sincere  pleasure  in 
printing  below.  It  is  almost  need- 
less to  make  mention  of  the  appre- 
ciation and  gratitude  which  the 
Alumni  Department  owes  to  those 
who  take  such  interest  in  its  work. 

5th  13-14. 

Friend  Morley; — 

Your  postal  at  hand,  contents 
noted.  I  am  on  the  retired  list — 
have  passed  my  three  score  and 
fifteen,  or  in  other  words  am  75 
years  young.  To  show  you  one  of 
the  things  I  have  been  doing  I  en- 
close you  a  postal,  {telling  of  a 
valuable  mineral  collection  pre- 
sented to  the  Montgomery  County 
Historical  Society).  I  am  Chaplain 
of  Post  II  G.  A.  R.  Selected  on 
account  of  early  piety  contracted  at 
Haverford  from  attending  meeting 
1st  days  and  5th  days  for  4  years. 

The  above  reminds  me  of  a 
parady  on  "  Pop  Goes  the  Weasel:" 


Alumni  Department 


155 


We  go  to  church  for  Richards*  sake 
And  think  that  it  will  never  brake 
Until  old  'Maul*  gets  awake 
Then  pop  goes  the  weasel. 

When  from  meeting  we  do  come 
Around  our  heads  the  Bees*  do  hum, 
And  if  we  don't  dodge  both  head 

and  bum 
Then  Pop  goes  the  weasel. 

Snob*  he  plies  the  last  and  awl 
And  makes  the  boots  for  large  and 

small, 
But  when  we  go  to  kick  the  ball 
Then  pop  goes  the  weasel. 

Cuthbert*  plies  the  needle  bright 
And  charges  what  he  thinks  is  right, 
But   when   he   makes   the  legs  too 

tight 
Then  pop  goes  the  weasel. 

1  think  Frank  Walton  was  the 
author. 

If  I  had  devoted  as  much  time 
to  my  lessons  as  I  did  to  sport, 
especially  the  Gym.,  I  would  be 
considerably  smarter  than  I  am. 
I  could  raise  myself  to  the  chin  with 
one  arm — was  an  expert  with  the 
rings  and  parallel  bar.  I  am  thank- 
ful that  I  did  not  injure  my  health 
by  over  study. 

We  had  some  nice  boys  at  school 
from  1851  to  1854. 


♦Johnathan  Richards.  Superintendent. 

*  Maul  sat  at  the  head  of  Meeting. 

*  Bumblebees'  nest  under  the  board  walk 
which  I  prepared  for  business  by  stirring  up 
after  meeting. 

*  LK)uis  Warner,  our  shoemaker. 

*  Was  our  tailor,  and  lived  at  Athensville,  now 
Ardmore. 


The  nicest  and  most  lovable  was 
Dave  Schull.  Then  there  was  Phil 
and  John  Garrett,  Bill  Pancoast, 
Sam  Trouth,  Fred  Arthur  from 
Nantucket  (Whale),  John  and  Will 
Mellor  (Big  and  little  Pig),  Edward 
R.  Wood,  Dick  and  Ned  Hallowcll 
(Shanks) Frank  Walton (Sj'kes), Jim 
Walton  (Mouse)  and  last  and  least 
yours  truly  (Mugs.) 

It  would  take  hours  to  tell  you 
of  all  the  mischief  that  I  was  in. 
How  we  tied  the  can  to  Pete  the 
cats  tail  after  administering  tur- 
pentine—How we  dropped  the  thun- 
der mugs  from  3rd  story  to  base- 
ment. One  lit  along  side  of  Tim- 
my.  He  exclaimed:  "  Och,  Pate, 
what  are  you  knocking  the  pitchers 
off  the  table  for," 

Yours  truly, 

W.  W.  Potts. 

3217    5th   Ave.,    Sacramento,  Cal., 

May  21st,  1914. 
Dear  F.  M.  Morley:  After  some 
delay  I  respond.  All  right  for  us 
to  report.  The  latest  number  of  the 
Bulletin  is  excellent  so  many  good 
addresses ;  and  in  one  of  them  a  feel- 
ing allusion  to  those  old  Alumni 
who  are  too  far  away  to  attend  the 
reunions,  dinners  and  commence- 
ments. I  said,  "  That  means  me  for 
one,"  and  I  highly  appreciate  it. 
Of  the  class  of  1860,  I  am  78  years 
old.  I  should  still  like  a  game  of 
cricket,  and  the  reunion  with  the 
old  fellows  who  still  survive,  but 
circumstances  will  not  permit,  and 
your  cHmate  in  winter  would  not 
suit  me  so  well  as  it  used  to.  Benj. 
H.  Smith,  James  Wood,  Dr.  Tyson, 
Fred  Morris,  are  some  of  my  con- 


156 


The  Haverfordian 


temporaries.  I  have  corresponded 
occasionally  with  them  and  with 
Theo.  H.  Morris  and  Edward  Bettle 
while  they  lived.  Oh !  what  a  hap- 
py part  of  my  life  was  passed  at 
Haverford,  and  I  love  the  institu- 
tion. 

How  I  should  like  to  attend  the 
coming  commencemnt  and  I  could 
endure  the  journey,  but  it  is  ini- 
practicable.  Of  course  I  am  re- 
tired, but  am  still  active  and  inter- 
ested in  the  af :airs  of  the  city,  the 
country,  and  the  church.  No 
Friends  here,  so  I  work  with  the 
Methodists,  and  teach  a  class  in 
Sabbath  school.  I  also  visit  the 
schools,  and  have  the  teachers  and 
the  children  as  my  friends. 

I  have  been  married  twice,  and  a 
widower  for  19  years.  I  have  but 
one  child  living,  Chase;  named  for 
my  glorious  chum,  Richard  W. 
Chase,  whom  the  older  Alumni  will 
remember.  He  is  also  a  widower, 
and  we  live  together.  My  life 
has  been  romantic  and  eventful. 
Both  my  wives  had  been  my  pupils. 
J.  G.  Cannon  and  I  were  school- 
mates in  boyhood,  but  our  lives 
have  been  someivhai  dif'erent. 
Though  I  remain  poor  at  to  this 
worlds  goods,  God  has  been  good 
to  me.  "  The  Lord  is  my  shepherd." 
Cyrus  Lindley. 

This  June  will  make  the  third 
successive  commencement  that  has 
seen  valuable  gifts  presented  to 
the  college  by  those  classes  which 
have  celebrated  their  "  Silver  Cirad- 
uation."  To  the  class  of  '87  Haver 
ford  is  indebted  for  the  handsome 
granite  steps  which  grace  the 
southern    entrance    of     Founders' 


Hall.  The  class  of  '88  field  is  a 
byword  to  those  who  have  plaj^ed 
or  seen  soccer  on  the  handsome 
athletic  grounds  between  the  Mor- 
ris Infirmary  and  the  Observatory. 
This  year  the  class  of  '89  have  per- 
petuated their  name  by  the  dona- 
tion of  a  very  attractive  and  valua- 
ble collection  of  trees  and  shrubs 
which  have  been  laid  out  between 
the  Conklin  Gate  and  the  Skating 
Pond. 

In  this  connection  mention  must 
also  be  made  of  the  '04  class  lamp 
which  has  been  erected  in  front  of 
Founder's  Hall.  The  lamp  stands 
on  the  plot  of  ground  formerly  oc- 
cupied by  the  sun-dial.  Besides 
being  a  great  artistic  improvement, 
it  will  also  be  useful  in  lighting  the 
much-travelled  path  to  the  library. 

The  "  Owl  and  Gridiron,"  Haver- 
ford's  new  honorary  society,  will  go 
into  practical  effect  on  Commence- 
ment Day,  June  ISth,  when  the 
initial  election  is  to  be  held  to  ad- 
mit members  from  the  student 
body.  The  elections  are  to  be  a 
purely  mechanical  and  disinterested 
method  of  selection,  inasmuch  as 
each  candidate  must  have  a  mini- 
mum average  of  83%  throughout 
his  Senior  year,  must  be  the  leader 
of  one  major  college  activity,  and 
at  the  same  time  be  actively  en- 
gaged in  at  least  two  other  activities. 
This  means  that  every  member 
will  be  a  leader  in  those  lines,  both 
scholastic  and  collegiate,  which 
typify  a  true  Haverfordian. 

The  constitution  of  the  society 
states  the  four  purposes  which  make 
up  the  aim  of  its  founders. 


Alumni  t)EPARTME>ft 


157 


(1)  To  be  a  honorary  society  for 
leaders  in  scholarship  and  college 
activities. 

(2 )  To  be  an  incentive  to  under- 
graduates to  do  a  few  things  thor- 
oughly, rather  than  many  things 
partially. 

(3)  To  induce  a  fraternal  spirit 
among  the  alumni  and  undergrad- 
uates, and  to  bring  them  into  con- 
junction. 

(4)  To  enable  the  undergraduate 
members  to  form  a  permanent 
reception  committee  for  visiting 
alumni. 

The  June  issue  of  the  Alumni 
Quarterly,  the  last  of  the  four  is- 
sues of  the  Haverford  Bulletin,  is 
to  contain  a  number  of  articles  on 
subjects  of  interest  to  Haverford- 
ians.  Dean  Palmer  has  contributed 
an  article  dealing  with  the  new 
curriculum,  and  Dr.  Babbit  has 
written  concernig  "  The  College 
and  Gymnasium  Work."  Among 
the  recent  books  by  Alumni  are, 
the  Cuneiform  Inscription  reviews 
written  by  George  A.  Barton  '82 ; 
an  essay  on  Milton  by  Alden  Samp- 
son, '73;  and  Clarence  Hoag's,  '93, 
"Theory  of  Interest."  These 
works  have  been  treated  at  greater 
length  in  recent  Haverfordians. 

An  anonymous  letter  written  by 
an  alumnus  is  in  the  editor's  hands, 
advising  a  more  energetic  attempt 
to  interest  preparatory  school  stud- 
ents in  the  advantages  of  Haver- 
ford College. 

Among  the  Anniversary  Papers 
by  Colleagues  and  Pupils  of  George 
Lyman  Kittridge,  are  to  be  found 
two  by  Haverfordians:  "  The  Moth- 
er-in-Law,"  by  Dr.  F.  B.  Gummere 
'72    and   "The   Narrative  Arts   of 


the    Old    French    Fableaux,"    by 
W.  M.  Hart,   '92. 

The  Haverford  Summer  School 
has  as  instructors  the  following 
alumni,  Drs.  George  A.  Barton,  '82; 
Rufus  M.  Jones,  '85  ;  and  H.  J.  Cad- 
bury,  '03.  Dr.  Jones  will  serve  as 
Vice-President,  Dr.  Cadbury  as  Sec- 
retary and  Oscar  M.  Chase,  '94, 
will  be  Treasurer  of  the  School. 

'67 
William  P.  Clark  has  withdrawn 
from  business  on  account  of  ill 
health  and  is  now  living  in  retire- 
ment. His  address  is  Paonia, 
Colorado. 

'82 
George  A.  Barton  published 
early  in  April,  Part  III  of  the 
Haverford  Library  Collection  of 
Cuneiform  Tablets.  The  volume 
contains  fifty- four  plates  of  auto- 
graphed texts  and  a  list  of  all  the 
proper  names  in  the  three  parts. 
About  3300  persons  are  mentioned 
in  these  texts.  This  volume  com- 
pletes the  publication  of  the  Haver- 
ford tablets. 

J.  H.  Morgan  is  in  the  farming 
and  real  estate  business  in  Alva 
Oklahoma.  His  home  address  is 
Ingersoll,  Okla.,  Rural  Route  No.  1. 

'86 

William  H.  Savery  is  now  located 
in  Chicago,  111.,  in  the  interests  of 
the  Parson's  Smoke  Consumer  Co., 
a  concern  which  manufactures 
appliances  for  reducing  smoke  and 
coal  gas  in  railwa}-  terminals  by 
perfecting  combustion  in  the  lo- 
comotives. 


158 


The  Haverfordian 


'87 
Alfred  C.  Garrett  of  German- 
town  on  May  the  second  addressed 
the  Friends  of  Cambridge  on  "  Un- 
ity among  Quakers."  He  urged 
that  the  two  branches  endeavor 
to  reach  a  common  ground  of 
agreement.  Several  Haverford 
alumni  were  present. 


William  Draper  Lewis,  th^  Wash- 
ington Party  nominee  for  governor, 
and  Dean  of  the  University  of  Penn- 
sylvania Law  School,  has  prepared 
for  the  joint  committee  of  the  Senate 
and  House  a  revision  of  the  Cor- 
poration Laws.  This  revision  will 
be  presented  for  final  adoption  a 
year  hence.  Several  laws  affecting 
the  regulation  of  public  utilities, 
the  emploj-ment  of  women  and 
children,  and  the  like,  which  are 
now  in  whole  or  in  part  on  the 
statute  books  of  the  state,  have 
been  drafted  under  the  direction 
of  Dean  Lewis.  In  addition  to 
this  Mr.  Lewis  has  also  been  of 
great  service  to  the  Conference  on 
Uniform  State  Laws,  a  body  ap- 
pointed under  the  acts  of  the 
several  states,  to  prepare  laws 
which  are  then  adopted  without 
alteration  by  the  different  states. 
Dean  Lewis'  special  work  for 
this  committee  has  been  concerned 
with  the  codification  to  the  Law  of 
Partnership. 

'91 
J.  W.  Hutton,  who  was  principal 
of  the  Friends'  School  at  Barnes- 
ville,  Ohio,  has  announced  his  en- 
gagement to  Miss  Ellen  Cope,  of 
Winona,   Ohio. 


'92 

Christian  Brinton  expects  to  sail 
shortly  for  Russia  in  order  to  make 
an  extensive  study  of  modern 
Slavonic  art.  Mr.  Brinton  has  pub- 
lished several  articles  on  this  sub- 
ject, and  is  going  abroad  with  the 
intention  of  arranging  for  an  im- 
portant exhibition  of  contenipo- 
rary  painting  and  sculpture,  for 
which  he  will  prepare  the  official 
catalogue. 

Mr.  Brinton  also  has  an  article 
in  the  June  number  of  the  Cosmo- 
polilan  entitled  "  Caro-Delvaille, 
Artistic  Dualist."  This  painter, 
Mr.  Brinton  says,  has  "  succeeded  in 
spite  of  success."  The  statement 
while  seemingly  paradoxical  is  sup- 
ported by  the  fact  of  the  artist's 
early  and  startling  success,  "  which 
might  well  have  disturbed  the 
equilibrium  of  a  seasoned  exhibi- 
tor." The  author  compares  Del- 
vaille's  work  to  the  masterpieces 
of  Titian,  Velasquez,  and  Goya, 
and  cites  his  dual  nature  as  being  at 
once  a  "  chronicler  of  modern  femi- 
nine grace  and  elegance,  and  a 
passionate  devotee  of  the  antique 
beauty  of  form."  The  text  is  ac- 
companied by  illustrations  of  the 
painter's  work,  which  show  clearly 
that  "  in  him  nature  and  circum- 
stance have  conspired  to  produce 
happy  results,"  and  that  he  is  one 
of  the  most  eloquent  living  expon- 
ents of  the  classic  tradition. 

•94 

Under  the  title  of  "  Eric  and 
Enid"  there  has  just  appeared  in 
Everyman's  Library  a  translation 
of    the    four    complete    Arthurian 


Alumni  Department 


1S9 


romances  of  Chretien  de  Troyes, 
with  an  introductory  essay,  library 
notes,  and  a  bibliography.  The 
volume  is  the  work  of  Professor 
WiUiam  Wistar  Comfort  of  Cornell 
University,,  and  makes  at  last 
accessible  to  English  readers  the 
earliest  Arthurian  romances  ex- 
tant: Erec  and  Enide,  Cliges, 
Yvain,    and  Launcelot. 

Charles  J.  Rhoads  has  been 
nominated  for  President  of  the 
Federal  Reserve  Bank,  Philadelphia. 

'95 

Samuel  H.  Brown  has  been 
awarded  an  Austin  Scholarship  at 
Harvard  University. 

•97 

vVilliam  W.  H.  Macafee  has  re- 
signed his  position  with  Calla- 
way, Fish  and  Co.,  and  is  now  with 
Knauth,  Machodanci  Kuhne,  Bank- 
ers, New  York  City. 

'98 
Dr.  WilHam  J.  Cadbury  plans  to 
leave  Canton  early  in  July  for  his 
year's  furlough,  returning  by  way 
of  Siberia.  Dr.  Henry  J.  Cad- 
bury, '03,  will  meet  him  in  Vienna 
and  they  will  spend  some  time 
together  in  Europe. 

'01 
Edward  Marshall  Scull  was  mar- 
ried  on   May   26th   to   Miss  Anna 
Price    Johnson    of     Germantown, 
Philadelphia. 

'02 
An   interesting    contribution    to 


the  field  of  translation  is  the  recent 
work  of  Charles  Wharton  Stork, 
who  has  published  various  poems 
in  English  for  a  series  called  the 
German  Classics  of  the  Nineteenth 
and  Twentieth  Centuries,  edited 
by  Kuno  Francke,  of  Harvard 
University.  This  series  is  em- 
bodied in  twenty  volumes,  of 
which  volume  seven  contains  most 
of  the  translations. 

Mr.  and  Mrs.  Stork  are  spending 
this  summer  in  Europe. 

Dr.  Spiers  has  recently  had  pub- 
lished by  D.  C.  Heath  &  Co.,  an 
edition  of  Honore  de  Balzac's  Eu- 
genie Grandet.  Dr.  Spiers  also  had 
an  article  in  the  May  number  of 
"Modern  Language  Notes"  on 
the  teaching  of  French  Grammar. 

A.  C.  Wood  is  playing  cricket 
again  with  Moorestown  and  as  usual 
is  one  of  the  mainstays. 

The  seven  "poets"  of  the  class 
of  1902  held  their  annual  meeting 
at  the  Franklin  Inn  on  the  ISth 
of  May. 

'05 
Mr.  and  Mrs.  Harold  H.  Cookman, 
of  Brooklyn,  N.  Y.,    announced    on 
April  16th,  the  birth  of  a  son.  Pren- 
tice Clark  Cookman. 

'06 
Roderic  Scott,  who  has  spent  the 
past  year  as  a  Y.  M.  C.  A.  worker 
in  St.  Petersburg.  Russia,  returned 
on  furlough  in  May.  He  will  spend 
the  remainder  of  the  summer 
months  in  this  country,  and  in 
August  expects  to  be  married  to 
Miss    Agnes    Kelly,    daughter    of 


160' 


'The  HAVERFORDlArJ 


President  Robert  Kelly  of  Earlham 
College. 

Mr.  and  Mrs.  D.  E.  Allen  of  Wil- 
mette,  111.,  announce  the  engage- 
ment of  their  daughter  Maud  to 
Jesse  D.  Philips  of  Chicago.  Mr. 
Philips  is  liow  employed  in  the  wall- 
paper department  of  Sears,  Roe- 
buck and  Co. 

T.  K.  Brown,  Jr.,  has  an  article 
on  "Class  Reunions"  in  the  June 
issue  of  the  Alumni  Quarterly. 

'07 

Dr.  Wilbur  H.  Haines  finished 
his  twenty-seven  months  of  service 
with  Dr.  John  B.  Deaver  at  the 
German  _  Hospital,  on  April  the 
first  of  this  3^ear. 

Dr.    Haines    has    opened  offices  at 
1906    Chestnut    St.,    and   will   be 
pleased  to  greet  any  of  his  Haver- 
ford  friends. 

The  Haverfordian  joins  in 
wishing  Dr.  Haines  a  very  success- 
ful career. 

Harold  Evans  was  married  on 
May  1st  to  Miss  Sylvia  Hathaway. 

Ex- '07 
Richard Cadbury,  Jr.,  has  moved 
his  membership  of  monthly  meet- 
ing from  Haverford   to   Wilming- 
ton,  Delaware. 

'08 

Carl  Forse  Scott  was  married  in 
St.  John's  Episcopal  Church,  Yon- 
kers,  N.  Y.,  to  Miss  Dorothea  Taus- 
sig, on  Saturday,  April  2Sth.  A- 
mong  the  ushers  were  three  Haver- 
fordians,  all  of  '08,  Carrol  Brown, 
of  Westtown,  Pa.;  T.  Morris Long- 


streth,  of  Rosemont,  Pa.;  and 
Howard  Burtt,  of  Philadelphia. 
Mr.  Scott  is  an  electrical  engineer, 
with  the  Sprague  Electrical  Works, 
New  York. 


Stylish  Clothes 


Pyle,  Inne« 
b  Barbieri 

TAILORS 

^      TOR-     ^> 

MEN  AND  BOVS 


1115  WAbNUT  ST., 
PHII^ADELPHIA. 


you  are  not    under  the    slightest 


The  unusual 
as  well  as  the 
conssrvative  ia 
shown  here 
among  the 
1,500  new 
styles  of 
Spring  Cloths. 

We  are  al- 
ways studying 
and  learning 
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161 


'09 

Reynold  A.  Spaeth  has  been 
awarded  one  of  the  Graduate 
Sheldon  Fellowships  at  Harvard 
University.  These  are  worth  $1 ,000, 
and  in  accordance  with  the  terms 
of  the  trust,  are  awarded  to  such 
persons  as  are  deem  most  deserv- 
ing for  purposes  of  investigation 
or  study  either  in  this  countr}-  or 
abroad.  vSpaeth's  work  will  be 
done  in  Zoology. 

Robert  Lindley  Murray  Underhill 
has  been  appointed  to  the  Henr}' 
Bromfield  Rogers  Memorial  Fel- 
lowship at  Harvard,  which  provides 
for  a  3'ear's  study  in  a  German  uni- 
versity. 

The  marriage  of  Alfred  Lowrie, 
Jr.,  to  Miss  Grace  S.  Bacon  of 
Haddonfield,  N.  J.,  will  take  place 
on  the  twenty-fourth  of  this  month. 

Fred  A.  Myers,  Jr.,  was  married 
in  May  to  Miss  Margaret  Culbert- 
son. 

Lawrence  C.  Moore,  M.D.,  has 
resigned  his  position  as  interne  at 
the  Presbyterian  Hospital  and  is 
now  Assistant  Medical  Director  of 
the  Wanamaker  Store. 

F.  Raymond  Taylor,  who  re- 
cently' completed  the  Universit}' 
of  Pennsylvania  medical  course,  is 
now  an  interne  in  the  Germantown 
Hospital. 

M.  H.  C.  Spiers  will  open  a  school 
at  Devon,  Penna.,  this  fall. 

'10 

The  marriage  of  Christhopher 
D.   Morley  to  Miss  Helen     Booth 


Fairchild  thhk  place  in  New 
York  on  June  third.  Mr.  and 
Mrs.  Morley  will  be  at  home 
after  June  fifteenth  at  24  Oak 
Street,   Hemstcad,    Long    Island. 

'12 

Douglas  P.  Falconer  was  married 
to  Miss  Margery  Annesly  Hoyt  at 
the  bride's  home  in  Montclair,  N. 
J.,  on  June  5th.  Owing  to  illness 
in  Miss  Hoyt's  family  the  wedding 
was  a  small  one,  Foley,  '12,  Miller, 
'12,  Durgin,  '12,  and  Falconer,  'IS, 
being  the  Haverfordians  present. 

Falconer  was  recently  elected 
president    of    the    Social    Workers 


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29  SOUTH  SEVENTH  STREET 
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162 


The  Haverfordian 


Society  of  Newark,  N.  J.  In  this 
connection  he  was  a  delegate  at  a 
Social  Welfare  Convention  in  Mem- 
phis,  Tenn. 

L.  M.  Smith  expects  to  return 
home  from  Japan  in  the  near  future 
for  his  summer  furlough. 

F.  G.  Smiley  attended  the  recent 
banquet  of  the  New  York  Alumni 
in  New  York  City. 

Robert  E.  Miller  served  as  a 
captain  of  a  team  of  young  business 
men,  in  a  recent  seven  day  cam- 
paign in  Lancaster,  which  success- 
fully raised  $100,00  toward  the 
building  of  a  new  Y.  W.  C.  A. 
Miller's  team  ranked  third  out  of 
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Stacey  Beebe  is  employed  with 
the  American  Art  Company,  in 
Cincinnati,  Ohio. 

W.  H.  Steere  is  travelling  in 
Michigan  and  Illinois  for  the  Rhoads 
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THE    HAVERFORDIAN 


Yoshjo  Nitobe,  Editor-in-Chief 

ASSOCIATE  EDITORS 
F.  M.  Morley,   1915  K.  P.  A.  Taylor,  1916 

E.  M.  Pharo,   1915  G.   C.  Theis,  1915 

E.  C.  Bye,   1916 

BUSINESS  MANAGER  SUBSCRIPTION   MANAGER 

Albert  G.  Garrigues,  1916  Edward  R.  Moon,  1916 

Price,  per  year $1.00  Single  Copies $0.15 

The  Haterfordian  is  published  on  the  first  of  each  month  during  College  year.  Its  purpose 
is  to  foster  the  literary  spirit  among  the  undergraduates  and  to  provide  an  organ  for  the  discussion  of 
questions  relative  to  college  life  and  policy.  To  these  ends  contributions  are  invited,  and  w,ll  be  con- 
sidered solely  on  their  merits.  Matter  intended  for  insertion  should  reach  the  Editor  not  later  than  the 
fifteenth  of  the  month  preceding  the  date  of  issue. 

Entered  at  the  Haverford  Post-Office,  for  transmission  through  the  mails  as  second-class  matter. 

Vol.  XXXVII  HAVERFORD.   PA.  OCTOBER,   1914  No.   5 


THE  beginning  of  a  new  year  at  Haverford  marks  an  anniversary 
which  ought  to  be  of  utmost  importance.  This  is  the  anni- 
versary of  resolutions  or  of  "effort  of  attention,"  to  use  William 
James'  phrase,  when  he  notes  that  "  effort  of  attention  is  the  essential 
phenomenon   of   will." 

As  the  shooting  of  an  arrow  implies  a  target,  so  does  the  launching 
of  a  resolution  imply  an  ideal.  At  this  college  we  identify  it  with  Hav- 
erford. We  feel  that  it  is  a  very  actual  and  potent  reality,  but  at  times 
there  is  a  mist  that  hides  it  from  our  view.  At  such  moments  we  ask 
ourselves,  what  is  the  Haverford   Ideal? 

Then  if  we  pause  to  think  whither  we  are  striving,  we  find  that 
there  is  no  summit  worthy  of  attainment,  no  ideal  worthy  of  Haverford 
men  excepting  that  founded  on  spirituality. 

And  in  order  that  this  spirituality,  which  is  nothing  more  or  less 
than  the  right  relationship  between  a  man  and  his  life,  may  pervade 
all  Haverford,  it  is  necessary  that  we  emphasize  it  to  a  far  greater 
extent  than  is  now  done. 

At  Haverford,  the  Y.  M.  C.  A.  is  the  tangible  means  towards 
gaining  this  ideal  and  therefore  deserves  special  emphasis. 


164  The  Haverfordian 

The  only  way  in  which  good  may  be  received  from  the  Y.  M.  C.  A., 
the  only  way  in  which  a  man  can  support  the  Y.  M.  C.  A.,  is  to  take 
an  active  part.  And  an  active  part  does  not  necessarily  mean  being  on 
any  committee. 

It  does  mean  that  the  students  are  determined  to  make  the  Y.  M. 
C.  A.  the  dominant  factor  in  college  life  by  their  earnestness  at  meetings, 
by  their  sympathy  with  the  speakers  whoever  they  may  be,  by  their 
reverence  for  Christian  ideals  and  traditions  whether  at  Thursday 
meeting  or  on  Wednesday  night — above  all  by  making  their  lives 
harmonize  with   the  purposes  of  the  Association. 

There  is  no  greater  evidence  that  we  are  falling  far  short  of  the 
Haverford  Ideal  than  the  fact  that  men  hesitate  to  come  out  unre- 
servedly for  Christ  and  that  they  shun  the  word  "religious."  In  this 
Christian  institution  the  man  should  be  marked  out  as  different, 
regarded  as  "queer"  and  as  an  object  of  suspicion  who  is  not  a 
Christian,  rather  than  he  who  is  endeavoring  to  be  one. 


^n  3bpU 

By  Douglas  Waples,  '14. 

When  the  drowsy  kiss  of  evening  beckons  down  the  golden  dreams 

And  the  things  that  are  seem  those  that  used  to  be, 
Then  I  love  to  see  her  standing  with  her  hair  tossed  by  the  wind; 

By  the  west  wind  as  it  whispers  to  the  sea. 

When  she  smiles  her  lips  are  playing  with  a  teasing  charm  of  old, 

On  me  she  smiled,  and  smiled  but  on  a  boy; 
Yet  I  standing  there  adored  her  as  the  Argives  worshipped  Helen; 

Helen  gazing  o'er  the  battlements  of  Troy. 

As  she  speaks  her  low  laugh  trembles  like  the  carol  of  a  lark. 

And  dies  away  an  ever-living  tune 
'Till  I  think  Fll  e'er  be  solaced  by  that  memory  of  evening; 

That  eve  with  her, — the  nightingales, — and  June. 

Yet  now  this  silver  twilight  grows  o'ercast  with  darker  memories — 

Twin  eyelids  stare  into  eternity — 
And  yet  I  know  that  they  are  looking  toward  the  shore  where  we  shall  meet, 

And  where  the  west  wind  comes  and  whispers  to  the  sea. 


into  tl)e  Xanb  of  Cricfeet 

By  John  K.  Garrigues,  '14. 

ALL  ashore  'at's  goin'  ashore!"  Then  the  hurrying  of  crowds, 
the  crowding  up  to  the  rails  for  a  last  word  of  farewell,  a  long 
whistle  and  the  steamer  Minnehaha  is  in  the  channel,  off  for 
England.  A  Long  and  Fast  on  shore  is  vociferously  answered,  while  another 
cheer  marks  the  raising  of  the  scarlet  and  black  to  the  masthead.  Be- 
fore we  can  realize  it  the  first  dinner  bugle  has  wheezed  out  a  feeble 
but  none  the  less  promptly  answered  summons,  and  instantly  we  are 
all  lined  up  to  enjoy  our  first  meal,  as  indeed  we  enjoyed  them  all  except 
for  one  sad  occasion.  I  refer  to  the  solitary  time  when  Jim  Carey's 
hypnotism  method  made  Bill  Webb  appear  to  be  green  and  also  brought 
a  noticeable  droop  to  Coleman's  usually  Kaiser-esque  mustachios. 
Many  letters  and  telegrams,  circulated  during  lunch,  emphasized 
inspiringly  the  hofies  and  good  wishes  which  Haverfordians  old  and  new 
put  in  our  venture,  a  spirit  which  always  supported  us,  no  matter  how 
great  the  all-powerful  Britisher's  game  seemed  in  comparison  with  ours. 

The  pleasures  of  the  ocean  voyage  I  will  not  try  to  depict.  A  con- 
versation with  any  member  of  the  team  will  conclusively  show  how 
untiringly  ethereal  it  was.  But  however  divided  our  pursuits,  though 
one  found  a  rare  volume  a  sufficient  companion  for  a  day  of  pleasure, 
while  another  preferred  the  everlasting  charm  of  honeyed  phrases 
and  the  pensive  enjoyment  of  murky  nights,  every  evening  found  the 
whole  team  banded  together  in  the  bow  "to  sing  our  college  praises 
and  watch  the  shadows  fall."  "Balm  of  Gilead"  received  some  new 
additions.  "Captain  Claret  in  the  Minnehaha  garret"  could  not  be 
neglected.  Then  Mr.  Cope,  who  seemed  to  be  quite  worried  by  the 
apparent  leaning  of  the  whole  team  toward  the  fair  sex,  was  (in  the 
proper  meter)  earnestly  implored  not  to  elope.  When  our  whole 
store  of  more  or  less  harmless  harmony  was  exhausted  we  would  again 
turn  to  other  pursuits  with  renewed  visions  of  the  finest  place  in 
the  world  and  renewed  hopes  of  bringing  glory  to  its  name. 

Before  we  could  realize  it  we  were  again  on  terra  firma,  but  a  soil 
quite  foreign  to  the  boots  of  all  except  Christie  and  Mr.  Cope.  Our 
first  train  ride  in  England,  that  from  Tilbury  Dock  to  London,  brought 
clearly  home  to  us  what  manner  of  land  we  were  invading.  Every 
vacant  lot,  it  seemed,  found  a  gathering  of  children,  small  and  large, 
male  and  female,  about  some  stumps,  while  miniature  cricket  bats, 
substituted  boards  and  every   other  imaginable  apology  for  a  trusty 


166  The  Haverfordian 

willow  were  being  busily  plied  in  cutting,  driving  and  pulling.  To  tell  the 
truth,  it  really  startled  us  to  find  a  place  where  infancy  was  considered 
no  drawback  to  the  great  game.  We  shuddered  to  think,  those  of  us 
who  had  been  Juniors  in  some  cricket  club  at  home,  how  stunted  our 
pampered  game  had  been  in  comparison  with  this  one,  so  full  of  the 
love  of  the  sport,  no  matter  how  crude  the  means  of  indulging  in  it 
happened  to  be.  However,  by  this  time  we  too  had  formed  a  real  love 
of  the  game  and  the  national  significance  here  only  added  zest  and  am- 
bition   to    our    conquests. 

After  London  had  been  reached  it  did  not  take  long  to  hunt  out 
the  two  most  famous  of  cricket  matches  in  the  country,  i.  e., 

Kennington  Oval  and  Lord's,  and,  thanks  to  the  very  kind  hospitality 
of  the  Surrey  C.  C.  and  the  Marylebone  C.  C,  we  were  not  long  in  be- 
coming at  home  in  both  of  these  places,  although  neither  one  staged  any 
of  our  matches. 

It  would  be  mere  folly  to  try  to  express  in  writing  the  many  new 
sensations  of  those  first  days  in  England.  The  greatness  of  London 
is  quite  overwhelming  to  one  who  has  ne\'er  seen  it  before.  However 
we  were  saved  from  complete  bewilderment  through  its  circuses,  which, 
by  the  way,  we  found  quite  devoid  of  wild  "beasties"  and  painted 
chariots,  and  its  rampant  crooked  lanes  by  the  singleness  of  our  purpose. 
A  certain  well-known  dealer  in  all  sorts  of  attire  and  suitable  accessories 
for  cricket  had  a  great  rush  of  business  for  about  a  day  and  then,  lo  and 
behold!  the  whole  team  appeared  in  a  blaze  of  white  glory  for  the  first 
practice.  The  second  day  nicely  took  the  wobble  out  of  our  sea  legs 
and  made  us  all  eager  for  our  first  match. 

Now  starts  an  existence  that  is  filled  to  the  brim  with  the  game 
we  were  seeking.  To  attempt  a  minute  description  of  the  experiences 
of  the  whole  trip  would  be  too  great  a  burden  for  these  pages.  The 
concrete  results  of  the  matches  may  be  gotten  from  other  sources. 
The  impressions  of  the  land  we  invaded  and  the  spirit  of  the  game  we 
played  are  to  be  the  theme  here. 

First,  a  word  or  so  about  the  style  of  English  cricket  seems  to  be 
in  order.  From  our  matches  we  were  not  slow  to  discover  many  important 
facts  about  the  basis  of  the  play  against  us.  Precision  was  obviously 
the  keynote  of  the  British  style.  Every  man,  whether  a  forcing  bat  or 
a  "sticker,"  must  be  sure  of  his  strokes.  Shrewsbury  very  painfully 
showed  us  how  this  method  brought  results,  when  a  quiet-looking 
fellow,  coming  in  at  the  fall  of  the  fifth,  calmly  mastered  bowling  which 
had  reaped  the  first  six  wickets  for  113  runs,  until  he  had  contributed 
a  solid  total  of  91  and  given  his  team  a  fine  total.     In  other  cases  the 


Into  the  Land  of  Cricket  167 

same  thing  happened,  although  this  first  match  had  taught  us  to  be 
always  on  the  alert  throughout  the  opponent's  innings  at  the  bat. 

This  precision  of  batting  had  a  very  good  effect  on  our  bowling, 
which  in  turn  learned  the  great  value  of  accuracy.  The  Charterhouse 
and  Repton  matches  toward  the  end  of  the  trip  show  quite  well  the  great 
improvement  in  our  bowling.  Charterhouse  on  a  plumb  wicket  used 
four  and  one-half  hours  to  put  together  170  runs,  while  Repton  required 
three  hours  for  147  and  our  bowling  analysis  showed  no  less  than  28 
maiden  overs.  In  batting  the  same  carefulness  appeared  and  there  were 
many  first-class  innings  played. 

While  cricket  was  the  primary  interest  that  brought  us  to  the 
various  schools  and  clubs,  it  was  not  only  on  the  cricket  field  by  any 
means  that  we  had  the  pleasure  of  meeting  our  opponents.  Besides 
making  our  sojourns  on  their  fields  most  pleasant  (for  they  were  always 
ready  to  clap  and  cheer  our  men),  and  giving  us  a  vast  fund  of  expe- 
rience, they  were  at  all  other  times  most  cordial  in  welcoming  any  who 
came  under  the  name  of  Haverford.  Haverford  indeed  proved  a  magic 
word,  which  everywhere  opened  doors  to  let  us  enter  among  the  most 
hospitable  of  people.  When  at  length  we  had  to  journey  on  our  way 
from  one  place  to  another  we  always  did  so  with  the  jolly  English  "three 
cheers"  ringing  in  our  ears,  which  we  used  to  answer  with  our  "war 
cry,"  as  they  called  it,  much  to  their  delight.  We  left  all  places  with 
the  same  firm  handshake  and  warm  smile  which  clearly  told  us  how 
great  a  bond  then  existed  between  all  who  felt  the  spirit  of  cricket. 

Let  me,  to  give  one  glimpse  of  the  delightful  way  in  which  we 
enjoyed  the  charm  of  England,  sketch  a  little  picture.  Uppingham 
School  lies  on  the  top  of  a  steep  hill,  with  the  quaint  old  buildings  of 
the  village  nestled  about  it.  The  headmaster's  house  faces  off  to  the 
northeast  over  open  country.  From  the  entrance  of  this  house  to  the 
valley  the  ground  is  beautifully  hedged  and  terraced.  The  very  top 
terrace  has  enclosing  it  a  rustic  fence  and  hedge  and  also  a  walk  along 
it  has  this  same  rustic  covering,  which  was  profusely  covered  with  the 
sturdy  vines  of  many  full-bloomed  pink  rambler  roses.  Below  this 
walk  there  was  the  most  beautiful  little  garden  of  bright  flowers,  lark- 
spur, hollyhocks  and  all  sorts  of  other  blooms  contributing  their  patch  of 
color.  Now  on  the  very  top  terrace  in  the  shadow  of  some  very  old  buildings 
(one  of  them  of  the  fifteenth  century),  there  was  a  fine  little  plot  of 
soft  English  turf.  On  this  our  little  band  had  gathered  on  the  eve  of 
the  third  match  under  the  clearest  of  skies  and  the  brightest  of  moons. 
All  of  the  college  songs  were  sung  and  then  the  talk  ran  rampant  on 
many  subjects.     Doctor  McKenzie,  the  headmaster,  joined  us  for  a 


168  The  Haverfordian 

while  and  the  spirit  of  the  Old  and  New  Worlds  met  in  our  conversation. 

At  times  like  this  we  realized  at  least  partially  how  such  an  at- 
mosphere as  this  could  lead  to  the  development  of  the  great  sport  of 
cricket.  The  whole  surrounding  of  quaint  old  buildings,  of  dainty 
little  gardens  and  of  green-hedged  meadows  seems  to  join  in  making 
cricket  what  it  is.  From  town  and  from  country,  men  of  trade  and  men 
of  business  gather  in  a  unanimous  spirit  of  good  fellowship  and  good 
sportsmanship.  The  stability  of  an  old  nation,  the  stability  in  fact 
of  all  things  old,  has  found  its  place  in  the  game.  All  people  of  all  ages 
find  their  place  on  some  team.  While  children  are  holding  their  strenuous 
matches  on  the  commons  the  better  prepared  turfs  stage  matches  of 
much  more  skill,  but  the  same  omni-present  air  of  gentility  appears 
on  every  crease.  It  seems  that  there  could  be  no  better  medium  for  the 
strengthening  of  loyalty  to  the  nation,  a  nation  of  such  extreme  solidarity, 
than  this  great  sport,  for  on  the  crease  all  men  are  equal  and  all  men 
can  clasp  hands  through  a  bond  of  national  interest. 

After  returning  to  London  from  our  early  trip  to  the  north  we  had 
many  chances  to  prowl  among  the  historical  haunts  of  England's  past 
as  well  as  present.  One  could  sit  on  the  stone  edging  of  the  Victorian 
Embankment  some  clear,  starry  night  and  straightway  be  whisked  off 
mentally  to  view  the  spirits  of  London's  past.  In  such  a  condition  it 
was  not  hard  to  see  an  imaginary  bark  creeping  down  the  Thames 
with  Mr.  Micawber  proudly  standing  in  the  bow,  his  telescope  raised 
aloft  and  his  sailor  hat  cocked  on  one  ear;  or  Mr.  Peggotty  placidly 
smoking  his  pipe  in  a  bay-window  overhanging  the  river.  A  short  stroll 
along  the  river  suddenly  exposes  the  silhouetted  grandeur  of  the  Parlia- 
ment buildings  looming  up  in  the  evening  sky  with  a  besilvered  stretch 
of  water  at  their  base.  Here  at  appointed  times  the  men  at  the  head  of 
the  nation  pondered  long  on  the  nation's  interests,  but  when  their  gath- 
erings were  over  they  too  could  be  seen  on  some  cricket  grounds  with 
their  fellow  countrymen.  It  was  amazing  how  great  a  call  the  game 
had  for  every  class  of  person.  The  old  natives  of  quaint  little  villages 
meet  the  city  folk  on  a  common  basis.  Hobbs,  the  "Ty"  Cobb  of 
England,  is  known  everywhere  and  his  innings  closely  followed  and  the 
same  is  true  of  many  other  countrymen.  However  the  average  healthy 
Britisher  is  not  merely  content  to  follow  the  successes  of  the  cricket  celeb- 
rities. He  too  desires  to  become  proficient,  so  commons  and  club  alike 
see  representatives  of  all  sides  of  England's  national  life  joining  hands 
for  sport's  sake  whenever  holidays  permit. 

Cricket  in  our  land  can  obviously  boast  no  such  hold  at  present. 
It  seems  that  the  game  of  one  and  one  half  hour's  duration,  a  game  of 


Into  the  Land  of  Cricket  169 

speed  and  tension,  is  suited  to  the  present  stage  of  our  country's  growth. 
But  in  my  mind  it  will  indeed  be  a  happy  day  when  the  United  States 
has  finally  acquired  that  stability  of  mind  which  will  make  the  royal 
personage  of  the  umpire  less  liable  to  assassination  and  threats  of  as- 
sassination and  will  lighten  the  ridicule,  which  is  now  so  broad,  of  crick- 
eters who  stop  for  tea. 

To  have  a  sport  which  has  sufficient  tension  for  a  sane  sport,  as 
an  outlet  for  the  nervous  energy  of  all  people  old  and  young,  seems  to 
me  to  be  a  tremendous  asset  to  a  nation.  Haverford  for  many  years 
has  had  the  privilege  of  indulging  in  this  sport  which  is  still  considered 
alien.  If  Haverford  can  do  more  and  make  others  feel  the  wonderful 
effect  of  a  cricket  match  on  Cope  Field,  make  others  long  for  the  ever- 
lasting charm  and  quiet  gentility  of  this  greatest  of  sports  and  start 
them  well  on  their  way  to  improve  the  facilities  for  it,  then  a  very  great 
good  to  their  fellow  men  will  be  the  gift  of  Haverford.  I  hope  the  day 
is  not  far  off  when  "Kill  the  umpire!"  will  be  a  most  raucous  sound 
to  an  American  gentleman's  ears.  Those  who  have  ever  experienced  an 
English  cricket  trip  will  always  desire  to  keep  the  game  and  the 
spirit  of  the  game  with  them  and  will  always  desire  others  to  feel  the 
same  bond.  Cricket  is  "founded  on  a  rock."  It  is  to  be  hoped  that 
the  growing  wisdom  of  our  young  nation  will  not  be  long  in  seeing  the 
many  benefits,  both  national  and  personal,  of  cricket,  and  in  choosing 
it  as  a  sport  after  its  own  ideal. 


Cbttti  €Iopesi 

By  Kempton  Taylor,  '15. 

[a   two-part  story  of  some  love  and  a  little  war.] 

ALL  is  fair  in  love  and  war."  In  the  days  of  Eugenics  and  Hague 
Conventions  this  popular  adage  steadily  lost  favor.  Now  the 
public  is  grimly  convinced  of  the  truth  of  the  war  clause.  This 
is  a  story  to  prove  that  love  is  a  game  governed  never  by  law  and  always 
by  chance, — winner  take  all  and  the  devil  the  hindermost. 

Probably  no  lover  was  ever  further  from  apprehending  this  truth 
than  was  John  Bird,  when,  on  a  late  October  evening  in  nineteen  hundred 
fourteen,  he  dismissed  the  waiter  with  a  two-dollar  tip,  cocked  a  fat 
cigar  in  the  corner  of  his  mouth,  stirred  three  lumps  in  his  demi-tasse, 
gazed  straight  into  her  eyes  and  said:  "To-morrow  you  sail  to  join 
the  Red  Cross  of  a  warring  nation.  For  us,  then,  this  is  the  last  supper. 
You've  done  your  best  to  spill  the  salt,  but  not  caring  for  that  common- 
place chemical  in  old  wounds,  L  your  lord  and  master,  have  kept  the 
cellar  well  beyond  your  reach.  This  is  rather  clever;  you'd  best  not 
match  your  wit  against  mine  and  a  Bronx." 

"Huh!"  snorted  his  vis-a-vis,  tossing  her  flaxen  curls  in  fair  derision, 
"that's  something  I've  learned  not  to  attempt  in  public.  Do  you  re- 
member that  night  in  Mrs.  Peter  Larraby's  box  we  argued  whether 
this  gown  was  blue  or  no  color  at  all  when  I  hang  it  up  all  alone  in  the 
closet?  Well,  Mrs.  Peter  Larraby  told  Mrs.  Rogers  she'd  never  spent 
a    blicer   evening — " 

"Always  matches  the  party,  and  has  a  baggy  chin,"  watching 
with  satisfaction  the  admiration  in  the  girl's  face,  "deceptive  old  cha- 
meleon!" 

"Stop  it!  She's  not  the  least  bit  like  a  chameleon!  She  has  got 
a  double  chin,  but  she  hasn't  got  feathers  and  she  doesn't  talk  like 
one." 

John  Bird  did  not  even  waste  breath  to  utter  his  dryest  laugh. 
He  only  sighed  from  the  depths  of  his  stiff  bosom.  Edith  would  always 
be  like  that,  he  thought.  It  would  be  rather  terrible  to  have  a  wife 
who  couldn't  get  your  best  jokes,  but  it  was  a  satisfaction  to  know 
that  she  would  always  laugh  whether  she  did  or  not.  She  would  never 
train  well  either, — too  much  New  England  pride  for  that,  and  too 
much  of  what  she  liked  to  speak  of  as  "character,"  frowning  a  bit  mas- 
terfully as  her  young  lips  lingered  over  the  familiar  syllables, — too  much 
ambition. 


Edith  Elopes  171 

She  was  still   talking. 

"I  know  you  don't  like  to  argue  anyhow  when  there  are  people 
around.  I  always  raise  my  voice— can't  help  it— and  you  look  un- 
comfortable and  get  red — " 

"And  blue!" 

Disgruntled,  she  waved  a  white  hand  towards  the  garden,  myste- 
riously dark,  and  with  the  first  touch  of  autumn  desolation.  She  had 
learned  that  gesture  at  school  theatricals,  and  from  the  "Handbook 
of  Professional  Secrets,"  which  she  had  yearned  after  and  he  had 
given  her.  How  often  in  the  years  to  follow  when  the  sock  and  buskin 
capered  in  her  enchanted  mind  had  he  regretted  the  gift! 

"The  night  has  eyes,  and  ears,  and"— she  caught  her  hand  to  the 
shell  of  her  ear,  "a  voice — listen!  the  fountain!" 

John  Bird  stared  listlessly  at  the  frail  arm.  A  more  impartial 
observer  might  admit  some  truth  in  the  girl's  announcement  at  sight 
of  a  dark  figure  shrinking  back  into  the  shadow,  and  at  sound  of  a  whis- 
pered word  on  the  evening  breeze,  but  John  Bird,  a  sentimentalist 
himself  at  heart,  never  let  go  a  chance  to  violate  her  dearest  dreams. 

"Edith!"  he  sneered  sharply,  "in  Heaven's  name  don't  be  a  fool! 
That  kind  of  nonsense  knocks  a  person  out.  You  look  tired  out  now, 
— tired  and  worn." 

An  hour  before,  in  the  soft  light  of  the  lounge,  he  had  told  her  she 
looked  ravishing.    That  was  the  way  to  keep  the  whiphand  over  a  woman. 

For  once  she  seemed  oblivious  to  his  comment.  Tilting  back  her 
head   defiantly   she   sang: 

"Her  eyes  the  glow-worm  lend  thee, 

The   shooting   stars   attend   thee. 

And    the    elves    also. 

Whose  little  eyes  glow. 

Like  sparks  of  fire  attend  thee." 

Her  voice  was  strong  and  young,  but  harsh  with  its  preliminary 
training.  John  Bird  gritted  his  teeth.  He  did  not  like  to  hear  her 
sing  unless  he  felt  like  laughing.  He  would  rather  do  the  singing  himself; 
he  had  a  better  voice. 

"Lord!"  he  said. 

"Doesn't  this  war  thrill  you?"  she  asked,  pale  with  enthusiasm. 
"Think  of  all  the  fine  men  going  to  the  front  and  all  the  fine  girls  left 
behind!     Think  of  all  the  moonlit  partings: 

"  Tell  me  not,   sweet,   I  am  unkind, 
That  from   the   nunnery 


172  The  Haverfordian 

Of  thy  chaste   breast  and  quiet  mind 
To  war  and  arms  I  fly. 

"  True,  a  new  mistress  now  I  chase, 

The   foremost    in    the    field. 
And    with    a    stronger   faith    embrace 

A    sword,    a    horse,    a    shield" — 

"If  you  must  quote,"  broke  in  Bird,  "why  not  be  modern?  All 
the  Laureate  White  Hopes  have  ground  out  their  ditties  for  this  Httle 
war." 

"Don't  you  love  the  old  CavaHers?"  Edith  persisted,  "so  gallant! 
Mrs.  Peter  Larraby  and  I  were  talking  about  our  war  the  other  day, 
and  I  said  how  horrible  it  must  have  been  to  have  had  all  the  fine  young 
blood  of  the  South  cut  down  that  way!  She  couldn't  sympathize. 
Pshaw!"  her  eager  young  eyes  reflected  the  fire  of  the  candelabra,  "now- 
adays the  women  go  to  the  front,  and  the  horrid,  pokey  old  men  stay 
at  home  and  make  aeroplanes!" 

"Our  business  is  flourishing  on  the  other  side,"  said  Bird  with  a 
wave  of  his  cigar  that  embraced  all  the  warring  forces  of  the  world, 
"and  most  of  you  volunteer  nurses  are  only  taken  on  to  enlist  American 
sympathy.  You'll  sit  miles  from  the  front  in  a  bomb-proof  hospital,  make 
bandages  from  sheets,  and  administer  the  last  Sacrament  to  poor,  dying 
devils  in  an  unknown  tongue.  This  war  doesn't  reckon  with  the  Red 
Cross." 

"Yes,  but  it's  service,  and  it's  the  practical  experience  I  want  after 
my  hospital  course.  There'll  never  be  anything  like  it  again.  Haven't 
you  any  Anglo-Saxon  fight  in  you?  Are  you  going  to  stand  aside  at 
the  last  conflict  of  the  races?  It  is  only  indifference  that  keeps  you 
here,  or  is  it  something —  worse?" 

She  spoke  so  sharply  that  diners  at  nearby  tables  stirred  and  craned 
their  necks.  Bird  turned  a  dull  red,  and  his  heavy  eyes  flashed  danger- 
ously.    Still  he  spoke  with  forced  calmness. 

"  I  have  no  interest  in  the  war  beyond  what  it  means  to  our  business. 
I  am  one  of  those,  you  know,"  and  he  smiled  patronizingly, "who  believe 
that  discretion  is  braver  than  valor.  Men  in  battle  are  seldom  brave; 
they're  as  mad  as  stampeding  cattle.  When  our  turn  comes  I  doubt 
if  I  fight." 

Her  eyes  widened. 

"You  wouldn't  fight  for  the  States?"  she  asked. 

"Not  if  I  could  help  it.    If  I  had  to,  it  would  not  be  from  any  self- 


Edith  Elopes  173 

assured  patriotism.  It  would  be  because  my  friends  were  serving. 
I  have  no  more  desire  to  lay  down  my  life  than  any  healthy  animal." 

Looking  across  at  the  sleek-jowled  speaker,  Edith  found  it  easy 
to  credit  his  words.  She  recalled  how,  at  the  time  when  she,  a  slip  of 
a  girl,  had  found  joy  in  bird-nesting  and  the  blows  of  field-hockey,  he, 
her  hero  of  phj'sical  endowment,  had  spoken  in  the  same  tones  of  foot- 
ball and  polo. 

"War  takes  the  best  men  of  a  nation,"  he  continued,  "no  longer 
the  fit  survive.  Does  melenithe  or  the  machine  gun  distinguish  between 
giant  and  weakling,  hero  and  craven?  Again,  is  a  man's  or  a  nation's 
moral   fibre   strengthened    by   nightmare?" 

"Ah,"  said  Edith,  her  enthusiasm  still  manifest,  "but  think  of  a 
charge  with  the  hot  blood  pounding  in  your  ears,  the  thunder  of  hoofs 
beneath,  and  the  roar  of  ten  thousand  voices  behind!  Think  of  the 
mystery  of  a  night-attack,  and  the  joy  of  a  hard  ride  by  day!  Think  of 
being  wounded,  and  suffering  from  thirst,  and  being  nursed  by  tender 
hands — "she  ventured  a  twinkle  in  her  blue  eyes. 

"Oh  hell!"  snapped  Bird,  "more  of  your  military  glory  superstition. 
Think  of  your  charge  with  the  thunder  of  field  pieces  and  the  roar  of 
artillery.  Think  of  the  bayonet  thirsting  for  the  blood  of  your  panting 
lungs.  Think  of  being  blown  to  pieces  in  your  sleep  or  shot  as  you 
shave.  Think  of  lying  festering  in  your  own  blood,  waiting  for  your 
eyes  to  glaze.  Your  credulity  would  amaze  a  Turco!  I  believe,  by  God !" 
pounding  the  table  with  his  fist,  "you're  still  under  the  influence  of  that 
Dutchman  you  met  in  Germany  last  summer  — Van  — Van  — Van 
Hovenburg,  the  Uhlan  who  barely  escaped  court-martial  riding  after 
your  train  as  you  left  Casel  during  maneuvers,  the  swashbuckler  who 
called  on  you  with  spurs,  clanking  sword.  Death's  Head  Helmet,  and  all 
that  rot.  If  it's  a  uniform  you  want  there  are  lots  of  postmen  and  mes- 
senger   boys!" 

Edith,  pale  and  stunned  by  this  tirade,  clutched  at  the  table-edge 
as  if  to  support  her  staggering  reason. 

"I'm  sure  you  can't  be  yourself  to-night,  John,"  she  said  bitterly, 
"Carl  Van  Hovenburg  is  one  of  the  finest  gentlemen  I  have  ever  met. 
The  friendship  between  us  never  justified  the  suspicion  in  which  you 
hold  it."  Then,  as  by  a  final  effort  to  heal  the  fast-widening  breach, 
"I  don't  suppose  you  would  even  risk  your  life  for  mine?" 

"Not  by  a  damn  sight,"  said  Bird  flatly. 

"Then,"  concluded  Edith,  taking  the  ring  from  her  finger  and 
flinging  it  far  into  the  garden,  "you  must  consider  our  engagement  at 
an  end."    She  was  deathly  white,  and  breathed  very  fast.  Bird  thought. 


174  The  Haverfordian 

For  a  moment  he  sat  staring  at  her,  as  a  child  at  a  refractory  toy. 
Then,  as  he  was  about  to  speak,  a  tall  form  crossed  the  terrace  and 
stood  by  the  table.     It  was  his  man,  Pinkney. 

"What  is  it?"   asked   Bird. 

"  Mrs.  Walton  telephoned  to  the  house,  asking  after  Miss  Edith, 
sir,  and  suggested  it  was  quite  late."  The  man  spoke  evenly,  but  with 
a   pronounced   accent. 

"The  car  is  outside,  Pinkney.  See  that  Miss  Walton  gets  home 
all  right.     Then  send  Parker  back  here  for  me." 

"Very  well,  sir." 

A  sympathetic  waiter  was  already  helping  Edith  with  her  wraps. 
Bird  noticed  that  her  lips  trembled  a  little.  Beyond  that  there  was 
no  trace  of  emotion,  and  he  felt  a  little  disappointment.  Avoiding  the 
eyes  of  both  men  she  moved  gracefully  along  the  terrace  and  passed 
through  the  lighted  door. 

For  a  time  Bird  sat  motionless,  watching  the  glowing  ash  of  his 
cigar.  The  terrace  was  deserted;  most  of  the  tables  had  been  folded 
and  put  back  against  the  wall.  The  solitary  waiter  stood  on  guard 
with  an  imperturbable  napkin  folded  over  his  arm. 

Bird  stood  up  and  walked  over  to  the  splashing  fountain.  A  man 
could  stand  here  and  overhear  conversation  on  the  terrace,  he  reflected. 
Seating  himself  once  more  at  the  table,  he  called  for  paper  and  wrote: 

Edith  : 

Realizing  the  contempt  in  which  you  hold  men  who 
apologize,  I  am  taking  this  means  to  express  my  regret  at  my 
actions  of  this  evening.  I  am  so  confident  of  your  forgiveness 
and  of  your  need  for  me  that  I  am  writing  you  a  steamer-letter 
to  reach  the  Caronia  before  sailing  to-morrow.  I  feel  certain 
that  within  a  week  our  happy  and  proper  relationship  shall 
again    be    established. 

Devotedly, 

John. 

During  the  writing  the  anxiety  graven  on  Bird's  features  gave 
way  to  a  smile  of  secret  satisfaction.  The  only  break  in  the  continuity 
of  his  happy  thoughts  was  the  mental  image  of  Edith  and  Pinkney 
bowling  up  the  avenue  to  Dorset  Green.  Pinkney  was  entirely  too 
aristocratic-looking  to  be  his  man-servant  any  longer.  He  hoped  Edith 
was  sitting  very  stiff  and  prim. 

Then  he  got  the  Company  on  the  phone,  and  ordered  the  astonished 
night  clerk  to  have  a  Bird  Model  C  hydroplane    tuned  up  and  placed 


Edith  Elopes  175 

on  the  after-deck  of  the   Caronia.     To  be  shipped   to  Southampton, 
and  he  would  see  about  having  it  stay  on  deck. 

As  he  hung  up  he  reflected  on  his  own  coolness.  A  bad  night,  he 
thought,  but  mornings  were  always  better.  He  selected  a  fresh  cigar 
and  passed  through  the  lighted  door,  taking  the  note  with  him.  He 
would  post  it  with  his  own  hands. 

n 

If  we  should  pause  the  next  morning  to  examine  into  the  states  of 
mind  of  our  characters  we  should  find  truth  in  John  Bird's  creed.  Edith, 
in  brilliant  traveling  attire,  seemed  the  incarnation  of  the  sunshine  of 
Indian  summer.  While  Mrs.  Walton  stood  complacently  on  guard, 
she  arranged  her  bouquet  of  dewy  chrysanthemums,  packed  last-minute 
effects,  and  bade  farewell  to  an  excited  group  of  friends. 

"Poor  John!"  one  was  saying,  "I  suppose  he's  broken-hearted 
to  have  you  go!  What  on  earth  can  keep  that  man  on  this  side  with 
you  on  the  other  I  can't  imagine." 

The  look  that  Edith  fashioned  for  the  moment  was  a  poor  make- 
shift for  regret.  With  John's  note  even  then  crumpled  up  in  a  damp 
ball  in  her  glove  she  had  reason  enough  to  doubt  his  staying  behind. 
She  enquired  his  purposes  as  vainly  as  he  would  have  enquired  the  mean- 
ing of  the  platinum  band  about  the  fourth  finger  of  her  left  hand,  and 
the  appointment  to  the  German  Red  Cross  in  her  chatelaine. 

As  she  finally  settled  herself  in  the  car,  her  addled  little  brain  realized 
one  fact  with  a  clearness  ordinarily  foreign  to  her:  if  they  were  both 
on  the  same  boat  there  would  be  no  smooth  crossing. 

If  there  was  anything  John  Bird  liked  to  do  it  was  to  write,  and  es- 
pecially did  this  apply  to  what  he  named  his  "comic"  writings.  If  he 
hadn't  liked  the  night  work,  he  had  often  told  himself,  he  would  have 
gone  into  the  journalistic  field,— would  have  been  owner  of  a  paper 
by  this  time,  and  been  seeking  adventure  with  the  armies  of  Europe. 
Even  now,  with  his  knowledge  of  the  aeroplane,  it  had  been  easy  to 
get  the  appointment  as  correspondent  for  the  Advertiser.  "Never  too 
late  to  mend,"  he  told  himself  as  he  bent  over  his  new  literary  task.  Edith 
would  be  amused  by  this,  he  was  sure.  The  idea  was  clever  for  one 
conceived  on  the  spur  of  the  moment.  It  would  accomplish  the  desired 
end,  too.  The  one  rule  for  success  with  women  was  to  turn  their  frailties 
to  your  own  ends,  and  of  all  human  frailties  a  woman's  "instinct"  was 
the  most  easily  worked  upon.  .  .There!  it  was  done.  On  the  inside 
of  the  front  page  he  wrote  the  title 


176  The  Haverfordian 

"Edith  Elopes" 
and    beneath,  the    motto: 

"Don't  Marry  in  a  Hurry." 

At  this  moment  the  tall  form  of  Pinkney  loomed  in  the  doorway. 
From  all  that  could  be  judged  from  his  immobile  features  not  a  memory 
of  the  night  before  lingered  in  his  mind. 

"Parker  is  waiting,  sir,"  he  said. 

"Tell  him  to  wait  for  me  before  he  gets  those  tickets  at  the  White 
Star  office,"  scowled  Bird,  his  pleasure  fading  at  sight  of  his  man. 
"I'm  going  on  board  right  away." 

The  carefully  spoken  "Very  well,  sir,"  gave  no  indication  of  Pink- 
ney's  consternation.  Tickets?  Going  aboard?  He  had  thought  so. 
But  if  tickets,  how  many? 

"Mrs.  Herbert  Bird  called  up  to  say  good-bye,  and  wishes  you 
to  call  her  down  before  you  go,"  he  went  on  easily. 

"Damn!"  muttered  Bird,  "you  mean  'call  her  up,'  I'm  sure." 

"And  the  housekeeper  would  like  to  have  instructions,"  added 
Pinkney. 

With  a  sharp  glance  at  the  suave  servant  Bird  passed  out  of  the 
room.  In  an  instant  the  tall  foreigner  was  bent  over  the  steamer-letter 
on  the  desk.  As  he  read  and  thumbed  the  pages  of  the  manuscript 
his  anxiety  deepened.  Not  until  the  last  word  had  been  read  and  the 
brazenly  scrawled  "Finis"  lay  beneath  his  gaze  did  the  problem  seem 
solved.  With  a  happy  exclamation  he  raised  his  head  in  time  to  see 
Bird  standing  in  the  doorway. 

"  I'm  going  to  the  Caronias  dock  at  once,"  said  the  latter,  his  tense 
voice  rising  with  every  syllable.  "You  will  pack  my  trunks  for  a  trip 
of  several  months.  Parker  will  return  for  them.  And" — he  shouted 
the  words,  his  face  flaming  with  anger — "what  in  Hell  are  you  doing 
with  that  letter?" 

"I — I've  just  been  reading  it,"  said  Pinkney  calmly.  "Permit 
me  to  congratulate  you  on  your  authority.  I  never  would  suspicion 
it;  you  conceal  your  literary  bend  purposely,  I  should  judge.  Doubtless 
it  will  take  effect  with  one  of  Miss  Walton's  temperature.    As  a — " 

"You're  too  damned  interested  in  Miss  Walton!"  roared  Bird, 
lowering  his  head  and  coming  in  with  fists  clenched. 

Ducking  slightly,  Pinkney  caught  the  full  impact  of  his  swing  in 
his  left  eye.  Like  lightning  he  uppercut  to  the  other's  nose.  The 
long,  straight  appendage  that  had  brought  to  its  owner  the  epithet 
"Adonis"  was  mashed  to  one  side.     It  spouted  blood. 

With  redoubled  fury  Bird  showered  blow  after  blow  upon  Pinkney, 


Edith  Elopes  177 

who,  seeming  suddenly  to  lose  interest  in  the  conflict,  only  blocked 
carefully. 

"You  forget,  sir,"  he  said  lightly,  "I  am  not  worth  your  steel." 

A  half-dozen  servants,  hearing  the  disturbance,  dragged  him  away. 

"You're    fired!"    snapped    Bird. 

"Remember,  though,"  said  Pinkney  with  dignity,  "I  have  before 
you  go  your  trunks  to  pack  up." 

While  the  blaspheming  Bird,  his  fingers  nursing  a  distorted  nose, 
rolled  away  in  the  car,  his  man  went  through  the  performance  of  "  packing 
up"  his  trunks.  This  was  not  aided  by  his  state  of  mind,  which  prompted 
such  nervous  exclamations  as  "Parker  is  coming  back,"  and  "Now 
she  will  be  getting  the  steamer-letter,"  nor  by  the  condition  of  his  left 
eye,  which,  puffed  and  blue,  was  so  far  from  causing  him  concern  that 
he   gloated   over   it   in   the   mirror. 

"Parker  cannot  do  so  well,"  was  his  final  comment.  Then,  "Parker 
is  coming  back;  Parker  is  coming  back!"  He  paced  the  floor,  wringing 
his  hands  and  almost  sobbing  with  anxiety. 

He  threw  open  the  bedroom  window  and  gazed  down  the  street- 
Potztausend!  He  was  coming!  Parker  was  coming!  The  big  car  drew 
up    before    the   door. 

"Mein  Gott!  Sein  Auge  ist  auch  schwarze!"  yelled  Pinkney, 
and  three  steps  at  a  time  he  was  downstairs,  out  the  door  and  beside 
the  car. 

"Parker!"  he  screamed,  "was  ist  los  with  your  eye?  What  have 
you  done  to  your  eye?" 

Pinkney 's  infectious  hysteria  seized  upon  the  hapless  Parker. 

"I  bumped  it,"  he  said,  "I  bumped  it  on  the  tire  h'as  the  car  gave 
a  lurch!" 

As  he  spoke  he  gathered  up  half  a  dozen  parcels  and  started  up 
the  stone  steps  with  a  rapidity  unsuiting  his  age  and  station.  Pinkney, 
all  concern,  hung  to  his  elbow  and  plied  him  with  questions. 

"Is  Mr.  Bird  on  board,  Parker?  Did  you  mail  a  letter  for  him? 
Did  you  buy  the  tickets — ?" 

Then,  as  by  accident,  he  pressed  his  foot  against  Parker's  heels, 
and  flat  on  his  elbows  crashed  the  lank  Englishman,  his  parcels  flying 
to  the  four  winds.  He  rolled  over  and  groaned.  There  was  a  great 
rent  in  each  elbow  of  his  smart  uniform. 

"I  am  too  h'old  for  such  tricks,"  he  sobbed. 

"Poor  Parker!"  soothed  Pinkney,  bending  over  the  gaunt  form 
with  a  malicious  twinkle  in  his  good  eye,    "you   are  upset.     You  must 


178  The  Haverfoedian 

lie  nihig  while  I  sew  up  the  nice  coat.  Then  you  can  go  away  with 
the  trunks." 

So  saying,  he  led  the  Englishman  to  his  own  room,  and  gently  forced 
him  to  lie  down. 

"Bring  him  whiskey,"  he  directed  a  maid,  "and  bathe  his  head 
with  Koln, — cologne,  you  know." 

He  took  the  smart  coat  and  all  the  parcels  into  the  next  room. 
In  the  pocket  of  the  coat  his  search  was  rewarded.  He  drew  out  one 
first-class  ticket  to  Southampton,  S.  S.  Caronia,  stateroom  No.  526, 
upper  berth  A,  sailing  that  day  at  noon. 

One   o'clock   now. 

Silver  McGhee:  he  was  the  owner  of  the  ticket.  Pinkney  chuckled 
as  he  thought  of  Parker  in  the  role  of  Silver  McGhee. 

"Height:  six  feet  two;  build,  slender;  slight  limp,  left  leg;  hair, 
sandy;  eyes,  blue — one  blackened;  complexion,  fair — light  mustache," 
intoned  Pinkney,  "that's  me,  except  a  mustache." 

He  tore  open  one  of  the  smaller  packages.  There  it  was,' — lip-glue 
still   moist. 

"Poor  Parker!  No  wonder  he  was  so  upset  getting  dressed  and 
not-dressed  just  for  a  ticket!"  mused  Pinkney,  as  he  opened  the  remain- 
ing parcels  and  disclosed  Silver  McGhee's  accoutrement  just  as  the 
ticket  described  it, — tan  shoes,  purple  sox,  checked  suit,  diamond  pin, 
Balmacaan  coat,  woolly  cap,— the  wardrobe  of  the  jewelry  agent,which, 
if  we  are  to  credit  the  ticket,  was  Red  McGhee's  calling. 

"Parker  as  Silver  could  never  make  hits  off  Miss  Edith,"  he  went  on 
as  he  exchanged  his  own  sombre  clothes  for  the  quickening  combination 
on  the  bed,  "but  Pinkney  as  Silver!    Ah,  that  is  different!" 

He  adjusted  the  mustache,  swelled  out  his  chest,  and  gazing  at 
his  glorious  image  in  the  mirror,  winked  solemnly  with  his  movable 
lid. 

"My  eye  is  better  than  Parker's,  but  who  could  love  it?"  he  asked 
himself. 

He  packed  a  suitcase  of  his  own,  placed  Bird's  trunks  in  the  waiting 
car,  and  limped  in  on  the  prostrate  Parker. 

"Poor  old  Parker!"  he  said,  taking  the  moistened  sponge  from  the 
hands  of  the  maid,  "you  have  an  evil  eye!" 

While  Parker,  transported  to  the  seventh  heaven,  lay  with  closed 
eyes,  Silver  McGhee,  with  one  deft  twist  of  the  sponge,  removed  the  paint 
from  the  discolored  eye. 

"Evil  eye!"  he  repeated  playfully,  backing  toward  the  door. 

Parker  opened  them  both.     Catching  a  glimpse  of  himself  in  the 


Clouds  179 

mirror  opposite,  and  one  of  Pinkney  in  his  borrowed  plumes,  he  bellowed 
with   fear  and   leaped   from   his   bed. 

"Liege, — Mons, — Namur, — Parker,"  said  Silver  McGhee,  safe  on 
the  other  side  of  the  door  as  he  turned  the  key  in  its  lock,  "  Deutchland 
uber  alles'" 

Parker,  straining  his  face  to  the  window,  caught  sight  of  the  big 
car  as  it  whirled  down  the  street. 

"My  eye!"  he  said. 

{To  be  concluded) 


Cloubs; 

(A    Villanelle) 

By  Felix  M.  Morley,  '15 

Above  the  clouds  pass  by, 
Their  snowy  grandeur  showing, 
Concealing  the  blue  sky. 

Majestic  drifts  on  high 

Soft  chaff  from  heaven  s  mowing, 

Above  the  clouds  pass  by. 

Amid  such  beauty,  why 
Must  yonder  gray  be  growing. 
Concealing  the  blue  sky? 

Beneath,  the  treetops  sigh. 
The  soft-eyed  cows  are  lowing, 
Above i  the  clouds  pass  by. 

Dull  masses  creeping  nigh, 
The  sunny  brightness  going. 
Concealing  the  blue  sky. 

Be  fair  or  foul,  still  I 
Have  learnt  one  thing  worth  knowing: 
Above  the  clouds  pass  by, 
Concealing  the  blue  sky. 


Japan  in  Etao  CI)ou 

By  Yoshio  Nitobe,  '15. 

ON  August  16th, while  the  eyes  of  the  world  were  riveted  on  the 
momentous  happenings  in  Europe,  Japan  wired  by  six  separate 
cable  routes  an  ultimatum  "advising"  the  Kaiser  to  with- 
draw from  Kiao  Chou.  To  those  who  were  well  informed  on  Far  Eastern 
affairs  this  move  on  the  part  of  Japan  caused  little  surprise.  The  Amer- 
ican press  however  cannot  be  included  in  that  category.  There  therefore 
arose  in  this  country  a  wave  of  disapproval  and  suspicion  at  Japan's 
"intrusion."  What  right  had  she  to  break  in?  "It's  a  dirty  trick." 
"She'll  be  grabbing  Samoa,  the  Carolines  and  the  Philippines  next." 
Such  were  the  sentiments  expressed  by  men  who  were  ignorant:  (1) 
of  the  history  of  German-Japanese  relations;  and  (2)  who  had  no  clear 
conception  of  Japan's  foreign  policy — a  policy  the  fundamentals  of 
which  have  steadily  been  the  same  and  to  which  all  of  Japan's  actions 
may  be  correlated. 

The  first  act  of  the  tragi-comedy,  of  which  the  ultimatum  of  August 
16th  is  the  climax,  opens  in  Berlin  in  the  year  1894.     Kaiser  Wilhelm 

and  his  court  are  at  the Theatre,  witnessing  a  drama.    What 

that  drama  was  is  superfluous;  the  opening  of  a  far  greater  drama  is 
about  to  take  place.  The  first  scene  is  over,  the  applause  has  died  away, 
and  all  eyes  gravitate  towards  the  royal  Prussian  box.  The  Kaiser 
glances  over  the  mass  of  faces  before  him,  set  in  a  background  of  deco- 
rations, velvets  and  silks.  And  from  it  all  the  imperial  glance  separates 
a  mild-looking  gentleman  with  a  full  iron-grey  beard  and  gold-rimmed 
spectacles.  He  looks  rather  more  like  a  pedagogue  than  the  diplomat 
which  his  gold  lace  would  indicate.  The  Kaiser  turns  to  a  chamberlain 
and  asks  who  the  foreigner  is.  He  learns  that  it  is  the  Viscount  Aoki, 
Minister  from  Japan.  The  Kaiser  grows  thoughtful,  then  despatches 
a  chamberlain  to  fetch  the  Viscount. 

"I  understand  your  country  is  at  war  with  China." 

"Yes,  your  Majesty." 

"The  Chinese  have  more  ships  than  you  have.  You  ought  to 
augment  your  navy." 

"Undoubtedly  your  Majesty  is  right." 

"Tell  your  Emperor  that  I  offer  him  the  cruiser  K for  his 


Japan's  Case  in  Kiao  Chou  181 

navy.  At  the  earliest  opportunity  I  will  send  a  man  from  the  Naval 
Ministry  to  negotiate  the  necessary  transaction." 

"Your  gracious  Majesty's  consideration  awakens  profound  grati- 
tude in  my  heart  and  I  will  immediately  convey  your  offer  to  my  Sove- 
reign." 

Aoki  left  the  theatre  that  night  with  high  hopes.  The  Kaiser 
had  evidenced  his  sympathy  for  Japan.  An  offer  as  personal  as  the 
Kaiser's  could  diplomatically  be  counted  upon  as  German  support — 
and  Japan  needed  it  in  her  Chinese  adventure. 

Aoki  wired  the  Tokyo  Foreign  Office.  They  announced  that  the 
price  was  too  much  for  war-burdened  Japan.  Aoki  wired  again,  empha- 
sizing the  personal  phase  of  the  Kaiser's  offer  and  that  German 
goodwill  was  worth  ten  times  the  price  of  the  cruiser.  But  the  Ministry 
of  the  Navy  was  made  up  of  bull-headed  fighters,  mostly  Satsuma  men 
who  did  not  have  Aoki's  diplomatic  acumen;  besides  it  is  not  unlikely 
that  they  half  suspected  him  of  over  Germanic  tendencies,  Aoki  having 
married    a    German    baroness. 

Aoki  had  to  refuse  the  offer  and  the  Kaiser  felt  snubbed ;  in  fact  he 
was  much  angered.  In  the  late  Viscount's  opinion,  and  I  have  it  almost 
first-handed,  the  German  Emperor's  anti-Japanese  attitude  started 
from  this  incident. 

German-Japanese  Relations 

The  world  at  large,  however,  had  no  evidence  of  the  Kaiser's  atti- 
tude until  after  the  treaty  of  Shimonoseki  (concluding  the  Chino-Jap. 
War,  April  17,  1895),  when  at  the  Kaiser's  instigation  Russia,  France 
and  Germany  "advised"  Japan  to  evacuate  Port  Arthur.  That 
Russia  should  desire  to  exclude  a  "warlike"  and  progressive  people 
from  territories  contiguous  to  her  own  and  that  France  should  remain 
faithful  to  her  ally,  Japan  could  understand.  But  why  Germany, 
avowedly  the  friend  of  Japan  and  with  no  interests  in  Manchuria, 
should  join  in  to  plunder  Japan  was  beyond  explanation.  Scores  of 
men  who  had  stormed  Port  Arthur  felt  that  they  could  not  honorably 
live  under  the  humiliation  of  this  ultimatum  and  committed  hara-kiri. 
The  whole  nation  again  called  for  war — hopeless  though  it  would 
have  been.  Then  Mutsu  Hito  spoke  and  Japan  became  calm.  We 
have  "yielded  to  the  dictates  of  magnanimity  and  accepted  the  advice 
of  the  three  powers." 

After  Russia  had  occupied  Port  Arthur,  instead  of  returning  it 
to  China;  Germany  seized  Kiao  Chou,  using  the  murder  of  two  Luth- 
eran missionaries  as  a  pretext.    This  was  in  November  1897  and  inci- 


182  The  Haverfordian 

dentally  at  the  time  that  Prince  Henry  was  girdling  the  globe  to  preach 
"the  gospel  of  Your  Sacred  Majesty" — otherwise  known  as  the  policy 
of  the   "mailed   fist." 

The  Kaiser's  real  motive  in  siding  with  Russia  against  Japan  was 
to  encourage  Russian  expansion  in  the  Far  East,  i.  e.,  as  far  from  Ger- 
many as  possible.  The  seizure  of  Kiao  Chou  was  mere  territorial  and 
commercial  aggression.  A  little  later  the  Kaiser  published  his  famous 
"Yellow  Peril"  cartoon,  which  graphically  pictured  the  white  nations 
backing  up  Europa  against  a  Buddha  coming  over  the  horizon.  By 
this  cartoon,  the  Kaiser  posed  as  a  prophet  to  Europe,  and  distracted 
Russia's  attention  from  the  Dardanelles  and  the  Balkan  States.  By 
focussing  the  attention  of  all  Europe  on  a  common  foe,  he  himself  thought 
to  escape  notice.  The  "yellow  peril"  as  the  principal  motive  for  the 
Kaiser's  robbing  Japan  of  Port  Arthur  seems  rather  far-fetched  at  this 
time. 

The  Anglo-Japanese  Alliance 

Let  us  now  see  how  the  Anglo- Japanese  Alliance  was  formed,  under 
the  stipulations  of  which  the  ultimatum  of  August  16th  was  launched. 
The  inception  of  this  alliance  and  the  way  it  "  boomeranged "  back  to 
its  originator  is  a  rather  interesting  annal  in  modern  diplomacy. 

England  and  Germany  had  formed  an  understanding  known  as 
the  Anglo-German  Agreement,  avowedly  directed  against  Russian 
expansion  in  the  Far  East.  The  principle  of  the  Open  Door  and  of 
China's  integrity  was  as  usual  emphasized.  But  the  Kaiser's  sig- 
nature was  scarcely  dry  before  he  assured  Russia  that  the  treaty 
was  not  aimed  at  her  justifiable  expansion,  but  against  England's 
high-handed  tactics  in  the  Yellow  River.  By  the  Germans  this  alliance 
was  sarcastically  named  the  Yangtze-Kiang  agreement.  Here  again 
we  see  the  Kaiser  doing  his  best  to  encourage  Russia  in  the  Far  East. 

When  England  expressed  disappointment  at  the  Kaiser's  attitude, 
he  jokingly  suggested  that  England  form  an  alliance  with  Japan, 
then  an  insignificant  power.  In  fact  it  is  said  in  certain  quarters  that 
he  urged  the  treaty  on  England,  hoping  thus  to  play  England  off  on 
Russia.  When  the  alliance  was  a  fact,  the  Kaiser  under  the  role  of  a 
friend  congratulated  England  and  has  ever  since  endeavored  to  dis- 
seminate the  feeling  that  England  had  played  false  to  the  comity  of 
white  powers  by  allying  herself  with  an  Oriental  nation.  Lately  he  has 
realized  his  mistake  in  urging  the  treaty  and  has  endeavored  to  arouse 
England  herself  against  Japan.  In  the  famous  interview  of  October  28, 
1908,  published  in  the  Daily  Telegraph,  the  Kaiser  said:  "Germany 
must  be  prepared  for  eventualities  in  the  East,"  and  that  the  time  was 


Japan's  Case  in  Kiao  Chou  183 

soon  coming  "when  they  should  speak  together  on  the  same  side  in 
the  great  debates  of  the  future." 

Kiao  Chou  and  Japan's  Foreign  Policy 

Japan  in  the  meanwhile  had  also  been  preparing  for  "eventualities 
in  the  East."  The  expulsion  of  Germany  from  Kiao  Chou  was  an 
eventuality  because  Germany  stood  directly  in  the  way  of  Japan's 
foreign  policy.  The  principles  on  which  this  foreign  policy  is  established 
are:  (1)  Japan  seeks  national  and  territorial  safety;  (2)  Japan  seeks  . 
peace.  In  other  words  she  wants  to  develop  normally,  to  have  a  chance 
in  this  world  and  to  secure  her  share  of  the  good  things  which  only 
peace  and  prosperity  can  bring.  Japan's  aims  are,  at  the  bottom, 
identical  with  America's  ambitions,  excepting  that  Japan  has  to  put 
greater  emphasis  on  national  safety  because  she  does  not  enjoy  America's 
splendid  isolation.  It  was  in  line  with  this  policy  that  she  drove  out 
the  disturbing  and  backward  influence  of  China  from  Korea  in  1895. 
For  the  same  reason  she  fought  her  great  war  of  defense  against  Russian 
aggression  ten  years  later.  The  annexation  of  Korea  was  also  a  measure 
necessary  for  the  integrity  of  Japan.  In  Prince  Ito's  words,  Korea  is 
a  dagger  pointing  at  the  heart  of  Japan;  whoever  holds  that  dagger, 
holds  the   fate  of  the   Empire. 

How,  then,  did  Kiao  Chou  threaten  the  integrity  of  Japan  and 
the  permanent  peace  of  the  Far  East?  First  because  of  its  strategic 
position,  secondly  because  of  the  policies  of  the  Kaiser. 

Kiao  Chou  is  a  day  and  a  half's  steaming  from  Nagasaki,  and 
controls  all  shipping  in  the  Yellow  Sea  and  threatens  South  China  and 
Malay  Peninsular  communications.  It  is  the  entrance  to  the  wealthy 
province  of  Shantung.  Tsingtao,  the  town  of  the  concession,  is  the 
terminus  of  the  Imperial  Shantung  Railroad  (a  German  line),  which 
connects  with  the  Lu-Han  (Peking  Hankow)  railroad  via  Chinan  Fu, 
the  capital  of  Shantung.  The  Germans  exact  a  tariff  on  both  exports 
and  imports,  closing  the  Open  Door  to  all  but  German  goods.  Jealousy 
of  German  trade  however  is  not  Japan's  motive,  inasmuch  as  Japan's 
trade  with  China  is  $95,291,490  as  compared  with  Germany's  $24,606,210. 

The  danger  of  a  strategic  position  depends  on  who  holds 
it,  and  this  is  where  Japan's  greatest  apprehension  exists.  The  Kaiser 
is  avowedly  the  enemy  of  Japan,  regarding  her  as  a  menace  and  peril 
to  civilization  and  therefore  some  day  to  be  destroyed.  It  is  the  Kaiser 
who  has  stigmatized  Japan  as  the  "Yellow  Peril."  Furthermore,  the 
Kaiser's  ambitions  are  boundless  and  express  themselves  in  no  gentle 
manner  in  the  form  of  the  "mailed  fist,"  which  is  backed  up  with  a  form  of 


184  The  HAVERFOiuaiAN 

militarism  that  is  the  greatest  handicap  of  civilization  to-day.  To  be 
sure,  the  thirteen  warships  of  the  Kaiser  had  not  ravaged  the  coast  of 
Japan  and  had  not  sunk  Japanese  and  British  shipping,  but  the  danger  was 
none  the  less  real.  Prompt  action  on  the  part  of  Japan  was  as  necessary 
as  is  prompt  action  on  the  part  of  a  man  who  finds  a  rattlesnake  in 
his  room.  A  man  is  justified  in  killing  a  rattlesnake  though  it  has 
not  yet  bitten  him.  Suppose  Japan  had  waited  and  Germany  had 
won  in  Europe  and  had  the  control  of  the  Pacific?  Or  for  that  matter 
if  Germany  had  lost,  Kiao  Chou  would  have  become  a  storm  centre  for 
England,  France  and  Russia — a  situation  of  great  danger  for  Japan. 

Japan  Strengthens  Her  Position 

Another  reason  to  believe  that  Japan  was  long  contemplating  the 
expulsion  of  Germany  from  Kiao  Chou  was  the  manner  in  which  she 
strengthened  her  bonds  with  England,  France  and  Russia.  As  early 
as  1905  Nogi  prophesied: 

"I  believe  the  world  will  witness  a  great  war  which  will  have 
all  Europe  for  its  battleground  and  will  settle  the  Franco-Prussian 
question  and  the  Anglo-German  rivalry.  France  and  Germany  will 
meet  in  this  last  decisive  conflict  on  the  Belgian  plains,  probably  near 
Waterloo,  the  only  spot  which  will  permit  of  the  evolution  of  the  great 
armies  which  will  face  each  other. 

"At  the  present  time  the  French  and  German  frontiers  are  too 
strongly  fortified  for  either  people  to  force  their  way  through.  I  have 
little  doubt  as  to  the  result  of  this  war.  France  will  beat  Germany  on 
land  and  England  will  crush  Germany  at  sea. 

"This  will  be  the  last  great  war  in  Europe  for  many  years,  perhaps 
forever.  The  German  states  will  emerge  from  this  war  so  exhausted 
and  so  terrified  that  they  will  have  no  other  object  than  to  form  some 
sort  of  condition  that  they  may  in  the  future  obviate  the  recurrence 
of  any  such  catastrophe." 

Hayashi  and  Kato  strengthened  our  bonds  with  England  and  never 
allowed  the  Japanese  opposition  in  Australia  and  Canada  to  assume  any 
proportions  at  the  Court  of  King  James.  Stephen  Pichon,  ex-minister 
of  Foreign  Affairs  in  the  Clemenceau  Cabinet,  in  the  issue  of  August  15th 
of  the  Petit  Journal  declares  how  close  an  understanding  was  established 
in  1907  between  Japan  and  France — an  understanding  of  greater  sig- 
nificance than  the  Franco-Japanese  Agreement  would  indicate.  Knox 
with  his  Neutralization  Scheme  drove  Russia  and  Japan  to  terms  of 
intimacy  which  were  still  further  strengthened  by  Isvolky.  The 
Japanese  ambassador   to    Berlin,  Sugimura,  had  been  doing  much  to 


Japan's  Case  in  Kiao  Cpou  185 

increase  the  cordiality  between  Germany  and  Japan.  When  the  Tokyo 
Foreigh  Office  found  it  out  it  recalled  Sugimura.  When  bidding  the 
German  Foreign  Minister  good-bye,  Sugimura  is  said  to  have  signifi- 
cantly said:  "  I  am  going  to  leave  Berlin  now  and  I  shall  never  return." 
His  well-meaning  efforts  would  only  have  rendered  the  situation  more 
awkward. 

How  large  apart  did  England  have  in  the  ultimatum  of  August  15th? 
There  is  no  doubt  that  Japan  acted  with  England's  full  consent  in  this 
matter — as  Kiao-Chou  was  exceedingly  dangerous  to  England  as  well 
as  to  Japan  and  furthermore  was  too  much  of  a  siege  for  England  to  manage 
alone.  It  was  however  the  part  of  discretion  on  the  part  of  the  British 
press  and  government  to  maintain  a  discreet  silence  as  to  their  share 
in  the  matter,  for  fear  of  losing  the  sympathy  of  American  public  opin- 
ion. Several  newspapers  in  America  came  forth  with  the  explanation 
that  Japan  was  going  to  the  aid  of  England  so  that  England  would 
have  to  help  Japan  in  case  of  war  with  America.  I  would  recommend 
to  their  vast  intelligence  Article  IV  of  the  revised  alliance  signed  July 
13,  1911 — exempting  from  the  workings  of  the  alliance  a  third  power 
with  whom  one  of  the  contracting  powers  has  a  treaty  of  general  ar- 
bitration. Such  a  treaty  exists  between  America  and  England.  Japan 
will  furthermore  never  fight  America,  because  America  does  not  threaten 
her  national  security  nor  disturb  her  peace.  In  fact  America's  pur- 
chase of  75  million  dollars'  worth  of  goods  rather  aids  Japan's  national 
ambition.  We  also  have  Okuma's,  Kato's,  and  the  very  words 
of  the  Emperor's  Proclamation  of  War  testifying  to  the  thorough  under- 
standing between  England  and  Japan — statements  which  have  not 
been  denied  by  any  responsible  source  in  England.  Lately  Baron  Mumm, 
the  German  ambassador  to  Tokyo,  declared  that  it  was  at  England's 
instigation  entirely  that  Japan  entered  the  war. 

Kiao  Chou  and  China 

And  in  all  this  trouble  where  does  China  come  in?  Will  Japan 
return  Kiao  Chou   to  China,  and  when  does  "ultimately"  mean? 

I  do  not  claim  for  Japan  altruistic  motives  in  winning  back  Kiao 
Chou  for  China,  any  m.ore  than  an  Englishman  would  state  that  his 
country  entered  the  present  war  only  to  protect  Belgium.  Both  Belgium 
and  China  are  incidental  to  the  larger  programmes  of  both  powers. 

Japan's  permanent  seizure  of  Kiao  Chou  would  only  take  place 
if  her  own  national  integrity,  the  peace  of  the  Far  East,  and  her 
commerce  were  best  assured  by  such  a  course. 

The  danger  of  Kiao  Chou  to  Japan  exists  in  its  being  held  by  an 


186  The  Haverfordian 

aggressive  western  power  such  as  Germany  or  Russia.  So  long  as  they 
are  out  of  Kiao  Chou  Japan  feels  herself  safe.  She  further  realizes  that 
her  own  presence  there  would  be  a  tremendous  expense,  and  that  Kiao 
Chou  would  then  only  continue  to  be  a  potential  storm  centre  and  very 
possibly  a  casus  belli.  She  therefore  feels  that  both  her  own  integrity 
and  the  peace  of  the  Far  East  are  best  served  by  returning  Kiao  Chou. 

As  for  commerce,  Japan  would  not  gain  enough  to  offset  the 
expense  of  administration  and  the  loss  through  Chinese  hard  feeling  if 
she  held  Kiao-Chou.  They  say  that  the  Chinaman  with  cash  in  hand 
buys  where  he  can  buy  the  cheapest  in  spite  of  boycott  and  insult,  but 
Japan  has  a  larger  vision  and  a  more  far-sighted  view  of  Chino-Japanese 
relations  than  one  would  suspect  from  hearing  Chinese  complaints  against 
Japan  which  are  constantly  made  to  America. 

Without  considering  Japan's  national  honor  in  keeping  her  word, 
which  past  history  has  shown  is  high;  the  facts  alone  indicate  that 
Japan  will  live  up  to  her  promise.  The  only  reason  for  Japan  not 
immediately  returning  Kiao  Chou  to  China,  after  the  war,  would  be  the 
inability  of  China  to  hold  on  to  the  concession  after  she  has  received  it 
from  Japan.  There  can  be  such  a  thing  as  foolishness  in  the  matter  of 
being  "honest."  Perhaps  some  Americans  would  regard  Wilson's  with- 
drawal from  Vera  Cruz  as  such,  at  least  Sir  Lionel  Carden  thinks  so. 


$«nbemone|>um 

By  Eugene  M.  Pharo,  '15. 

Der  Deutscher  Gott  hast  bier  verloren, 

Le  Dieti  Francais  son  vin, 
English  God  has  gone  a-roarin' 

To  spoil  the  Kaiser's  plan. 

All  the  gods  but  U.  S.  Dollar 

Now  hold  a  novel  job; — 
To  take  the  otliers  by  the  collar 

As  drunk  men  in  a  mob! 

Crazed  peoples,  sport  of  passion, 
Pray  each  their  separate  prayer, 

While  Christ  looks  on  with  deep  compassion 
Before  the  One  God's  chair. 


Coming  J^acfe  Steerage 

By  D.  C.  Wendell,  '16. 

ON  my  left  slept  a  stubby-mustached,  finicky  New  Yorker,  worth 
about  one  hundred  thousand  dollars;  on  my  right  was  a 
great  black-bearded  giant  of  a  Russian  priest;  below  me 
slept  a  Japanese,  and  back  of  me  was  the  bunk  of  a  lean,  red-haired 
American  drummer,  just  back  from  South  America  to  London.  Only 
one  place  that  could  be — steerage — S.  S.  Philadelphia — first  real  "ref- 
ugee" boat  to  leave  Southampton,  England,  for  America,  on  August 
fifth. 

We  all  looked  at  each  other  rather  sheepishly  on  first  going  down 
into  our  quarters  four  decks  below;  "it  isn't  so  bad  after  all,"  we  kept 
assuring  ourselves,  as  we  rummaged  around  the  tiers  of  bunks  with 
their  straw  mattresses  and  hard  pillows.  I  drew  out  an  empty  whiskey 
bottle  from  under  mine  as  a  prize.  And  outside  of  a  disinfected  odor, 
some  bad  air,  a  few  rats,  and  no  blankets,  it  was  all  right.  During 
the  voyage  we  used  to  play  "peek-a-boo"  with  the  rats  around  the  stanch- 
ions, and  we  were  on  familiar  terms  with  "Uncle  Ned,"  a  gray-whiskered, 
veteran  rat,  of  whom  we  were  growing  quite  fond — at  least  so  we  told 
the  first  cabin  passengers. 

The  first  great  event  of  our  "steerage  life"  was  our  initial  steerage 
meal.  It  wasn't  bad  at  all,  and  a  great  many  of  us  were  tremendously 
relieved — for  it  was  plentiful,  fairly  clean,  and  not  too  coarse. 

The  day  we  left  England  was  blessed  with  smooth  weather,  and 
we  steamed  out  of  Southampton  eager  and  glad  to  get  away.  Towards 
evening  we  sighted  a  flotilla  of  six  French  torpedo  boats  and  two  sub- 
marines; and  for  a  while  we  were  keenly  excited,  especially  when  the 
largest  torpedo  boat  cruised  up  from  the  stern  and  made  a  circle  around 
us,  her  crew  grouped  on  her  decks,  silent,  while  we  cheered  them. 

We  got  into  Queenstown  the  next  afternoon,  and  there  a  British 
cruiser  swept  in  by  us,  causing  endless  speculation  as  to  her  identity. 
Everybody  "snapshotted  "  her  until  the  order  went  around,  "all  cameras 
confiscated  if  passengers  are  caught  taking  pictures  of  battleships." 
While  we  took  on  mail,  water  and  a  few  lucky  passengers,  up  swarmed 
news  vendors  with  war  news  (some  of  the  latest,  but  most  of  it  a  week 
old),  and  bumboat  women  with  all  manner  of  shillalahs,  ironwood 
pipes,  lace,  fruit,  and  endless  knick-knacks.  One  of  these  women  was 
so  keen  on  turning  an  honest  penny,  that  after  I  had  bought  a  small 


188  The  Haverfordian 

pile  of  odds  and  ends  and  deposited  them  nearby  while  I  went  to  get 
something  on  another  part  of  the  boat,  I  came  back  to  find  her  selling 
them  over  again  to  a  gentleman  who  had  inquired  "if  she  were  selling 
those,"  pointing  to  my  purchases. 

Thus  far,  not  many  had  been  sick;  but  the  night  after  we  left 
Queenstown,  it  got  nicely  rough,  and  the  good  ship  Philadelphia  assumed 
a  lovely  corkscrew  motion.  I  did  see  one  or  two  passengers,  along  with 
the  crew,  who  were  not  sick  the  next  two  days.  All  the  rest  of  us  had 
that  forlorn,  lost-your-last-friend-and-every thing-else  look  that  goes 
with  dirty  gray  weather  and  its  consequences.  And  we  didn't  care  a 
"pfennig"  whether  or  not  the  whole  German  fleet  came  and  blew  us  out 
of  water;  and  in  England  a  pfennig  was  worth  exactly  forty  per  cent 
of  its  face  value.  I  might  add  that  those  who  braved  the  steerage  bunks 
the  ensuing  two  nights  don't  need  to  fear  anything  they  may  have  to  face 
in   the   next  world. 

On  account  of  the  many  naturalized  French  and  German  Americans 
on  board,  no  war  news  that  was  officially  received  was  posted,  for  fear 
of  starting  dissension — and  with  four  hundred  extra  passengers  on 
board  there  was  no  room  for  quarrelling.  From  time  to  time,  however, 
there  appeared  " war "  notices  on  the  bulletin  board  marked  "probably 
unofficial,"  running  like  this:  "Swiss  fleet  mobilizing  at  Interlaken. 
Holland  flooded,  and  all  Dutch  cheeses  ruined,  fearing  German  invasion. 
Two  German  dreadnaughts  blown  up  near  Canada  with  an  Englishman's 
bicycle  pump!  Nelson's  monument  knocked  over  by  Zeppelin."  And 
telegram  forms  with  reasonable  "rumors"  on  them  were  written  up  and 
solemnly  circulated  by  some  practical  joker.  They  were  of  this  type: 
"Three  British  cruisers  and  one  torpedo  boat  sunk  by  mines  trying 
to  get  into  Kiel  harbor." 

The  decks  had  from  the  first  taken  on  the  appearance  of  a  great 
sleeping  porch,  while  dining  saloons,  lounging  rooms,  and  smoking  rooms 
were  lined  with  more  or  less  uncomfortable  sleep-seekers.  Fortunately 
the  noise  of  the  boat  was  sufficient  to  drown  the  snoring.  Sleeping  on 
the  seats  which  lined  the  walls  of  the  dining  saloon  was  quite  a  feat; 
there  was  just  room  to  stretch  yourself  out,  lying  on  one  side  all  night. 
To  keep  from  getting  lopsided  you  had  to  cross  to  the  opposite  wall 
seat  and  reverse  your  sleeping  side  on  alternate  nights.  Personally, 
I  preferred  the  steerage  bunks;  for  if  you  bandaged  your  eyes  to  keep 
out  the  light  shining  in  your  face,  the  air  was  bad  enough  to  act  as  an 
anesthetic.  It  was  a  matter  of  diplomacy  to  leave  hurriedly  for  the 
deck  and  fresh  air  on  awaking  in  the  morning.  The  steerage  made 
us  appreciate  fresh  air  more  keenly  than  ever  before. 


Coming  Back  Steerage  189 

One  story  I  heard  about  a  first  cabin  seasick  victim  expresses  the 
feeling  we  all  had.  There  were  two  friends  lying  carefully  quiescent 
in  their  stateroom,  trying  hard  not  to  think  of  their  ills,  when  suddenly 
from  about  two  doors  farther  on  they  heard  a  groan  and  a  prolonged 
agonized  "Ohhhh  hell!"  then  unmistakable  sounds  ensued;  and  then 
"Ohhhh  hell!"— pause— "Ohhhh  hell!"— "Ohhh  hell!"— and  again  un- 
mistakable sounds.  According  to  them  this  punctuated  refrain  kept 
up  to  their  infinite  consolation  for  at  least  two  hours. 

Tipping  is  always  obtrusive,  but  to  get  anything  from  the  first 
class  dining  room  meant  a  dollar  a  crack,  and  then  it  was  a  gamble 
whether  the  stray  waiter,  or  deck  steward,  or  whoever  pocketed  your 
money,  would  bring  you  anything.  When  tipping  is  so  common,  unless 
your  pocketbook  is  fat,  it  pays  well  to  have  friends — or  make  them. 
Smokes  distributed  here  and  there  to  men  who  have  no  time  to  spend 
their  money — for  every  one  of  the  kitchen  boys,  cooks,  waiters  and 
deck  stewards  was  worked  from  five  in  the  morning  until  eleven  at 
night— smokes  made  friends;  not  servants.  One  warm-hearted  Irish 
lad  used  to  smuggle  me  up  a  fine  big  box  of  ice  cream  every  evening. 
That  boy  had  exciting  times  before  him,  for  he  was  born  of  Irish  parents, 
in  Lysle,  France,  and  as  soon  as  he  got  back  to  Europe,  he  had  to  join 
the  French  army — 31st  Chasseurs. 

"Sure,  and  all  I  want  is  a  pop  at  one  o'  them  Germans,  the  bloomin' 
blighters!"  he  told  me;  and  he  was  one  born  fighter  the  Germans  will 
have  to  contend  with  before  they  reach  Paris. 

After  the  first  three  daj's  the  time  passed  monotonously  enough. 
They  had  the  regular  charity  concert,  and  most  of  the  young  people 
danced  on  three  or  four  nights — newspapers  to  the  contrary  notwithstand- 
ing. Just  before  we  reached  New  York,  one  more  British  battleship  passed 
us,  conducting  the  Cedric  over.  We  finally  laid  to  opposite  Ellis  Island, 
and  were  inspected  on  board  ship.  While  we  waited,  crowded  along 
the  bulwarks,  someone  started  "My  Country  'Tis  of  Thee,"  and  we 
sang  it  with  deeper  feeling  and  enthusiasm  than  I  ever  expect  to  hear 
it  sung  again.  We  were  passed  through  Customs  full  speed,  and  before 
we  could  fully  realize  it,  there  we  were  bumping  over  the  cobblestones 
in  a  taxi  at  12  p.  m.,  to  the  nearest  hotel,  with  a  mighty  kindly  feeling 
in  our  hearts  for  New  York. 


Z'^t  Wat  anb  tfje  Poofe  iWarfeeW 

By  L.  Blackledge  Lippmann,  '14. 

FROM  time  immemorial  it  has  been  the  custom  of  those  gentlemen 
whose  love  of  humanity  has  compelled  them  to  the  cause  of 
international  peace  and  the  general  abolition  of  war,  love,  and 
self-interest  to  quote  with  conviction  but  lack  of  originality  those  two 
hoary  bromides,  "The  hand  that  rocks  the  cradle  rules  the  world "  and 
"The  pen  is  mightier  than  the  sword."  In  time  of  peace  the  latter  may 
be  considered  true,  but  the  present  unrest  in  Europe  is  going  far  to  add 
the  latter  to  the  proverbial  scrapheap. 

A  very  cursory  examination  of  the  publisher's  lists  not  only  abroad 
but  in  the  United  States  can  but  prove  that  the  book  trade  is  now  affected 
seriously  and  even  runs  the  danger  of  temporary  stagnation.  New 
books  are  appearing,  it  is  true,  but  these  are  such  as  were  so  far  advanced 
in  the  presses  that  their  withdrawal  would  mean  heavy  loss  to  their 
publishers.  In  the  interest  of  the  public  the  newspaper  and  illus- 
trated weekly  unquestionably  take  the  pas  and  concomitantly  fiction 
must  temporarily  fall  into  the  background.  A  famous  London  house 
(to  give  but  one  example  from  many)  which  in  the  past  has  issued  upon 
an  average  of  ninety  books  during  the  period  between  September  first 
and  the  last  of  October  announces  but  a  meagre  twenty-two,  eight  of 
which  bear  a  more  or  less  direct  reference  to  present  European  conditions, 
nine  being  either  memoirs  or  biographies,  and  the  remaining  five  being 
all  by  men  whose  established  reputation  in  the  world  of  letters  will 
be  certain  to  command  a  certain  audience.  Even  these  writers  must 
suffer,  and  not  alone  from  decreased  royalties  but  from  the  fact  that 
editions  that  were  planned  at  five  thousand  are  ruthlessly  cut  to  three 
or  even  two.  That  this  spells  death  to  the  little  known  writer  can 
easily  be  seen,  for  the  man  whose  European  reputation  is  not  great 
enough  to  warrant  publication  in  America  will  have  little  or  no  sale 
abroad. 

In  the  same  way  the  American  writer  and  publisher  is  affected, 
for  during  the  last  ten  years  the  European  consumption  of  American 
fiction  has  become  more  and  more  of  importance.  But  now  all  is  over, 
the  books  are  willing  but  the  public  coy.  It  may  be  claimed  that  the 
war  will  eventually  stimulate  a  school  of  martial  fiction,  but  this  is  not 
likely.  It  is  only  now,  twelve  years  after  the  South  African  War,  that 
that  struggle  has  taken  anything  like  a  prominent  place  in  the  work 
of  our  writers,  and  now  that  we  are  again  embroiled  and  surrounded 


Art  191 

by  the  horrors  of  war  we  are  far  more  inclined  than  formerly  to  seek 
relief  from  work  that  will  keep  before  our  eyes  those  glaring  facts  that 
we  are  only  too  anxious  to  even  temporarily  forget. 

Therefore  matters  are  for  the  time  at  a  standstill,  nor  is  it  with  the 
end  of  the  war  that  the  trade  will  see  better  days.  Many  men  whose 
names  have  been  before  the  public  to  some  extent  will  have  become  for- 
gotten and  publishers  will  be  extremely  chary  of  accepting  and  issuing 
any  book  that  will  not  be  sure  of  at  least  a  certain  degree  of  success 
in   its   own    field. 

The  magazine,  however,  will  come  more  than  ever  into  its  own. 
Articles  dealing  with  life  at  the  front  and  with  the  personalities  of  the 
principal  actors  in  the  drama  will  be  of  timely  interest  and  for  long 
afterwards  the  "I  was  there  when"  school  will  flourish  and  wax  great. 
Economics  which  even  now  figure  largely  in  the  monthly  pages  will 
loom  even  more  ominously  than  was  their  wont  and  an  intelligent 
public   will   read   and   pretend   to   understand. 

As    for    the    rest — God    help    'em! 


By  E.  M.  Pharo,  '15 

A  light,  a  laugh, 
Rich  colors  wild; 

Oh,  that  but  half 
Might  be  beguiled 

Upon  my  canvas! 

I  strive  to  paint. 
It  matters  naught; 

My  heart  feels  faint 
With  beauty  fraught. 

So  scant  my  canvas! 

To  see  so  much — 

So  little  show. 
Is  grievous.     Such 

A  little  glow. 
From  fire  fed  fully! 


Alumni  department 


DR.  RuFus  M.  Jones  has  an 
article  on  Henri  Bergson 
in  the  September  number 
of  Present  Day  Papers.  This 
article  is  of  special  interest  because 
of  the  fact  that  Professor  Bergson 
is  going  to  deliver  a  course  of 
lectures  at  Edinburgh  University 
this  winter,  in  which  it  is  generally 
surmised  that  he  will  postulate 
his  philosophy  in  definite  form. 
Doctor  Jones  does  not  rank  Berg- 
son with  the  eternally  great  think- 
ers, with  the  Spinozas,  Kants  and 
Hegels.  However,  the  French  phi- 
losopher provides  a  welcome  avenue 
of  escape  from  materialism  by 
his  theory  that  intuition  (the 
power  of  feeling)  is  as  necessary 
to  the  full  understanding  of  life 
as  intellect  (the  power  of  analyzing 
and  criticizing).  Bergson  also  re- 
fers man's  evolution,  in  large  part, 
to  spiritual  rather  than  to  material 
forces.  He  regards  all  life  as  indis- 
solubly  bound  together,  and  be- 
lieves that  death  itself,  the  greatest 
obstacle,  may  well  yield  to  the 
mighty  floodtide  of  creative  con- 
sciousness, which  is  the  original 
power  behind  life. 

Likewise  of  interest  to  Haver- 
fordians.  Dr.  Frederic  Palmer 
Jr.  has  a  very  interesting  article  on 
"Radio-Activity"  in  the  June  issue 
of  the  same  magazine. 

Dr.  Morris  Longstreth,  of  the 
Class   of   '64,  died   in   Barcelona, 


Spain,  early  in  Septemberl914,  at 
the  age  of  sixty-eight.  After  gradu- 
ating from  Haverford  he  studied 
at  Harvard  for  two  years,  thence 
to  the  University  of  Pennsylvania, 
receiving  the  degree  of  M.  D.  in 
1869.  Dr.  Longstreth  was  a  mem- 
ber of  several  prominent  medical 
and  philosophical  societies,  and  a 
frequent  contributor  to  medical 
journals.  In  1871  he  married  Miss 
Mary  Oliver  Hastings,  of  Cam- 
bridge, Mass.,  and  after  his  retire- 
ment a  few  years  ago  had  lived  in 
that  city.  While  making  no  en- 
deavors to  be  prominent  in  social 
life.  Dr.  Longstreth  was  generally 
regarded  as  being  one  of  the  most 
interesting  of  Philadelphia  doctors. 
A  close  student  of  the  effect  of 
climatic  conditions  upon  physical 
health,  his  death  recalls  the  interest 
taken  a  few  years  ago  relative  to 
the  peculiar  structure  which  he 
had  had  built  on  his  Spruce  Street 
residence.  It  was  generally  con- 
ceded to  have  been  an  experimental 
device  by  which  he  could  more 
readily  prove  the  connection  be- 
tween atmospheric  pressure  and 
the  ills  of  his  patients. 

Among  the  Haverfordians  to  re- 
ceive advanced  degrees  last  June 

were  the  following: — 
•99 

Redfield,  Ph.D.,  Harvard 

'05 
Reagan,  M.A.,  Haverford 


Alumni  Department 


193 


'06 

Graves,  Ph.D.,  Columbia 

'11 

Bradway,  LL.B.,   PennsyKania 

'13 

Gifford,   M.A.,  Haverford 

'13 

Offeriiiann,   M.A.,   Princeton 

'13 

Montgomery,   M.x'\.,  Harvard 

'13 

Webb,   M.A.,   Haverford 

'13 

W'oosley,   M.A.,   Ha\"erford 

'13 
Young,   M.A.,   Ha\'erford 

'13 
Beatty,   M.A.,   Harvard 

'13 
Gregory,  M.A:,  Harxard 

'13 

Taylor,   M.A,,   Harvard 

Ex-' 14 

Finestone,  LL.B.,  Pennsylvania 

With  the  war  so  prominent  in 
everyone's  mind  it  is  interesting 
to  note  the  active  part  played  by 
Haverfordians  in  the  work  of  the 
London  American  Relief  Committee 
this  summer.  Poley,  '12;  Fer- 
guson, Miller,  E.  Stokes,  and 
Whitall,  '14;  Howson,  '15,  and 
J.  Stokes,  '16,  were  all  enrolled 
in    the   work   of   the   institution. 

The  following  account  of  the 
French  mobilization  is  by  Dr. 
William  Wistar  Comfort,  '94,  who 
is  spending  a  sabbatical  year  from 
Cornell     Unix'ersity,    studying     in 


France.  We  reprint  it  from  the 
columns  of  the  New  York  Evening 
Post. 

Villerville,  Calvados,  France, 
August  3. — The  words,  "general 
mobilization"  mean  nothing  to  an 
American.  Such  an  order  for  the 
massing  of  the  military  strength  of 
the  nation  has  never  been  necessary 
in  the  United  States,  as  it  is  neces- 
sary to-day  in  France.  I  have  no 
intention  to  describe  how  such  an 
extraordinary  measure  is  executed 
in  France,  or  what  were  the  in- 
ternational relations  which  com- 
pelled the  President  of  the  Re- 
public, on  Saturday,  the  1st  of 
August,  to  make  his  proclamation 
to  the  nation.  But  the  day  was  a 
memorable  one;  the  situation  was 
tense,  the  scene  was  poignant  with 
emotion,  the  air  of  calm  determina- 
tion was  most  impressive.  One 
felt  instinctively,  as  the  day  and 
the  evening  wore  on,  that  history 
was  being  made,  and  made  fast, 
while  one  looked  on  with  awe  and 
wonder.  It  is  the  impression  made 
upon  a  foreigner  upon  these  hospi- 
table shores  that  is  worth  trying  to 
communicate. 

Saturday  morning  I  had  occasion 
to  spend  in  Havre.  For  a  week  we 
had  all  been  talking  of  the  possibil- 
ity of  a  European  conflict,  and  all 
France  had  been  speculating  as  to 
the  probable  outcome  of  the  strain- 
ed diplomatic  situation.  Saturday 
morning's  news  was  ominous;  M. 
Jaures,  the  great  Socialist  orator  in 
the     Chambre,   had     been     assas- 


194 


The  Haverfordian 


inated  in  Paris  the  night  before; 
Lord  Lansdowne's  efforts  at  recon- 
ciliation seemed  doomed  to  failure. 
Yet  Havre  was  calm.  The  usual 
animation  was  evident  in  the  busy 
port,  and  people  were  going  about 
their  business.  Only  one  signif- 
icant fact:  La  Provence  was  not 
going  to  sail  for  New  York ;  she  had 
been  detained  by  orders  from 
Paris.  Rumor  had  it  that  Ger- 
many had  just  taken  similar  action 
with  her  transatlantic  lines.  Later, 
it  was  bruited  about  that  twelve 
trains,  filled  with  soldiers,  were  to 
leave  Havre  for  Paris,  Saturday 
night.  I  returned  from  Havre 
som.ewhat  uneasy,  but  with  no 
definite  idea  of  what  the  immediate 
future  had  in  store  of  thrill  and 
emotion. 

I  reached  home  at  Villerville,  a 
little  fishing  town  and  bathing  sta- 
tion, at  4.30  P.  M.  The  summer 
residents  in  the  neighboring  villas, 
who  had  business  interests  in  Paris, 
had  been  leaving  with  their  baggage 
by  train  or  automobile  for  some 
days.  One  dramatic  incident  had 
taken  place  during  my  absence. 
A  German  governess,  in  the  employ 
of  an  ex-Ministcr  of  the  Marine, 
had  been  arrested  by  the  local 
'■garde  champetre,"  just  at  the 
moment  when  she  was  entering  the 
Minister's  automobile.  Even  her 
employer,  prominent  in  affairs 
though  he  be,  and  a  Senator  to  boot, 
had  no  influence  with  the  local 
representative  of  the  Federal  Gov- 
ernment.      Nor,    indeed,    did    he 


attempt  to  interfere.  It  was  a 
striking  example  of  the  vigor  of  the 
law  at  such  times.  The  governess 
had  to  go  to  Police  Headquarters 
and  submit  to  an  examination  of 
her  effects  before  she  was  released. 
We  were  about  to  drink  a  cup  of 
tea  in  the  garden  when  the  village 
church  bell  began  to  toll  a  quick, 
nervous  alarm.  The  most  dramat- 
ic moment  had  come.  Every  one 
about  knew  what  it  meant  except 
ourselves,  poor,  ignorant  foreigners. 
It  was  the  tocsin!  In  America  the 
trains  in  a  great  railroad  system  are 
sometimes  halted  out  of  respect  for 
the  passing  beyond  of  some  great 
political  or  commercial  chief. 
Everything  in  our  busy  life  is  at  a 
standstill,  if  only  for  five  minutes. 
Somewhat  similar,  but  infinitely 
more  tragic,  was  the  scene  I  now 
witnessed.  The  French  among  our 
companions  knew  the  full  signif- 
icance of  that  tocsin.  Instinc- 
tively we  gathered  together  almost 
without  a  word.  The  air  suddenly 
grew  heavy.  Men  and  women 
looked  in  each  other's  faces  and 
their  eyes  filled.  I  looked  at  my 
watch.  It  was  4.50.  The  bell 
continued  to  ring  in  the  belfry  of 
the  old  twelfth-century  church  near 
by.  It  rang  for  fifteen  minutes. 
As  wives  threw  their  arms  about 
their  husbands,  as  children,  wonder- 
ing, clung  to  their  parents,  it  was 
easy  for  us  to  understand  what  the 
bell  meant.  It  was  the  "mobilisa- 
tion generale"  of  all  France,  the 
order  for  which    had    been  posted 


Alumn    Department 


195 


in  Paris  barracks  exactly  at  4.19, 
and  had  been  telegraphed  to  every 
post  office  in  the  country.  No 
time  had  been  lost.  Government 
ownership  of  "postes  et  tele- 
graphes"  had  this  time  worked 
well. 

No  sooner  had  the  bell  ceased 
than  a  drimi-beat  was  heard  at  a 
neighboring  street-corner.  We  all 
rushed  out  to  hear  the  news.  A 
crowd  had  gathered  to  hear  the 
"garde  champetre"  read  the  offi- 
cial dispatch  from  the  War  Office. 
He  was  accompanied  by  his  ten- 
year-old  boy,  who  served  as  drum- 
mer. Putting  on  his  glasses,  and 
assuming  his  most  official  pose,  he 
read  the  dispatch,  and  then  pro- 
ceeded to  another  post  of  vantage 
to  read  it  again.  It  was  primitive, 
old-fashioned,  if  you  will,  but  in- 
tensely impressive.  It  drew  us 
all  together  in  sympathy  as  we 
shook  hands  with  some  of  our 
acquaintances  and  tried  to  tell 
them  what  we,  too,  felt  in  this  mo- 
ment of  grief  and  possible  calamity. 

According  to  the  order,  the 
mobilization  was  to  begin  on  the 
following  day,  Sunday,  the  2nd  of 
August.  At  dawn  on  Sunday,  the 
youngest  reservists  began  to  leave. 
Family  ties  began  to  break  as  old 
fathers  and  mothers  put  their  sons 
in  the  auto-bus  for  Trouville. 
Young  fathers  bade  farewell  to  their 
wives  and  babies.  The  paralysis 
of  the  national  business  had  begun 
in  earnest  as  the  workers  dropped 
their  tools,  their  trades,  their  fish- 


ing, and  responded  to  the  call  to 
arms.  All  reservists  who  served 
as  far  back  as  1887  are  subject  to 
call.  The  younger  men  go  first, 
have  already  gone.  The  older  men 
will  all  be  gone  in  a  few  days  to  the 
frontier  or  to  the  concentration 
camps.  Sunday  morning  the  high 
road  between  Honfleur  and  Trou- 
ville presented  an  animated  scene. 
Files  of  requisitioned  horses  were 
led  by;  private  automobiles  and 
public  vehicles  shot  past,  crowded 
to  capacity  on  their  way  to  distant 
stations.  The  local  inhabitants 
were  waiting  at  9.30  for  the  Paris 
papers.  Presently,  at  the  top  of 
the  high  hill  which  slopes  down  to 
this  village,  appeared  the  bicyclist 
colporteur  of  Le  Petit  Journal,  fol- 
lowed in  a  moment  by  him  of  Le 
Matin.  Each  tossed  off  a  bundle 
of  one  hundred  copies  from  his 
basket  and  continued  his  furious 
pace  toward  Honfleur  to  spread  the 
news.  Yes,  the  expected  had  hap- 
pened. We  learn  it  as  we  fight  in 
the  crowd  to  get  possession  of  a 
sheet.  VAllemagne  declare  la 
guerre  a  la  Russie!  That  is  a  head- 
line which  is  worth  keeping  as  a 
historical  document.  Alongside  of 
this  column  on  the  front  page  is 
the  text  of  the  order  we  heard  the 
evening  before,  and  M.  Poincare's 
dignified  and  impressive  appeal  to 
the  patriotism  of  the  French  nation 
in  the  present  crisis. 

At  11.30,  prompted  by  a  natural 
desire  to  associate  in  the  interests 
of  the  townspeople,  I  attended  the 


196 


The  Haverfordian 


men's  mass  in  the  church.  Many 
of  those  who  were  about  to  depart 
for  the  army  or  the  fleet  were  seated 
in  the  choir.  How  they  sang  in 
French  those  patriotic  ca«/igMe.y  with 
which  heroism  and  the  spirit  of  self- 
sacrifice  are  stirred!  The  cure  ad- 
dressed his  remarks  for  a  few 
minutes  directly  la  the  defenders 
of  the  fatherland.  Jeanne  d'Arc 
was  recalled.  The  war  of  1870  was 
mentioned.  Yet  there  was  no  bla- 
tant chauvinism  in  the  address 
from  the  altar  steps.  It  was 
straight  patriotism  supported  by 
Christian  faith.  Some  tears  were 
shed,  but  the  concluding  hymn  was 
sung  clear  and  loud  like  a  ptean  of 
moral  victory.  There  were  scenes 
at  the  church  door  and  in  the  streets 
which  I  shall  not  forget.  It  would 
have  been  easy  to  use  a  camera 
and  publish  the  result  of  a  snap- 
shot. But  there  are  moments  when 
a  sense  of  delicacy  is  uppermost. 
Vulgar  curiosity  is  shamed  by 
heartfelt  grief.  It  is  better  to  trust 
to  mere  words  as  more  human  than 
mechanics. 

\V.  W.  C. 

The  Alumni  Department  is  in 
receipt  of  an  interesting  letter  from 
Philip  B.  Deane,  '11,  dated 
Kingsden  Hotel,  Hong  Kong,  China, 
August  17th.  We  are  glad  to 
insert  it   in   entirety: 

"You  might  insert  in  the  Alumni 
Column  something  to  the  efTect 
that  Samuel  E.  Hilles,  '74,  of 
Cincinnati,  Ohio,  his  son  William 


T.  Hilles,  '04,  and  myself  had  a 
Haverford  d  nner  recently  at  the 
residence  of  Hilles,'  04,  in  Manila. 
Also  that  I  was  the  guest  of  Doctor 
Cadbury,  '98,  in  Hong  Kong  and 
Canton,  where  he  is  doing  splendid 
medical  work.  I  am  continuing 
on  my  trip  around  the  world  for 
the  H.  K.  Mulford  Co.,  Chemists, 
of  Philadelphia,  in  spite  of  the  war. 
Things  are  quite  upset  in  the  far 
East  and  most  lines  of  business  are 
at  a  complete  standstill.  If  a 
fellow  has  made  up  his  mind  to 
play  the  game  squarely  there  is 
a  tremendous  field  in  export  selling. 
Individually  European  salesmen 
are  by  no  means  superior  to  Amer- 
ican salesmen ;  their  advantage 
lies  in  their  firms  having  had  export 
experiences  and  knowing  how  to 
conform  to  different  demands.  A- 
merican  manufacturers  are  fast 
falling  in  line  and  their  export 
business  is  increasing  tremendous- 
ly- 

"  Tell  the  fellows  to  support  Sim- 
kin,  '03,  well;  his  work  is  the  kind 
that  really  counts  out  here.     Best 
wishes  for  a  prosperous  year,  etc. 
P.  B.  Deane,  '11." 

Ex-'62 
On  October  12th  George  Wood 
will  celebrate  his  golden  wedding. 
Mr.  Wood  is  one  of  Haverford's 
most  prominent  alumni,  having 
filled  many  important  offices,  a- 
mong  them  Director  of  the  Penn- 
sylvania Railroad,  President  of 
the  West  Jersey  &  Atlantic  R.  R. 


Alumni  Department 


197 


Co.,  Director  of  the  Philack-lphia 
National  Bank,  etc.,  etc.  Mrs. 
Wood  was  formerly  Miss  Mary 
Sharpless    Hunn. 

'65 
Dr.  Ai-LEN  C.  Thomas  returned 
to  Haverford  September  26th,  af- 
ter spending  the  summer  in  Eng- 
land. Dr. Thomas  last  June  resigned 
his  position  of  college  librarian 
but  has  consented  to  remain  as 
consulting  librarian,  thus  keeping 
acti\c  for  the  benefit  of  Haverford 
a  knowledge  of  men  and  books 
which    is   probably    unique. 

'69 

Henry  Wood  has  contributed 
a  two-column  article  to  the  New 
York  Evening  Post,  in  which  he 
defends  Germany's  point  of  view 
in    the   present   war. 

'72 
Dr.  F.  B.  Gummere  delivered 
a  course  of  lectures  on  English 
Ballads  and  on  Shakespeare  at 
the  Chautauqua  Institute  last 
summer. 


William  Draper  Lewis,  the 
Washington  Party  nominee  for 
Governor  and  Dean  of  the  Penn- 
sylvania Law  School,  has  recently 
withdrawn  from  the  gubernatorial 
race,  in  favor  of  Mr.  McCormick, 
the    Democratic   nominee. 


'89 
Dr.  Wm.  Rush  Dunton  Jr. 
has  been  appointed  Instructor  in 
Psychiatry  at  Johns  Hopkins  I'ni- 
versity.  Prior  to  this  he  had  been 
Assistant  Physician  at  the  Shep- 
pard  and  Pratt  Hospital  for  Men- 
tal Diseases. 

'91 

J.  Wetherill  Hutton  and  El- 
len S.  Cope  were  married  at 
Tacoma,  Oregon,  on  August  21st. 

'95 
Samuel    H.    Brown,  who    was 
awarded    an    Austin    Scholarship, 
is    taking    a    special  postgraduate 
course  at  Harvard  L^niversity. 

J.  Linton  Engle,  formerly  as- 
sociated with  the  Franklin  Printing 
Company,  is  now  associate  mana- 
ger and  treasurer  of  the  Holmes 
Press,  printers,  at  1336-40  Cherry 
St.,   Philadelphia. 

'96 

T.  Hollingsworth  Wood  has 
dissohed  his  partnership  in  the 
firm  of  Kirby  and  Wood  b>-  mutual 
consent.  Mr.  Wood  will  continue 
the  practice  of  law  with  offices 
at  43  Cedar  Street  instead  of  2 
Wall   Street. 

J.  Henry  Scattergood  man- 
aged the  Merion  Cricket  Club  team 
in  its  tour  of  England.  Six  Hav- 
erfordians  played  on  the  team, 
which  had  a  very  successful   tour. 


198 


The  Haverfordian 


winning    four    games,    losing    two  Grayson   M.    P.    Murphy  was 

and  drawing  three.    C.  C.  Morris,  recently     appointed     one     of    the 

'94,   led  the  team  at  bat,    having  receivers   for      the      International 

an   average   of   64.  Steam    Pump    Company. 


'97 

The  Rev.  Elliot  Field  was 
installed  at  the  First  Presbyte- 
rian Church  of  West  Hoboken  at 
an  evening  service  held  on  the 
2Sth  of  June.  The  installation 
was  followed  by  an  informal  re- 
ception given  to  the  pastor  and 
his  wife  in  the  church  parlors. 

Dr.  Francis  Norton  Maxfield,  of 
the  Psychology  Department  at  the 
University  of  PennsyK-ania,  has 
been  promoted  from  instructor  to 
assistant  professorship. 

'99 

John  Howard  Redfield,  S.  B. 
(Haverford  College);  S.  B.  (Mass. 
Institute  of  Technology),  1902; 
A.  M.  (Harvard  University),  1910, 
has  received  the  degree  of  Ph.  D. 
from    Harvard     Uni\'ersity. 

Announcement  is  made  of  the 
publication  by  the  Central  Publish- 
ing House,  Cleveland,  Ohio,  of  a 
volume  dealing  with  the  book  of 
Job,  by  the  Rev.  William  Bode. 

'GO 

Mr.  and  Mrs.  Henry  S.  Drink- 
er Jr.  announce  the  birth  of 
a  son,  Henry  S.  Drinker  3rd, 
at   their   home   at   Wynnewood. 


Ex-'OO 

Major  John  A.  Logan  Jr., 
U.  S.  A.,  is  now  on  duty  on  the 
Continent,  aiding  American  tour- 
ists. 

'02 

Dr.  Charles  Wharton  Stork  has 
been  promoted  to  assistant  profes- 
sorship in  the  English  Department 
at  Penn. 

John  McCormack,  Alice  Neil- 
son  and  Frank  Crexton  are  using 
songs  composed  by  C.  Linn  Seil- 
ER,  and  two  large  New  York  choral 
societies  are  to  present  certain 
of    his    part-songs. 

Ulysses  Mercer  Eshleman 
was  married  on  August  6th  at 
Fair  Oaks,  California,  to  Miss 
Eleanor  Brown  Thompson,  niece 
of  the  Reverend  and  Mrs.  Robert 
M.  Stevenson.  They  will  live 
at  821  S.  Hope  St.,  Los  Angeles, 
California. 

Mrs.  Antoinette  Nyitray  has 
announced  the  marriage  of  her 
daughter  Louise  to  Dr.  Howard 
MoFFiTT  Trueblood.  Mr.  True 
blood  received  the  Ph.  D.  degree 
from  Harvard  in  June  1913. 


Alumni  Department 


199 


Dr.  Randolph  Winslow  has 
returned  from  London,  where  he 
was  a  delegate  to  the  Inter- 
national Surgical  Congress,  and 
has  resumed  his  position  as  In- 
structor of  Surgery  at  the  Univer- 
sity of  Maryland. 

'04 
D.  Lawrence  Burgess  spent 
the  summer  in  Germany,  studying. 
After  a  troublesome  time  he  suc- 
ceeded in  accomplishing  a  retreat 
through  Holland  and  England  the 
end  of  August.  He  could  not 
correspond  in  English  to  let  his 
friends  know  his  whereabouts,  for 
all  English  letters  were  returned. 
Cnl\-  those  written  in  German  were 
allowed  to  pass.  He  will  resume 
his  position  at  the  Germantown 
Friends'   School   this  fall. 

'05 
SiGMUND  Spaeth  holds  the  po- 
sition of  musica'  critic  of  the  New 
York  Evening  Mail.  He  is  also 
musical  editor  of  a  recently  es- 
tablished   monthly,    The    Republic. 

'06 
Mr.  and  Mrs.  Robert  Kelly, 
of  Richmond,  Indiana,  have  an- 
nounced the  marriage  of  their 
daughter.  Miss  Agnes  Kelly,  to 
Mr.  Roderick  Scott,  on  Thurs- 
day, August    14th. 

Mr.  and  Mrs.  David  Everett 
Allen  announce  the  marriage  of 
their     daughter     Maude     to     Mr. 


Jesse  Dale  Phillips  on  Saturday, 
September  19th,  at  Wilmette,  Il- 
linois. 

Mr.  Raphael  Johnson  Short- 
LIDGE  married  Miss  Helen  Wet- 
more  Houghton  on  the  2nd  of 
September,  at  Nelson,  New  Hamp- 
shire. 

Ex-'06 
"Sonnets  from  the  Patagonian," 
Donald  Evans'  last  volume  of 
poems,  reached  its  third  printing 
September  first.  This  volume,  in- 
cidentally, had  the  interesting  dis- 
tinction of  having  e\'ery  line  of  it 
Cjuoted  by  some  critic  or  other 
within  six  weeks  of  first  publica- 
tion, December  27,  1913.  Another 
book  of  poems,  "Sidestreets  of 
Evasion,"  will  be  published  in  De- 
cember. In  it  Mr.  Evans  has  for 
the  first  time  made  experiments  in 
vers  libre. 

'08 
The  engagement  of  Mr.  Albert 
Linton    and     Miss    Margaret    S. 
Roberts,  of  Moorestown,  N.  J.,  has 
been  announced. 

Carrol  Thornton  Brown  was 
married  to  Anna,  daughter  of 
Mr.  and  Mrs.  Charles  R.  Harts- 
horne  on  Saturday,  August  22nd. 
The  wedding  took  place  on  the 
lawn  of  Hillcrest,  Brighton,  Mary- 
land. Among  the  Haverfordians 
present  were  Howard  Burtt,  '08, 
and   Morris   Longstreth,    '08. 


200 


The  Haverfordian 


Joseph  Bushnell  has  returned     August   22nd.     They   will   live   in 
from  Tulsa,  Oklahoma,  after  sue-      Moorestown,    N.    J. 


cessfully  installing  the  Taylor  Sys- 
tem in  McEwen  and  Co. 

'08 
The   engagement   of    M.    Albert 
Linton  to  Miss  Margaret  Roberts, 
of   Moorestown,    N.    J.,    has   been 
announced. 

'09 
Aaron  D.  Warnock,  '09,  and 
George  W.  Emlen  Jr.,  '08,  have 
to  announce  that  they  have  formed 
a  partnership,  trading  under  the 
firm  name  of  Warnock  &  Emlen, 
with  offices  at  612  Commercial 
Trust  Building,  for  the  transaction 
of  a  general  real  estate  and  insur- 
ance   business. 

James  W.  Crowell  is  assisting 
Dr.  Spiers  in  the  French  Depart- 
ment at  Haverford. 

F.  Raymond  Taylor  and  Miss 
Rachel  Farlow  were  married  at 
Guilford  College,  N.  C,  on  Septem- 
ber 25. 

'10 
Mr.  and  Mrs.  James  Whitall 
are  now  established  at  Chelsea, 
London.  Mr.  Whitall  is  at  present 
engaged  in  translating  some  French 
plays  into  English. 

Alfred  S.  Roberts  and  Miss 
Anna  Elizabeth  Collins  were  mar- 
ried at  Hopkinton,  Rhode  Island,  on 


Ex-' 10 
Mr.    and    Mrs.    John    French 


''A  Live  Store'' 


Pyle,  Iknes 
b  Barbieri 


TAILORS 

^      TOR.     ^> 

MEN  AND  BaV;S 


1115  WALNUT  ST., 
PHILADELPHIA. 


is  the  only 
kind  to  which 
a  young  man 
should  tie — 
where  the 
stock  is  always 
new;  where 
good  taste 
prevails  and 
courtesy  rules. 
Such  a  store  is 
right  here  and 
it  is  becoming 
more  popular 
every  season. 

The  largest 
g  a  t  h  ering  of 
Foreign  and 
Domestic 
woolens  in  the 
city    is    await- 


ing your  inspection  and  opinion. 


Suits  and  Overcoats  -  $25  to  $50 
Full  Dress  Suits   -  -  $40  to  $70 


Pyle,  Innes  &  Barbieri 

College   Ta  ilors 
1 1 15  Walnut  Street 

PHILADELPHIA 


Alumni  Department 


201 


Wilson  announce  the  birth  of  a 
daughter,  Carohne,  on  the  18tli 
of    August. 

P.  J.  Baker,  of  London,  is 
organizing  an  ambulance  corps  for 
service  with  the  English  army. 

'11 
L.  R.  Shcro  sailed  for  England  on 
September  23rd,  to  begin  his  studies 
as  a  Rhodes  Scholar  at  Oxford. 

LeRov  Jones  has  accepted  a 
position  as  teacher  at  the  West- 
town    Boarding  School. 

'12 
William  H.  Roberts    Jr.    and 
Helen    Bo\d    Kester  were   married 
in  Philadelphia  on  September  28th. 

'12 
\MlHam  H.  Roberts  was  married 
to  Miss  Helen  Boyd  Kester  at 
Christ  Church  Chapel,  Philadel- 
phia, on  the  28th  of  September. 
Francis  Stokes,  ex-' 14,  was  the 
best  man,  and  Messrs.  Lowry, 
Morris,  Rhodes  and  Ritts,  '12,  the 
ushers. 

Herhert  M.  Lowrv  and  Mil- 
dred Dorothea  Vollrath  were  mar- 
ried at  Penlyn,  Pennsyhania, 
on    October    3rd. 

'13 
Fraxcis  Mitchell  Froelktii;r 
was    married    to    Miss    Elizabeth 
Collins     Lowry     in      Philadelphia 


on  September  5th.  The  ushers 
were  Mitchell  Froelicher.'IO, 
Hans  Froelicher,  '12,  Charles 
Hires,  '13,  and  Richard  Howson, 
'13.  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Froelicher  will 
be  at  home  after  November  Isi  at 
Tramore  Road,  Hamilton,  Bal- 
timore,   Mar>-land. 

Norman  H.  Taylor  was  study- 
ing chemistry  at  the  University 
of  Marburg  in  Germany  when  war 
broke  out,  and  has  recently  arrived 
home  after  some  thrilling  expe- 
riences. WiLLARD  TOMLINSON,    '10, 


OVER  360  SAMPLES  OF 
GOOD  LETTERHEADS 


X' OU  will  find  here  an  unique  display  so 
arranged  that  you  can  see  the  entire 
number  in  5  minutes,  or  you  can  profita- 
bly spend  half  an  hour;  a  wide  range  of 
prices,  plenty  of  good  colors  in  both  paper 
and  ink,  and  a  type  display  suitable  for  all 
kinds  of  business  from  the  professional 
ones  for  the  lawyer  and  doctor  on  up  to 
the  elaborate  ones  for  the  business  that  re- 
quires that  kind. 

You  are  invited    to  see    the   display  any 
day  from  8  to  5-30.      Send  for  booklet. 

"Where  To  Euy  Letterheads." 

ACTON  ItJg^lli;^? 

29  SOUTH  SEVENTH  STREET 
PHILADELPHIA 


202 


The  Haverfordian 


and  J.  D.  Renninger,  '12,  were 
also  at  Marburg  at  the  time  of 
the  declaration  of  war. 

Ex-' 13 
E.    T.    Kirk    has    been    given 
charge  of  the  entire  photographic 
department  at  Pennsylvania  State 
College. 

'14 
After  captaining  the  Haverford 
Cricket  Team  through  a  most 
successful  English  tour,  John  K. 
Garrigues  has  settled  down  as 
a  teacher  at  the  Haverford  school. 

Thomas  W.  Elkinton,  Howard 
W.  Elkinton  and  Alfred  W. 
Elkinton  are  working  for  the 
Philadelphia    Quartz    Company. 

Rowland  S.  Phillips,  who  has 
been  attending  the  summer  school 
of  the  University  of  Pennsylvania, 
intends  to  take  up  the  study  of 
medicine  at  that  institution.  Em- 
len  Stokes,  an  important  unit 
of  the  "war  time  cricket  team," 
is  also  entered  at  Penn  Medical 
School. 

Douglas  Waples  has  entered 
upon  his  duties  as  instructor  of 
English  at  the  Oilman  Country 
School,  Roland  Park,  Maryland. 
This  summer  was  spent  with  Messrs. 
C.  M.  and  Hans  Froelicher  Jr. 
at  their  new  camp  in  the  Pocono 
Lake  Preserve.  By  all  accounts 
a  most  successful  opening  season. 

L.  Bl.\ckledge  Lippmann,  who 
is  now  on  the  Evening  Ledger,  is 
living  at  318  S.   15th  St.,  Phila. 


"Careful  Handling  and  Quality" 

Send  us  Your  Suitings  to  be 

Dry-Cleaned,   Scoured 
and    Pressed 

At   Reasonable  Rates 


Our  College  Agent 

Mr.  I,  Thomas  Steere 


Aubrey  Howell 


Richard  S.  Dewees 


Insurance 

HOWELL  &  DEWEES 

SPECIAL   AGENTS 

Provident    Life  and   Trust   Co. 

Fourth  and  Chestnut  Streets 
Philadelphia 

For    the   gentlemen    who    appreciate 

the  refinement  of  good  grooming. 

Our    Barber   Shop   was   inaugurated 

50  years  ago.      No  Tipping. 


13th  above  Chestnut, 


Phila. 


Alumni  Department 


203 


J.    C.    Ferguson    is    with    the  W.  G.  Bowermax  is  taking  the 

Philadelphia  Trust  Company  after      actuarial  course  at  the  Uni\'ersity 
a  summer  on   the   Continent.  of   Michigan. 


P.  H.  Sanc.ree  is  employed  in 
the  offices  Of  Rufus  W'aples  and 
Company. 

Carroll  Uinham  Champlin 
and    Herbert    \\'.    Taylor    are 

teaching  fellows  at  Ha\erford  this 
year. 

Edwakd  M.  Joxes  is  now  em- 
ployed by  the  Haines,  Jones  and 
Cadbury  Co.  He  has  associated 
himself  with  the  Germantown  Boys' 
Club,  and  wore  their  colors  in  the 
Middle  Atlantic  Championships  and 
in  the  National  Championships 
held  at  Homewood,  Baltimore. 
His  present  address  is  516  Queen 
Lane,    Germantown. 

Harold  M.  I.ane  is  with  the 
Society  for  Prevention  of  Cruelty 
to  Children,  S.  15th  St.,  Phila. 
His  residence  is  at  1344  Spruce 
St.,    Phila. 


J.  P.  Greene  is  teaching  in  a 
Washington,   D.   C,  high  school. 

R.  MacFarlan  is  secretary  to 
the  President  of  the  Keen  Kutter 
Company. 

R.  P.  McKiNLEY  is  with  Rufus 
Waples    and    Company. 

R.  C.  Smlfh  is  in  the  P.  R.  R. 
shops  in   Altoona,    Pa. 

W.  H.  B.  Whitall  is  with  the 
Whitall,  Tatum  Co. 

Ex-' 15 
Carl    L.    Newell    is   studying 
at    the    Philadelphia     College    of 
Osteopathy. 

Karl  Dodge  is  one  of  the  firm 
of  the  Siner  Paint  Company,  man- 
ufacturers of  metallic  paints,  lo- 
cated    at     Germantown,     Pa. 


^czjr 


The  Haverfordian 


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and  The  Famous 

Hart,  Schaffner  &  Marx  Clothing 

For  Men  and  Young   Men 
The  Equal  of  Custom-Made  Clothing 

The  Two  Strongest  Lines  of 
Men's  Clothing   in   America 

Sold  in  Philadelphia  exclusively  by 

Strawbridge  &  Clothier 
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When    Patronizing    Advertisers    Kindly  Mention  The  Haverfordian 


THE    HAVERFORDIAN 


Yoshlo  Nltobe,  EdItor-ln-Chief 

ASSOCIATE  EDITORS 
F.  M.  Morley,  1915  K.    P.    A.    Taylor,    1915 

E.  M.  Pharo,  1915  E.  C.  Bye,  1916 

Robert  Gibson,  1917 

BUSINESS  MANAGER  SUBSCRIPTION  MANAGER 

Albert  G.  Garrigues,  1916  Edward  R.  Moon,  1916 

Price,  per  year $1.00  Single  Copies $0.15 

The  Haterfordian  is  published  on  the  first  of  each  month  during  College  year.  Its  purpose 
is  to  foster  the  literary  spirit  among  the  undergraduates  and  to  provide  an  organ  for  the  discussion  of 
questions  relative  to  college  life  and  policy.  To  these  ends  contributions  are  invited,  and  will  be  con- 
sidered solely  on  their  merits.  Matter  intended  for  insertion  should  reach  the  Editor  not  later  than  the 
fifteenth  of  the  month  preceding  the  date  of  issue. 

Entered  at  the  Haverford  Post-Of!ice.  for  transmission  through  the  mails  as  second-class  matter. 

Vol.  XXXVH  ^:Q  HAVERFORD,  PA.  NOVEMBER,   1914  No.  6 


Cbitorial  Comment 

HAS  HAVERFORD  GOT  THE  "  PUNCH?" 

THERE  is  an  attitude  towards  athletics  at  Haverford  that  is  fraught 
with  grave  peril  for  Haverford  Spirit.  We  are  in  danger  of 
accepting  the  dangerous  doctrine  that  athletics  is  for  individual 
exercise  and  recreation  alone — in  other  words  that  athletics  is  play. 
We  are  so  afraid  that  we  may  get  the  "win  at  all  cost"  attitude  towards 
sport  that  we  are  in  danger  of  going  to  the  opposite  extreme,  emasculating 
our  Haverford  Spirit. 

Athletics  is  not  for  mere  exercise  nor  is  it  for  the  attainment  of  glory : 
its  great  value  lies  in  its  character  building  power.  The  inculcation  of 
discipline,  obedience,  courage,  endurance  and  self  sacrifice  on  the  field  in 
no  small  manner  aid  in  the  formation  of  manhood. 

Whatever  task  Haverford  may  face  all  Haverfordians  must  present 
a  united  front  and  display  both  self-sacrifice  and  determination.  Such  a 
spirit  is  satisfied  with  nothing  less  than  victory. 


iWobern  iWagic 

By  Eugene  M.  Pharo,  'IS. 

You  may  prate  of  and  may  wonder  at  the  crystal-gazing  seer, 
You  may  prattle  and  grow  wordy  over  travels  far  and  near, 
But  with  all  your  bloomin'  crystals  and  your  sights  of  sand  or  snow 
You  cannot  hope  to  draw  me  from  the  movin'  picture  show. 

For  inside  its  shinin'  entrance  there  are  things  Aladdin  now 
Couldn't  get  his  ugly  genii  for  to  bring  him  anyhow. 

There  are  mermaids  there  and  fairies,  and  it's  said  that  there's  been  seen 
Old  Satan  with  his  pitchfork  and  an  imp  or  two  between. 

I've  even  seen  the  Maker,  though  a  mist  was  round  his  head, 

Receiving  guilty  sinners  who'd  repented  on  their  bed. 

The  riches  of  a  millionaire,  the  beauty  of  a  queen, 

The  rotten  might  that  grinds  us  is  right  there  upon  the  scene. 

The  very  soul  within  us,  shinin'  angels  with  their  2vings, 
And  kitchen  knaves  and  scullions  all  a-chumming  it  with  kings, 
Food  that's  set  out  for  a  banquet,  richest  robes  and  marble  halls. 
All  are  waiting — for  a  nickel — and  I  say,  the  movie  calls. 


lamerica'g  iWugic  problem 

By  Sigmund  Spaeth 

[Mr.  Spaeth  is  Musical  Critic  for  the  "New  York 
Evening  Mail,"  and  the  "New  Republic."  Many  of  his 
articles  are  appearing  in  "  Vogue"  and  "  Vanity  Fair." 
He  is  a  Haverfordian  of  the  new  school,  and  one  well  fitted 
to  handle  this   complex  problem.] 

The  Failing  of  American  Art 

The  spirit  of  provincialism  is  generally  displayed  by  a  naive  cre- 
dulity combined  with  a  self-satisfied  complaisance.  Judged  from  this 
point  of  view,  the  Americans  are  at  present  artistically  the  most  pro- 
vincial people  in  the  world.  At  the  same  time,  their  commercial  urban- 
ity, if  I  may  be  permitted  the  expression,  is  unsurpassed.  The  combi- 
nation is  not  a  happy  one.  Provincialism  may  in  time  be  eradicated, 
or  at  least  modified,  by  a  process  of  humility  and  determined  study. 
But  commercialism  is  ingrained,  not  merely  in  the  American  character, 
but  to  a  certain  extent  in  all  human  nature.  Therefore,  in  a  conflict 
between  commercialism  and  art,  particularly  when  the  latter  is  struggling 
under  the  added  handicap  of  provincialism,  art  will  inevitably  be  defeated. 
The  problem  of  American  art  is  to  rid  itself  of  the  burden  of  commercial- 
ism, and  nowhere  has  the  problem  assumed  greater  proportions  than 
in  the  field  of  music. 

Music's  Foreign  Dependence 

The  unqualified  declaration  of  America's  artistic  provincialism, 
especially  as  applied  to  the  art  of  music,  may  occasion  surprise.  We 
have  been  led  to  believe,  by  our  newspapers,  magazines,  press-agents 
and  music  publishers,  that  tremendous  strides  have  been  made  by 
our  country  in  the  last  decade,  and  that  we  are  now  fit  to  compete 
with  any  foreign  people  in  musical  knowledge,  taste  and  discrimination. 
This  is  only  partly  true.  Our  commercial  success  and  the  application 
of  commercial  methods  to  matters  of  art  have  laid  the  costliest  treasures 
of  the  world's  music  at  our  feet.  We  can  well  boast  of  our  three  leading 
opera  companies,  of  our  Boston,  Philadelphia,  New  York  and  Chicago 
orchestras,  and  of  the  marvellous  army  of  concert  artists  that  annually 
pay  us  a  visit.     Such  a  state  of  affairs  represents  progress,  of  course. 


208  The  Haverfordian 

It  represents  an  increasing  number  of  sincere  music-lovers  whose  finan- 
cial support  makes  these  expensive  undertakings  possible.  It  means 
that  our  population  is  constantly  absorbing  a  foreign  element  which 
is  responsible  for  new  and  higher  standards  of  art.  But  have  the  Amer- 
ican people,  as  such,  improved  in  their  powers  of  discrimination? 
Has  the  American  character  thus  far  given  any  indication  of  an  aesthetic 
sensibility  to  counterbalance  its  commercial  instinct?  Have  we,  in 
other  words,  shown  any  signs  of  an  artistic  independence,  or,  more 
particularly,  a  musical  independence?  Emphatically  no.  Insincere 
or  blindly  prejudiced  critics  have  told  us  of  the  rise  of  a  distinct  Amer- 
ican school  of  musical  composition,  of  the  supremacy  of  the  American- 
born  artist  as  an  interpreter  of  music,  of  the  taste  and  sincerity  of  the 
average  American  audience.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  with  the  possible 
exception  of  MacDowell,  we  have  produced  no  original  composer 
of  more  than  average  ability;  our  few  great  interpreters  of  music  have 
owed  their  greatness  almost  entirely  to  foreign  training;  and  an  average 
American  audience,  if  it  can  be  trapped  into  a  sincere  expression  of  taste, 
will  unquestionably  admit  its  preference  for  ragtime  and  the  easy 
melodiousness  of  cheap  sentimentality.  The  few  who  are  exceptions 
to  the  rule  are  doing  their  best  to  spread  the  doctrines  of  a  more  culti- 
vated taste,  and  the  ignorant  and  self-satisfied  masses  willingly  accept 
credit  for  an  artistic  intelligence  which  they  do  not  possess.  The  com- 
mercial purveyors  of  music  gladly  cater  to  this  complaisant  ignorance 
and  flatter  their  victims  on  the  unerring  correctness  of  their  judgment. 

Public  Insincerity 

It  is  this  insincerity  deliberately  obscuring  the  real  issues  in  Amer- 
ican music,  that  makes  the  true  state  of  affairs  so  difficult  to  compre- 
hend. The  limits  of  the  present  article  permit  only  a  brief  outline  of 
the  leading  features  of  this  music  problem,  with  a  mere  suggestion 
as  to  a  possible  method  of  solution. 

A  hint  has  already  been  given  of  the  real  condition  of  the  so-called 
"American  musical  public."  It  is  not  only  uneducated  but  funda- 
mentally and  characteristically  undiscriminating.  Its  gullibility  is 
stupendous.  Insincerity  is  its  only  protection,  hence  its  most  advanced 
members  are  chiefly  poseurs.  The  few  who  are  sincere  are  either  in- 
tensely ignorant  or  intensely  intolerant.  With  blind  arrogance  we 
boast  of  always  getting  the  best,  without  ever  gaining  a  clear  conception 
of  what  really  is  the  best. 


America's  Music  Problem  209 

Troubles  of  the  Artist 

And  what  of  the  artists  themselves?  They  are  tempted  as  a  rule 
by  the  financial  rewards  held  out  to  them  by  unscrupulous  managers. 
Their  art  is  surrounded  from  the  outset  by  restrictions.  They  are  not 
allowed  to  play  what  they  wish,  but  what  is  calculated  to  please  their 
audience.  Often  they  do  not  even  attempt  their  most  artistic  methods  of 
interpretation,  knowing  that  the  more  obvious  tricks  of  technique 
and  sentimentality  possess  a  surer  appeal  to  the  gallery.  They  are 
harassed  with  reporters  and  press-agents  who  insist  that  they  shall 
express  their  views  upon  all  the  commonplaces  of  life.  They  are  expected 
to  be  bizarre  and  "original"  in  their  public  appearances,  and  they 
know  that  while  they  are  on  the  stage  their  "personality,"  their  clothes 
and  their  hair  are  considered  as  important  as  their  music.  They  are 
constantly  tempted  by  the  commercial  offers  of  music  publishers, 
piano  manufacturers,  and  other  business  concerns  with  whom  they 
come  in  contact,  ready  at  all  times  to  appraise  the  artist's  ability  and 
prestige  in  terms  of  dollars  and  cents.  Add  to  this  the  horrors  of  con- 
tinual hard  travel  and  the  tortures  of  the  social  whirl,  and  the  lot  of 
the  touring  artist  is  readily  seen  to  be  an  unenviable  one. 

Dollars  and  Cents 

But  the  real  stronghold  of  commercialism  in  American  music  is 
to  be  found  in  the  managers  and  press-agents.  Here  business  rules 
and  methods  are  supreme.  The  manager  well  knows  that  the  complex- 
ities of  a  concert  tour  are  far  beyond  the  mental  grasp  of  the  average 
artist.  Therefore  he  forces  him  to  pay  a  considerable  sum  in  spot  cash 
before  consenting  to  take  him  under  his  wing.  Thus  the  manager  is 
insured  against  loss  at  the  outset,  while  in  the  event  of  gain  his  profits 
will  be  even  larger  than  those  of  the  artist.  It  is  difficult  for  a  compar- 
atively unknown  performer  to  acquire  a  first-class  manager  without 
the  preliminary  payment  of  at  least  $2,000.  With  this  sum  an  appear- 
ance in  New  York  is  guaranteed,  whose  sole  object  is  to  obtain  favorable 
press  notices,  for  a  New  York  debut  is  never  anything  but  a  total  loss 
financially.  If,  however,  the  approval  of  the  New  York  critics  is  won, 
a  tour  may  safely  be  undertaken  and  by  skilful  advertising  a  solid 
profit  may  eventually  be  recorded.  In  all  this  the  manager  is  all-impor- 
tant. He  is  by  nature  a  speculator.  He  takes  big  chances  with  the  hope 
of  winning  big  rewards.  He  treats  his  artists  purely  as  commercial 
wares,  and  figures  carefully  how  many  dollars'  worth  of  advertising 


210  The  Haverfordian 

each  one  may  be  worth.  He  has  the  business  man's  instinct  of  making 
all  of  his  wares  seem  just  a  little  better  than  they  really  are,  and  he 
does  not  hesitate  to  recommend  an  inferior  article  if  his  own  gain  will 
be  the  greater.  The  press-agent  is  his  hired  slave,  paid  to  publish  all 
manner  of  highly-colored  statements,  often  deliberate  falsehoods. 
As  a  rule  he  knows  nothing  about  music,  and  has  only  a  faint  conception 
of  the  possibilities  of  English  style.  His  value  depends  upon  his  ability 
to  "plant"  material  in  the  newspapers  and  magazines,  for  the  "reading 
notice"  is  far  more  seductive  than  the  most  carefully  worded  advertise- 
ment. 

The  Musical  Critic 

The  managerial  side  of  the  music  problem  is  at  least  frank  in  its 
commercialism.  How  much  more  insidious  is  the  commercial  spirit 
of  the  "musical  magazines"  and  the  daily  papers!  Taking  up  first 
the  lesser  evil,  we  find  that  the  average  "music  critic"  of  an  American 
newspaper  rarely  has  the  opportunity  of  writing  an  unbiased  and  in- 
telligent criticism,  even  supposing  that  his  training  and  his  -  instincts 
made  such  a  proceeding  a  possibility.  He  is  often  deliberately  restricted 
by  his  advertising  department  and  constantly  subjected  to  the  direct 
and  indirect  bribes,  threats,  and  cajolings  of  managers  and  artists.  Even 
were  he  able  and  willing  to  write  unprejudiced  comment,  he  is  so  harassed 
by  conflicting  engagements  and  so  pressed  for  time  in  the  preparation 
of  his  material  that  deliberate  or  thoughtful  work  is  practically  im- 
possible. Under  the  circumstances  it  is  only  natural  that  our  "music 
critics"  should  be  appointed  chiefly  for  their  ability  to  write  an  inter- 
esting or  amusing  newspaper  style  or  to  fill  space  with  noncommittal 
vaporings  liberally  sprinkled  with  high-sounding  technical  terms.  Some 
of  the  best  of  them  have  gained  their  experience  in  reporting  baseball 
games  and  the  proceedings  of  the  criminal  courts.  Their  ideal  of  critical 
comment  seems  to  be  a  mixture  of  satire  and  flippancy.  Of  serious, 
constructive   criticism   they   have   scarcely   an   inkling. 

Blackmail  and  Musical  Magazines 

As  for  the  "musical  magazines,"  they  are  the  whited  sepulchres 
of  their  professed  art.  Their  aims  and  ideals  are  completely  commercial 
and  they  neither  know  nor  care  about  distinctions  between  good  and 
bad  music.  Most  of  them  fill  their  editorial  departments  with  so-called 
"propaganda,"   in  which   stupid   prejudice   and   blind   patriotism   are 


America's  Music  Problem  211 

called  upon  to  gloss  over  the  obvious  defects  in  American  music.  Their 
chief  purpose  is  to  depreciate  the  work  of  foreign  musicians  as  compared 
with  the  pitiful  efforts  of  native  Americans.  But  if  a  foreigner  has 
become  permanently  settled  in  this  country  and  advertises  liberally, 
he  is  hailed  as  a  glittering  ornament  of  the  "American  school."  It  will 
be  noticed  that  nearly  every  "American  composer"  of  prominence 
bears  a  German,  French  or  Italian  name,  while  few  of  "our"  greatest 
interpreters  of  music  are  Americans  in  the  strictest  sense  of  the  word. 
But  the  musical  magazines  keep  these  obvious  facts  in  the  background. 
Their  game  is  to  arouse  enthusiasm  over  "American  music"  and  thus 
victimize  both  advertisers  and  subscribers.  Aside  from  the  editorial 
misrepresentations,  their  columns  are  entirely  filled  with  advertising. 
For  every  "reading  notice"  is  in  reality  a  paid  advertisement,  since 
it  is  definitely  understood  that  all  advertisers  are  entitled  to  a  propor- 
tionate amount  of  "general  publicity."  I  know  of  one  case  in  which 
a  prominent  musician  desired  to  contribute  an  article  of  real  merit 
on  a  subject  of  general  interest.  The  magazine  refused  to  publish  this 
article  over  the  name  of  the  author  until  the  latter  had  contracted  for 
one  hundred  dollars'  worth  of  advertising.  (Naturally  the  question  of 
paying  the  author  for  his  article  was  never  raised.)  Itcan  easily  be  seen  how 
a  powerful  publication  of  this  kind  may  institute  a  system  of  blackmail, 
eulogizing  those  who  have  paid  for  eulogies,  and  ignoring  or  even  "roast- 
ing" those  who  have  not.  In  some  cases  the  real  financial  support  of 
a  magazine  lies  in  an  advertising  supplement,  or  trade  journal.  With 
such  an  arrangement,  blackmail  can  be  brought  to  its  greatest  effective- 
ness. It  is  significant  that  one  of  these  trade  journals,  connected  with 
a  reputable  magazine,  was  recently  sued  for  blackmail  by  a  piano  manu- 
facturing company  which  not  only  won  the  case  but  collected  big  dam- 
ages. 

Government  Control  the  Solution 

If,  then,  the  managers,  the  press  and  even  the  artists  themselves 
conspire  to  keep  Americans  in  ignorance  of  the  true  state  of  their  music 
problem,  where  are  we  to  turn  for  help?  There  is  only  one  possible 
answer:  to  the  government  of  the  United  States.  The  salvation  of 
American  music  lies  in  a  system  of  Municipal  and  Federal  control. 
We  are  already  on  our  way  to  such  a  solution,  in  the  constantly  increasing 
number  of  free  public  concerts,  the  greater  attention  paid  to  music 
in  the  public  schools,  and  the  growing  agitation  in  favor  of  Municipal 
Opera  in  our  larger  cities.    Under  an  administration  which  chanced  to 


212  The  Haverfordian 

take  as  great  an  interest  in  the  aesthetic  as  in  the  commercial  welfare 
of  the  community,  an  administration  with  other  ideals  than  the  mere 
distribution  of  dollars  and  cents,  the  wheels  of  government  might 
easily  set  in  motion  a  machinery  which  would  ultimately  make  of  our 
country  a  musical  Utopia. 

Details  of  the  System 

Such  a  system  would  necessarily  begin,  as  it  already  is  beginning, 
in  the  cities.  Municipal  Opera  and  Municipal  Concerts  would  precede 
Federal  Opera  and  Federal  Concerts.  The  establishing  of  a  great  na- 
tional Conservatory  of  Music,  with  branches  in  all  our  musical  centers, 
would  be  a  fundamental  necessity,  not  only  for  the  development  of 
interpretative  and  creative  artists,  but  for  the  education  of  the  general 
public.  Through  dependence  upon  the  right  sources  of  information 
and  guidance,  we  may  gradually  achieve  a  real  independence  of  taste 
and    discrimination. 

After  a  long  and  steady  process  of  evolution,  the  perfected  system 
would  probably  exhibit  the  following  leading  features :  A  Commissioner 
of  Music,  located  at  Washington,  having  full  charge  of  all  official  musical 
performances  in  America,  and  equal  in  importance  to  members  of  the 
President's  cabinet;  a  series  of  committees  on  the  various  forms  of 
music,  largely  taken  from  the  teaching  force  of  the  National  Conser- 
vatory, whose  duty  it  would  be  to  decide  upon  the  artists  and  organ- 
izations employed  by  the  government,  and,  in  consultation  with  the 
Commissioner  of  Music,  to  arrange  the  season's  schedule  of  performances; 
a  municipal  opera  house,  a  municipal  concert  hall,  and  a  municipal 
orchestra  in  every  city  of  prominence,  supported  as  far  as  possible  by 
the  city  government,  but  with  the  Federal  government  always  ready 
to  fill  out  the  schedule  as  the  need  demanded,  and  to  assume  the  entire 
burden  of  supplying  music  to  those  committees  unable  to  depend  on 
municipal  support.  I  need  sum  up  only  a  few  of  the  benefits  of  such 
a  system.  The  general  public,  in  addition  to  a  marked  improvement 
in  its  musical  taste  and  intelligence,  would  have  the  chance  to  hear 
the  best  music  at  the  lowest  possible  prices,  often  practically  free  of 
charge.  It  would  not  have  to  depend  upon  a  press-agent's  imagination 
or  managerial  advertising  for  its  knowledge  of  an  artist's  ability.  The 
judgment  of  a  committee  of  experts  could  be  considered  dependable, 
and  all  artists  would  have  a  public  rating,  the  result  of  actual  perform- 
ances. There  would  be  no  unpleasant  conflicts,  such  as  are  now  fre- 
quent in  our  larger  cities.     Moreover,  it  would  no  longer  be  necessary 


America's  Music  Problem  213 

to  go  to  a  musical  center  to  hear  the  best  music,  for  every  community 
would  be  within  easy  reach  of  the  best. 

Gain  of  the  Artist 

The  benefit  to  the  artists  would  be  almost  as  great  as  to  the  public. 
Even  though  some  of  the  high-priced  pets  of  concert-  and  opera-goers 
might  have  their  gross  incomes  somewhat  reduced,  the  average  financial 
return  would  be  much  larger.  The  artist  would  save  all  the  expenses 
of  a  manager  and  a  publicity  agent,  and  would  find  it  much  more  satis- 
factory in  the  long  run  to  receive  a  definite  sum  for  each  engagement 
than  to  depend  on  speculation,  with  its  frequent  failures  balancing 
its  sensational  successes.  He  would  enjoy  all  the  prestige  that  goes 
with  a  governmental  appointment,  and  his  standing  would  be  unques- 
tioned. He  would  be  encouraged  always  to  give  of  his  very  best  with 
the  constant  incentive  of  a  higher  rating  in  the  official  classification  of 
artists.  He  would  be  free  to  arrange  his  own  programs  and  play  or 
sing  what  he  liked,  without  regard  to  the  preference  of  his  audience  or 
the  pressure  brought  to  bear  by  interested  music  publishers.  Travelling 
would  be  made  easy  for  him,  and  he  would  not  be  compelled  to  appear 
oftener  than  he  wished.  In  short,  all  the  inconveniences  attendant 
upon  commercialism,  which  the  majority  of  sincere  artists  hate  above 
all  things,  would  be  completely  removed. 

Even  the  purely  commercial  features  of  the  present  system  would 
derive  some  benefit  from  the  change.  Most  of  the  private  managers 
would  be  glad  to  accept  salaried  positions  under  the  government,  for 
here  again  a  definite  if  moderate  return  would  be  more  attractive  than 
the  risks  of  speculation.  Their  experience  would  be  valuable  in  the 
arranging  of  tours,  concert  schedules,  and  the  various  complexities  of 
the  business  side  of  a  musical  season.  Governmental  offices  situated 
in  our  most  important  musical  centers  could  carry  on  all  the  necessary 
business  for  the  neighboring  towns.  In  many  cases  an  entire  office  force 
could  be  utilized  as  it  was  under  private  management.  The  press- 
agents  would  still  be  useful  in  organizing  the  legitimate  advertising 
necessary  for  any  performance,  and  in  keeping  the  public  informed 
of  the  doings  and  records  of  artists. 

The  "musical  magazines"  being  forced  to  abandon  their  commer- 
cial policies,  might  easily  develop  into  useful  organs  of  comment  and 
criticism,  aiding  by  their  intelligent  articles  the  direct  work  of  the 
National  Conservatory.  As  for  the  critics,  they  would  at  last  get 
the  opportunity  of  doing  constructive  work,   improving  the  general 


214  The  Haverfordian 

taste  in  music,  and  holding  up  ideals  of  art  instead  of  writing  flippant 
space-fillers  under  the  watchful  eye  of  the  advertising  department. 
In  place  of  having  to  "cover"  half  a  dozen  performances  in  one  day, 
as  is  now  frequently  the  case,  they  could  concentrate  on  a  single  musical 
event  and  give  the  resulting  comment  a  permanent  value.  They  would 
no  longer  be  restricted  by  considerations  of  advertising,  and  an  honest 
opinion   would   be  welcomed   instead   of   discouraged. 

This  proposal  of  a  governmental  control  of  American  music  may 
seem  fantastic  at  first  glance,  yet  a  close  analysis  will  find  difficulty 
in  establishing  any  fundamental  defect  in  the  scheme.  Its  application, 
which,  in  a  modified  form,  has  frequently  been  tried  with  success  abroad, 
has  been  prevented  here  only  by  the  influence  of  those  who  demand 
the  prostitution  of  music  in  the  interests  of  commercialism.  Until  this 
influence  is  permanently  removed  by  the  forcible  interference  of  our 
government,  music  in  America  will  continue  to  be  a  commonplace, 
prosaic  trade,  instead  of  a  noble  and  inspiring  art. 


^limpitfi  of  Jfapan:  €no£if)ima 

ENOSHIMA,  lying  off  Katase  strand,  is  a  jewel  island  rising  from 
the  sea.  A  rickety  wooden  bridge  stretches  over  the  shallow 
water  that  eddies  between  the  island  and  the  shore.  Like 
Mont  Saint  Michael  off  the  coast  of  Brittany,  at  times  when  the  moon 
is  right  the  intervening  waters  recede  and  Enoshima  becomes  a  penin- 
sula and  can  be  reached  dry-shod  by  the  pilgrims  who  seek  its  shrines. 
For,  like  Mont  Saint  Michael,  this  too  is  a  sacred  place,  dedicated  to 
the  goddess  Benten  Sama,  who  is  one  of  the  seven  household  deities  of 
Japanese  good  fortune. 

Benten  Sama  is  a  beautiful  woman  with  tresses  of  long  black  hair 
looped  up  in  the  ancient  Yamato  manner.  Pandora-like,  a  casket  is  in 
her  hands  and  she  is  usually  pictured  standing  upon  the  scaly  coils  of  a  great 
dragon.  Benten  Sama's  shrine  is  on  the  other  side  of  the  island;  the 
side  that  fronts  the  sea,  and  a  half-hour's  climb  from  the  inns  which  are 
located  in  Enoshima  village. 

In  the  setting  in  which  one  beholds  it  upon  a  summer's  day,  Eno- 
shima seems  to  be  a  creation  of  Maxfield  Parrish — so  fantastic  are  the 
structures  against  the  soft  effulgence  of  the  pine-shadowed  isle — so 
vivid  is  the  azure  of  the  sky  and  the  sea.  But  at  dusk  or  in  the  bluish 
haze  of  an  autumnal  morn  the  village  fades  into  outlines  so  illusive  that 
the  scene  gradually  passes  from  reality  into  a  dream  existence  and  one 
seems  to  be  viewing  as  from  the  shores  of  a  nether  world  the  turrets  and 
gabled  roofs  of  some  phantasmal  city  of  the  sea. 

When  the  long  wooden  bridge  has  been  traversed  and  the  penny 
toll  been  paid  to  the  keeper  thereof,  the  visitor  will  discover  himself 
beneath  a  sacred  gate  of  bronze  which  marks  the  entrance  of  the  island. 
And  upon  it  he  will  read  the  following  carved  inscription: 

Shrine  of  the  Goddess  of  Good  Fortune,  Queen  of  Enoshima, 
Benten  of  the  Dragons 

Before  the  visitor  there  then  appears,  as  if  it  were  a  picture  framed 
by  the  outlines  of  the  arch,  a  strange  view  of  this  extraordinary  village. 
Step  upon  step,  a  narrow  stairway  street  ascends  to  the  wooded  bluffs 
above  and  on  either  side  of  this  island  staircase,  are  charming  elfin  shops 
offering  omiyage  (souvenirs)  for  sale.  There  are  junks  formed  from  a 
single  shell,  with  sails  of  mother  of  pearl;  coral  jewelry  for  girls,  and 
pretty  but  very  unscientific  collections  of  shells  for  little  children.  And 
most  wonderful  of  all  are  specimens  of  the  spider  crab  with  dimensions 


216  The  Haverfordian 

of  many  feet.     Like  goblin  spiders  lurking  in  their  caves,  so  do  these 
dead  crabs  wait  for  their  purchasers  in  the  dark  recesses  of  each  shop. 

Besides  these  shops  are  restaurants  a-flutter  with  blue  and  white 
towels  on  which  grotesque  ideographs  crawl  and  twist  with  every  passing 
breeze.  Common  folk  chatter  and  gossip  over  their  savory  dishes, 
the  most  popular  of  which  is  a  sea-snail  broiled  in  its  own  shell.  [And 
by  the  way,  a  sea-snail  cooked  with  soy  should  not  be  judged  by  its 
name.  There  is  nothing  slimy  about  it;  it  is  a  most  appetizing  and 
appealing  dish.]  And  above  these  quaint  little  cook-shops  with  their  red 
blanketed  benches  tower  the  columns  and  porticoes  of  the  great  inns 
and  tea-houses.  Ladies  and  gentlemen  from  Tokyo  and  the  aristocratic 
villas  of  Kamakura  sit  in  the  cool  of  airy  balconies,  fanning  themselves 
and  sipping  tea  of  faintest  aroma.  Some  look  out  over  the  thatched 
roofs  of  fisherfolk  to  the  sail-flecked  bay  of  Sagami  and  Fuji,  a  snow-white 
cone  beyond.  Others,  their  eyebrows  arched  and  with  unsmiling  faces, 
idly  watch  the  passing  throngs. 

From  the  end  of  this  extraordinary  street,  a  path  leads  through 
a  veritable  Arden  to  the  cliffs  upon  the  other  side  of  the  island.  There 
the  prospect  changes,  for  no  longer  is  the  scene  one  of  wooded  crests 
and  fairy  structures.  We  are  near  the  abode  of  the  dragon  and  the 
battered  cliffs,  the  surging  sea  and  the  limitless  horizon  give  us  a  sense 
of  awe  and  even  trepidation  as  we  clamber  down  the  cliff  into  what 
seems  the  very  mawl  of  the  sea.  Yet  upon  the  brink  of  the  ocean,  a  frail 
bamboo  bridge,  skirting  the  base  of  the  cliff,  saves  us  from  the  angry 
waters.  Following  this  bridge  we  suddenly  turn  a  craggy  bend  and 
behold  the  sacred  cavern  of  Enoshima. 

Into  the  gloomy  depths  thereof  the  sea  rushes  in  turbulent  chorus  and 
the  re-echoings  of  that  sound,  the  voices  of  the  pilgrims,  the  smell  of  the 
salt  sea  and  the  incense  of  the  gods  give  the  visitor  a  weird  and  strange  sen- 
sation. 

The  cave  is  as  high  as  the  vault  of  a  cathedral,  and  extends  in  ever 
diminishing  size  into  the  bowels  of  the  island.  An  old  fisherman  meets 
us  upon  the  shore  of  the  cavern  and  offers  to  be  our  guide.  The  drip- 
ping walls  of  the  subterranean  temple  are  lined  with  images  of  stone 
which  seem  to  peer  at  us  with  their  sightless  eyes.  This  is  a  veritable 
haunted  place;  haunted  by  the  spirits  of  Shinto  pantheism,  haunted  by 
the  ghosts  of  pilgrims  who  came  in  ages  past :  the  echo  of  whose  myriad 
prayers  seems  to  sound  to  us  through  the  years  in  every  drip  of  water  and 
in  every  gurgle  of  the  sea. 

As  we  creep  through  the  darkness  the  guide  illuminates  the  face  of  each 


Glimpses  of  Japan:  Enoshima  217 

god  with  his  candle  and  utters  his  name  and  legend.  Between  times 
he  recites  to  me  the  following  tale: 

"Young  Master,  one  thousand  five  hundred  years  ago  in  the  place 
where  we  now  stand  was  no  cavern,  no  village,  no  Enoshima.  There 
was  naught  but  the  howling  of  the  sea,  for  this  was  the  abode  of  a  dragon. 
The  dragon  devoured  the  children  of  Koshigoe  hamlet,  much  to  the  woe 
of  the  inhabitants  thereof.  They,  being  pious  folk,  prayed  unto  our  good 
Benten  Sama  for  deliverance.  A  great  earthquake  thereupon  smote  both 
sea  and  land:  Benten  Sama  in  great  glory  appeared  in  a  cloud  over  the 
place  inhabited  by  the  monster  and  the  isle  of  Enoshima  suddenly  rose 
from  the  depths  beneath.  The  goddess  upon  a  rift  of  cloud  descended 
thereon,  married  the  dragon  and  put  an  end  to  his  ravages.  Thus  runs 
the  Legend  of  Enoshima.  Young  Master,  please  be  so  generous  as  to 
offer  a  penny  to  the  gods." 

And  to  appease  the  old  fisherman,  the  dragon  and  Benten  Sama,  I 
throw  three  coppers  into  the  grated  box,  listen  to  their  prolonged  echoes 
and  again  traverse  the  bamboo  bridge.  As  I  emerge  the  sparkling  of  the 
water,  though  the  sun  is  now  setting,  dazzles  my  eyes.  The  song  of 
fisherfolk  as  they  pull  in  their  nets,  the  creaking  of  returning  oars  and  the 
hush  of  the  breezes  tell  me  that  it  is  eventide. 

A  little  weary,  I  recross  the  island  and  stop  for  the  evening  at  the 
Kinki-Ro  Hotel.  The  host  receives  me  at  the  entrance  of  the  inn,  which 
faces  a  lanterned  courtyard.  He  is  kneeling  on  the  polished  floor  and 
welcomes  me  with  hospitable  phrases.  I  am  led  along  picturesque  pas- 
sageways, broken  here  and  there  by  tiny  flights  of  steps,  and  even  over 
a  bridge  or  two,  until  at  length  my  host  ushers  me  into  a  room  from 
whence  there  is  the  loveliest  of  views. 

Seated  upon  cushions  of  softest  silk  I  eat  my  supper  and  watch  the 
white  sails  of  junks  as  they  glide  idly  to  port. 

The  waiting-woman  of  the  inn  (she  must  be  over  fifty)  has  just  dis- 
appeared with  my  tray.  She  is  a  pleasant-faced  obasan,  with  features 
unusually  refined  for  a  serving- woman.  I  notice  a  smile  though  at  times 
wistfull  playing  over  her  features.    Perhaps  she  has  seen  better  days. 

Now  she  has  returned  with  a  fan  and,  bowing  low,  very  gently  asks 
me: 

"May  I  have  the  august  pleasure  of  fanning  Young  Master,  for 
the  mosquitoes  are  very  shrewd  and  the  night  is  warm." 

As  a  mother  might  fan  her  child  so  does  this  old  woman  fan  me, 
tenderly,  though  I  had  never  seen  her  before. 

Then  the  charm  of  Enoshima  settles  softly  about  me:  the  hushed 
song  of  the  sea  and  the  pines;   the  distant,  dim  hum  of  gentle,  pleasant 


218  The  Haverfokdian 

folk  at  dinner  and  from  a  far  tea-house  the  melancholy  tap,  tap  of  a 
geisha's  drum.  And  now  the  temple  bells  in  unison  sound  the  vesper 
hour.    Sleep  comes,  and  nodding,  I  am  at  rest. 

When  I  awake  the  moon  has  risen  and  the  sea  miming  the  shimmer 
of  silk  lies  pale  before  me.  The  airy  balconies  of  the  great  inns  are  aglow 
with  lanterns  swaying  to  an  almost  imperceptible  breeze  and  which  cast 
weird  silhouettes  upon  the  shoji — silhouettes  which  seem  like  phantoms 
flitting  to  and  fro. 

Then  in  the  stillness  of  the  night  I  hear  a  woman's  voice  utter  this 
song: 

If  in  this  troubled  world  of  ours 

I  still  must  linger  on, 
My  only  friend  shall  be  the  moon 

Which  on  my  sadness  shone 
When  other  friends  were  gone — 

"That  is  a  beautiful  thought,  but  for  a  night  such  as  this  it  is  too 
sad,"  I  said,  rousing  myself.    Then  looking  towards  the  beach,  I  added: 

"Who  would  ever  sing  a  song  like  that?" 

"No  one — except  someone  very  foolish,"  the  obasan  answered  and 
laughed.  But  her  laughter  trembled,  for  her  voice  was  the  voice  of  the  song. 

Even  in  this  isle  of  pleasure,  life's  little  tragedies  run  their  course; 
though  Benten  Sama  in  her  hallowed  cavern  daily  hears  the  supplication 
of  pilgrims— pilgrims  whose  faith  has  brought  them  from  afar. 

Y.  N.,  '15. 


By  Kempton  Taylor,  '15. 

PART  II 

(Synopsis:  John  Bird  and  Edith  Walton,  engaged,  dine  together 
the  evening  before  the  departure  of  the  latter  to  join  the  Red  Cross  in  Europe. 
A  discussion  arises  and  ends  in  Bird's  insulting  his  fiancee,  who  throzvs 
away  his  ring.  Bird,  jealous  of  disposition,  attributes  Edith's  interest  in 
the  war  to  a  German  Uhlan,  Van  Hovenburg,  whom  she  met  in  Germany. 
Pink7iey,  Bird's  manservant,  appears  in  time  to  take  Edith  to  her  home, 
while  Bird  sends  her  a  note,  promising  to  write  her  a  steamer-letter  which  he 
hopes  will  effect  their  re-engagement.  This  he  does  the  next  morning. 
Pinkney  secretly  reads  the  letter,  thereby  coming  to  blows  with  his  master, 
who  blackens  his  eye  and  receives  in  return  a  broken  nose.  After  Bird  has 
left  for  the  boat,  Parker,  his  chauffeur,  returns  to  the  house  with  a  bundle 
of  clothes.  By  trickery,  Pinkney  gets  this  and  a  ticket  for  the  voyage  from 
Parker.  With  the  clothes  he  dresses  himself  as  a  jewelry  agent  and  makes 
for  the  boat.) 

PART  III 

By  the  time  Edith  Walton  reached  the  Caronia's  dock  her  gayety 
had  retreated  in  disheartening  fashion.  Grave  doubts  assailed  her 
puckered  little  brow.  Going  to  the  front  was  not  all  that  had  been 
claimed  for  it  when  the  very  start  was  encompassed  by  such  troubles 
as  a  broken  engagement  and  promised  reconciliation.  There  could 
never  be  that!  she  vowed,  her  rage  against  Bird  whitening. 

None  the  less,  she  was  more  of  a  woman  than  many  less  purposeful, 
and,  woman-like,  the  first  thing  she  did  upon  boarding  was  to  descend 
to  the  saloon  and  secure  her  mail  from  the  great  piles  on  the  plush- 
covered  tables. 

There  it  was!  Her  heart  thumped  outrageously,  and  she  confessed 
the  thrill  of  a  schoolgirl  on  receipt  of  her  first  billet-doux  when  her  hand 
closed  round  the  fat  envelope  addressed  to  her  in  Bird's  familiar  scrawl. 
With  a  sudden  sense  of  misery  and  loneliness  she  reflected  on  the  great 
difference  between  this  letter  with  its  promise  of  insidious  business 
and  the  glorious  one  written  on  the  leaves  of  a  copy-book  she  had  re- 
ceived on  a  like  occasion  the  year  before  she  came  out.  He  could  write- 
there  was  no  denying  that! 

Slowly  she  climbed  the  stairs  and  made  her  way  to  a  quiet  spot 
on  the  upper  deck.     With  a  considerate  slowness  the  great  liner  had 


220  The  Haverfordian 

cleared  away,  and  was  now  forging  the  river  under  the  effort  of  a  half- 
dozen  snorting  little  tugs.  In  the  air  was  the  soft  haze  of  autumn, 
silvered  with  the  smoke  of  shipping.  The  Palisades  glowed  a  bounty 
of  color  in  the  rays  of  the  setting  sun.  Truly,  this  was  God's  time  for 
change!  She  felt  a  satisfaction  in  knowing  that  even  she  was  in  motion 
towards  being  a  tiny  part  in  that  great  change  that  was  shaking  Europe. 

Slipping  into  a  chair,  she  tore  open  the  envelope  and  drew  out  the 
letter.     How  did  he  dare  write  her  such  a  thing?     It  was  prefaced: 

"  This  letter  tells  a  story.  It  is  divided  into  five  parts, — one  for  each  day 
of  the  trip.  I  shall  rely  upon  you  to  read  it  day  by  day,  in  the  evening  of  the 
days  represented." 

Read  it  day  by  day?  She  rather  guessed  not!  It  was  enough 
to  have  to  read  it  anyway,  let  alone  making  it  a  daily  rite.  She  would  read 
it  at  once. 

As  the  sea-breeze  began  to  tingle  in  her  nostrils  and  darkness  to  fall, 
she  spread  the  letter  out  on  her  knee  and  bent  to  the  task. 

"EDITH  ELOPES" 

"Don't  Marry  in  a  Hurry" 

"First  Day.  Heroine  at  last  is  off  on  her  sea- trip.     She  has 

done  a  great  lot  of  last-minute  shopping,  and  arrives  on  the  good  ship 
with  her  arms  full  of  Mothersill's.  Her  friends  have  been  very 
kind  to  her;  she  has  eighteen  baskets  of  fruit,  each  more  closely  re- 
sembling a  baby's  coffin  than  the  last.  She  also  has  many  bunches  of 
flowers  to  go  with  the  coffins.  Three  of  her  admirers  who  do  not  believe 
in  display  have  sent  simple  bunches  of  violets.  Heroine  wishes  there 
had  been  some  wreaths  and  crosses,  and  at  least  one  Gates  Ajar.  There 
is  recompense,  however,  in  the  steamer-letter  which  Lover-left-behind  has 
sent  her.  He  has  made  her  promise  to  read  one  installment  each  day, — 
to  read  the  first  installment  the  evening  of  the  first  day,  and  so  on,  one 
for  each  day  of  the  voyage.  She  is  very  sure  that,  unlike  most  women, 
her  curiosity  can  never  get  the  better  of  her  strong  mind  and  make  her 
read  the  whole  letter  at  once — " 

Here  Edith  paused  to  re-read  quizzically.  For  a  moment  she 
seemed  on  the  point  of  accepting  Bird's  dare  and  read  the  thing  as  he 
requested;   then,  with  bitterness,  she  continued: 

"With  this  determination,  Heroine  retires  to  her  cabin  to  make 
ready  for  her  ocean  conquests.  She  finds  herself  quartered  with  a 
quaint  old  lady  who  at  once  assumes  the  prerogatives  of  a  parent  over 
her.     Her  name  is  Natty,  but  she  is  not.     She  has  had  the  steward 


Edith  Elopes  221 

bring  her  all  the  extra  lunch-boxes  on  board  ship,  and  now  they  festoon 
the  edge  of  her  bunk.  Evidently  she  is  preparing  for  a  rough  passage. 
Heroine  takes  an  intense  dislike  to  her,  arrays  herself  in  her  most  fetching 
gown,  and  goes  on  deck  to  look  them  over. 

"She  finds  to  her  dismay  that  most  of  the  handsome  chaps  were 
just  on  board  saying  'good-bye.'  She  thinks  the  trip  will  be  a  very 
dismal  one,  and  goes  to  dinner  with  the  thought  of  Natty  and  her  boxes 
uppermost  in  her  stomach.  Perhaps  there  would  have  been  no  story  at 
all  had  not  the  gentleman  at  her  left  upset  his  tumbler  in  her  soup  bowl. 
He  is  a  flashy  devil,  with  checked  suit,  purple  sox,  tan  shoes,  light  mus- 
tache, and  a  black  eye,  but  he  apologizes  beautifully,  and  gives  her  his 
soup,  which  he  had  only  taken  a  little  of.  He  is  representing  Steinwald 
Bros.,  he  tells  her,  and  hopes  to  pick  up  some  of  the  royal  gems  during 
the  European  scramble.  He  knows  a  great  deal  about  stones,  too,  even 
if  he  does,  ridiculously  overvalue  her  own  seed-pearls.  It  is  easy  to 
judge  from  his  accent  that  he  is  an  Englishman  of  the  first  water. 
He  can  keep  his  elbows  on  the  table  and  still  seem  nearly  a  gentleman. 

"When  dinner  is  over  they  go  on  deck,  and  Heroine  notices  he  has 
a  slight  limp.  It  is  quite  cool,  so  she  slips  down  in  her  cabin  to  find  a 
wrap.  Natty  is  still  there  with  her  boxes.  She  keeps  hooking  and 
unhooking  them  to  the  side  of  her  berth,  changing  their  position  and 
counting  them  to  the  tune  of  'Eeny-meeny-miney-mo.'  'Nutty,  not 
Natty,'  says  Heroine,  as  she  returns  to  the  deck. 

"Blackeye  is  waiting  for  her  in  wooly  cap  and  Balmacaan  coat. 
He  is  splendid  to  walk  with  he  is  so  big  and  strong,  but  he  is  rather  fresh, 
for  he  promises  to  kiss  her  before  the  trip  is  over,  and  makes  a  try  at  it. 
Horrors!     Natty  has  seen  them! 

"Second  Day.  This  day  is  to  be  the  most  dismal  of  all,  for 

when  Heroine  wakens  she  finds  that  the  artful  Natty  has  locked  her  in 
her  stateroom.  'No  more  of  this  scandalous  flirtation  with  Blackeye,' 
comes  her  voice  from  the  other  side  of  the  door,  and  then  she  is  gone. 
Lucky  for  Heroine  that  she  has  her  eighteen  baskets  of  fruit.  Ail  the  long 
morning  she  weeps  and  devours  their  contents.  Towards  noon  she 
succeeds  in  forcing  the  bolt  on  the  cabin  window,  and  with  great  efi'ort 
squeezes  her  small  body  through  the  opening.  Plump!  She  lands 
squarely  in  the  lap  of  a  gaunt  farmer  from  Iowa,  who  is  enjoying  the 
sunset  from  his  steamer-chair.  Gently  he  removes  her  and  apologizes 
for  being  in  the  way.  'This  climbing  out  of  windows,'  he  says,  'is  the 
best  exercise  to  be  had  on  these  he-are  steamboats.' 

"Heroine  is  greatly  humiliated,  because  she  likes  the  Farmer  despite 
his  flaxen  whiskers  and  crooked  nose.     She  moves  away,  with  her    eye 


222  The  Haverfordian 

set  for  Natty  or  Blackeye.  Natty  she  finds  on  the  bridge,  asking  the 
captain  if  porpoises  ever  bite.  'No!  But  sometimes  I  do!'  she  an- 
swers for  the  captain,  flashing  her  white  teeth  at  the  disgruntled 
Natty. 

"Blackeye  is  making  a  great  hit  with  the  ladies.  He  seems  to  have 
forgotten  her,  so  she  sticks  her  tongue  out  at  him  and  goes  to  bed  with 
aching  heart. 

"  Third  Day.  Heroine  wakes  triumphant,  for  it  is  very  rough, 

and    Natty    is    sick. 

'"Poor  Natty!'  she  says,  bending  over  her  convulsed  form,  'I  said 
I  could  bite,  and  now  I'm  going  to!' 

"With  that  she  nibbles  a  little  at  Natty 's  ear. 

"'Will  you  ever  lock  me  in  my  room  again?'  she  asks,  as  she  pre- 
pares to  go. 

"But  Natty  is  too  sick  to  know. 

"Blackeye  is  easily  king  of  the  ship.  He  has  organized  the  pool 
on  the  day's  run,  and  won  enough  to  pay  his  passage  over.  He  has  spent 
all  his  spare  moments  in  the  smoking-room,  and  has  won  enough  there 
to  pay  his  way  back.  He  wishes  to  have  a  raffle  and  win  enough  to  pay 
expenses  on  the  other  side.  His  wide  knowledge  of  Italian  Art  has  won 
the  confidence  of  every  fond  mamma. 

"'Heroine!'  he  tells  her,  'every  girl  on  the  boat  is  going  to  love 
me!' 

"Heroine  resents  this,  but  later  in  the  evening,  when  she  sees  him 
making  good  his  promise  with  amazing  rapidity,  she  yields  herself  gently 
to  his  persuasive  eloquence. 

"Fourth   Day.  Natty   is   still   confined    to   her   lunch-boxes; 

Heroine  greets  the  rising  sun  with  a  sense  of  insecurity.  This  is  to  be  the 
greatest  day  of  them  all. 

"Blackeye  devotes  his  morning  to  Bull-Fights,  Pillow-Fights  and 
near  Prize-Fights.  He  already  has  enough  for  that  trip  through  the 
chateau  country.  The  returns  from  an  afternoon  of  ring-toss  and 
shuffle-board  net  him  enough  to  determine  his  joining  the  Cavalry  of  the 
Indian  Princes. 

"Darkness  falls.  Ardor  unabated,  Blackeye  draws  Heroine  aside, 
seats  her  on  a  coil  of  tarred  rope,  and  proposes  with  unrivalled  ardor. 
Without  conventional  demur.  Heroine  accepts  him 

"It  is  all  arranged.  The  next  morning,  Heroine  is  to  lock  Natty 
in  the  cabin  and  stay  on  guard  until  Blackeye  checks  her  seven  trunks  to 
London  and  returns  to  the  boat.     Then  the  honeymoon!" 


Edith  Elopes  223 

"Fifth  Day.  The  best-laid  plans !     Heroine,  dreaming  happily, 

oversleeps,  while  Natty,  herself  once  more,  bolts  the  door  from  the 
outside. 

"'Do  porpoises  bite?'  she  snickers  through  the  key-hole,  'we're  off 
to  London!' 

"To  London!  Natty  and  Blackeye!  With  Heroine's  seven 
trunks ! 

"Sobbing,  Heroine  unbolts  the  stateroom  window.  Once  more  her 
slender  form  wiggles  through  the  aperture,  and  plump!  she  has  landed 
in  the  lap  of  the  Farmer  from  Iowa. 

"  'Wal,  my  dear,  I've  been  a-waitin'  for  ye,"  says  Farmer,  folding  her 
in  his  arms  and  kissing  her  gently.  Heroine,  in  her  Tarry  skirt,  clings 
unabashed." 

PART  IV 

During  the  reading  of  this  remarkable  document,  the  anxiety  on 
Edith's  brow  deepened  steadily.  When  at  last  she  was  through  it  was 
almost  dark.  With  a  little  moan  her  hands  crushed  the  paper  in  her  lap 
and  remained  very  rigid  and  white.  Far  away  the  last  light  of  her 
country  and  her  home  glimmered  a  moment  and  then  went  out. 

What  did  Bird  mean?  What  was  this  pretty  plot  the  outlines  of 
which  were  so  skilfully  traced  in  the  story  of  "  Heroine  "  ?  Was  Bird  on 
board?    Was  Pinkney  on  board? 

These  were  the  questions  that  tortured  her  brain  until  she  could 
think  no  longer.  Despairing,  she  rose  and  made  her  way  aft.  In  the 
ghostly  half-light  she  caught  sight  of  a  gigantic  thing  of  metal  and 
white,  spreading  its  wings  over  the  deck  like  a  strange  bird.  She  shud- 
dered as  she  made  out  an  aeroplane 

A  steward,  key  in  hand,  marched  her  off  to  her  stateroom.  Un- 
locking the  door,  he  flashed  on  the  light,  left  her  luggage,  and  departed. 
Edith  crossed  the  threshold  and  shrank  back  in  horror. 

"Why,  howdedo?"  came  a  querulous,  sing-song  voice.  "I'm  Natty, 
I  am,  and  I  expect  to  be  sick,  though  this  is  my  ninth.  So  cozy  to  have 
just  two  in  a  cabin,  ain't  it?  Lor',  how  I  hate  'em  with  four!  Good 
sailor?" 

Edith  could  not  answer.  She  was  fascinated  by  the  strange  little 
creature  who  emerged  from  a  corner  of  the  cabin  and  stood  glued  before 
her.  Round  her  head  clustered  a  circle  of  irrelevant  curls,  peeping  out 
coyly  from  the  lace  cap  of  aged  respectability.  Her  clothes  had  the 
Puritan  primness  of  a  forgotten  generation.  But  there  was  one  out- 
standing characteristic  that  held  Edith  with  a  terrible  fascination, — she 


224  The  Haverfordian 

had  no  teeth.  On  her  gums  her  thin  white  lips  sucked  and  whistled. 
The  picture  was  complete,  even  to  Bird's  disgusting  "lunch -boxes." 
Natty  had  strung  an  even  half-dozen  of  these  along  the  edge  of  her 
berth. 

'Four-warned  is  six-armed!"  she  cackled  gleefully,  tapping  the  boxes 
to  illustrate  her    point. 

That  last  expansive  grin  furnished  the  missing  clue  to  Edith's 
groping  mind.  "Natty"  was  none  other  than  Belle,  Mrs.  Herbert  Bird's 
aged  seamstress. 

"Belle!"  asked  Edith  calmly,  "what  have  you  done  with  your  false 
teeth?    You  look  ridiculous." 

As  she  spoke  her  heart  raced  like  a  caught  bird's.  Taking  off  her 
hat,  she  held  a  long  pin  suggestively  in  her  hand. 

From  exaltation  to  despair  was  the  change  of  a  moment  to  Belle. 
Sobbing  and  wringing  her  hands,  she  fell  to  her  knees. 

"Oh,  Miss  Edith!"  she  cried,  hobbling  forward  and  groping  for  her 
skirt,  "oh.  Miss  Edith!  Take  me  off  this  awful  boat!  Mr.  Bird  came 
for  me  this  morning  while  the  missus  was  out,  made  me  come  with  him, 
gave  me  these  curls,  took  my  teeth  away — " 

"Go  on!"  said  Edith,  stifling  a  laugh. 

"Told  me  to  stay  in  here  till  you  came,  and  lock  you  in  to-morrow! 
Then  I  was  to  get  sick,  and  stay  here  till  the  last  day,  and  lock  you  in 
again!" 

"Never  mind,  my  dear.  Be  a  good  girl  and  you'll  suffer  no  harm," 
said  Edith,  feeling  very  much  like  a  new  Sunday  school  teacher.  "Now 
help  me  dress,  and  I'll  tell  the  steward  to  bring  you  supper." 

By  the  time  Edith  entered  the  dining-room  fear  had  again  settled 
like  a  cold  vice  about  her  heart.  Bewildered,  she  stood  in  the  entrance, 
fainting  before  the  eyes  that  were  trained  on  her  beauty.  The  head 
waiter  showed  her  to  a  seat  at  the  Captain's  table.  She  dared  look 
neither  to  the  right  nor  to  the  left,  terrified  lest  she  meet  the  gaze  of  Bird 
or  Pinkney. 

Suddenly  at  her  elbow  sounded  the  crash  of  broken  glass.  A  flood 
of  cold  water  poured  into  her  soup  dish,  trickled  to  the  edge  of  the  table, 
and  pattered  to  the  floor. 

It  seemed  hours  that  she  watched  the  steady  trickle  of  the  stream, 
fascinated,  and  not  daring  to  move.  Finally  she  raised  her  eyes  to  the 
man  on  her  left.  Checked  suit !  Blond  moustache !  Dimond  stick  pin ! 
There  came  a  great  roaring  sound  in  her  ears.  The  dining-room  spun 
round  and  round  and  round,  a  kaleidoscope  of  black  and  white  checks 
and  diamonds 


Edith  Elopes  225 

PART  V 

On  his  way  down  town,  Pinkney  bought  a  pair  of  handcuffs,  and 
half  a  dozen  excellent  imitation  pearl  necklaces.  He  boarded  the  Caronia 
with  an  easy  assurance  that  belied  his  state  of  mind.  The  tan  shoes 
pinched,  and  that  confounded  moustache  persisted  in  slipping  down  on 
one  side  and  up  on  the  other  with  an  effect  altogether  coquettish.  Silver 
McGee,  he  reflected,  was  not  the  sort  of  man  to  bother  about  such  details 
once  they  were  carefully  attended  to,  so  his  head  was  high  and  his  eye 
proud. 

Should  he  go  to  stateroom  No.  526  and  brave  Bird,  trusting  that 
his  clothes,  limp,  and  black-eye  would  pass  him  off  as  Parker? 

The  question  was  answered  for  him  when  a  tall,  angular  farmer,  with 
side-whiskers  and  a  crooked  nose,  shot  out  of  the  grill,  zig-zagged  across 
deck  to  the  rail,  and  hung  over, — a  mute,  pathetic  picture  that  told  its 
own  story. 

How  often  the  strategist  neglects  the  detail  that  spells  his  ruin! 
The  Farmer  from  Iowa  was  never  meant  to  get  ingloriously  sick  on  seven 
Stingers  and  a  Pourse  Cafe! 

From  the  vantage  of  a  lifeboat  Pinkney  gloated  over  the  misery  of 
his  master.  In  particular  he  fancied  the  crooked  nose  that  tallied  so 
admirably  with  the  one  demanded  by  the  Farmer.  It  was  well  worth  the 
black  eye,  he  thought. 

Bird  raised  bloodshot  eyes  and  veered  off  down  the  deck.  A  sick 
man  and  a  drunken  one  must  seek  the  point  of  equilibrium,  so  Pinkney 
followed  close  at  his  heels.     He  entered  stateroom  No.  526. 

Listening  quietly,  Pinkney  waited  till  he  heard  the  heavy,  rhythmical 
breathing  of  the  sleeping  drunkard.  Then  he  opened  the  door  and  passed 
in. 

Bird  stirred  and  opened  one  eye  cannily. 
"Oh!    's  that  you,  Parker?"    he  muttered,  "don't  forget  t'shpill  th' 
water — all  over  her,  but  don't  kiss  her.     Hear?     Don't  kiss  her  to- 
night!    Goin'  sleep." 

This  time  Pinkney  waited  till  he  was  well  off.  His  head  was  pillowed 
on  one  arm,  the  hand  lying  away,  and  close  to  the  other  one.  Quietly 
Pinkney  slipped  on  the  handcuffs.  From  Bird's  coat  he  removed  all 
papers  that  might  establish  his  identity.  Only  his  ticket,  made  out  to 
Hiram  G.  Smith,  farmer,  and  the  bill  of  lading  for  one  aeroplane,  made 
out  to  John  Bird,  he  left  in  the  breast  pocket.  In  the  others  he  dis- 
tributed a  half-dozen  excellent  imitation  pearl  necklaces. 

Then  he  tipped  the  head-waiter  to  secure  the  place  to  the  left  of 


226  The  Haverfordian 

Miss  Edith  Walton, — and  overturned  his  glass  of  water  in  her  soup 
dish. 

When  Edith  came  to,  she  found  herself  prone  in  a  steamer-chair. 
Overhead  a  myriad  stars  were  shining.  The  Caronia  rolled  gently  in  a 
heavy  swell;  a  cool  night  wind  fanned  her  cheek,  and  a  gentle  hand 
passed  and  re-passed  over  her  forehead. 

"Carl!"  she  cried,  turning  to  the  bent  figure  at  her  side. 

"My  dear!" 

"Carl!    Take  off  that  awful  moustache!" 

Laughing,  he  complied. 

"You  have  been  very  brave,"  he  said,  "to  rely  upon  me  so.    You' 
— with  a  sigh — "are  not  so — so  slender  as  you  were  in  Casel,  I  think. 
It  took  three  of  us  to  bring  you  up  here."     He  leaned  over  and  kissed  her 
protesting  eyes. 

"Where  is  Mr.  Bird?"   she  asked,  shuddering. 

"Soundly  asleep,  trussed — how  do  you  say? — like  an  owl.  When 
he  wakes  up  I  shall  have  him  arrested  for  sailing  under  a  false  name, 
wearing  the  whiskers  of  a — a  wheatseed  (?)  and  stealing  from  me  six 
pearl  necklaces  of  priceless  worth." 

"This  terrible  letter — what  did  he  mean  by  it?" 

"You  were  to  read  it  and  find  it  like  your  own  experiences.  Bird 
trusted  in  your  superstition.  He  was  to  come  forward  in  the  end  as 
the  noble  farmer,  and  you  were  to  forgive  him.  If  anything  went  wrong, 
it  was  all  to  be  a  clever  joke,  and  you  were  to  admire  him  again.  Parker 
was  to  be  Silver  McGee;  Belle  took  the  part  of  Natty.  John  Bird  is  a 
clever  man — " 

"But  you  are  cleverer!"    breathed  Edith. 

He  intended  her  to  say  that. 

"And  just  to  think!"  she  went  on,  her  childlike  enthusiasm  bub- 
bling up  again,  "if  you  hadn't  followed  us  that  night  and  picked  up  his 
ring"- — she  touched  the  fourth  finger  of  her  left  hand — "you'd  never 
have  been  here,  and — and  he  might  have  done  whatever  he  wanted.  It 
was  dear  of  you  to  come  'way  across  the  ocean  just  for  me,  and  hire 
yourself  out  to  that  awful  man — " 

"I  have  never  admired  his  taste  in  cigars  myself,"  broke  in  Van 
Hovenburg,  producing  one  of  Bird's  favorites,  lighting  it,  and  settling 
himself  comfortably  with  his  head  on  Edith's  shoulder,  "and  during 
my  stay  I  have  learned  much  of  the  American  aeroplane." 

"And  get  me  the  Red  Cross  appointment,  and  let  your  poor  eye  be 


Music  227 

blackened,"  went  on  Edith.  Then,  with  a  start,  "But  how  are  we  ever 
to  get  to  the  German  lines?" 

"Easy!"  said  Van  Hovenburg,  puffing  idly  at  his  cigar.  "Cry  out 
'Man  over  the  side!'   some  night,  and — " 

With  a  long  forefinger  he  pointed  to  the  white,  ghost-like  bird  that 
spread  its  great  wings  over  the  after  deck. 


Ci|ougi)ts(  in  ^olitube 

By  Felix  M.  Morley,  '15 

Once,  nestling  in  the  kind  surrounding  woods, 
I  chanced  upon  a  deep  secluded  pond; 
Far  from  the  dusty  travelled  road  it  lies, 
A  charmed  spot  aloof  from  prying  eyes. 
Hid  just  beyond  a  quaint  old  mossy  stile. 

The  sheltering  woods  do  but  approach  the  marge, 
Where  the  warm  sun  breathes  down  on  curling  frond. 
And  gleams  upon  the  darting  dragon-fly 
Poised  in  the  air,  or  swiftly  flashing  by 
The  pure  soft  daisies,  nodding  mile  on  mile. 

And  sometimes  where  the  fairy  lilies  float, 
Their  golden  altars  shrined  in  virgin  white. 
If  you  kneel  quiet,  looking,  eyes  held  wide — 
'Way  down  among  the  stems  dim  shadows  glide 
Now  seen,  now  hidden  mid  the  weaving  green. 

So  oft  at  evening,  on  this  sheltered  bank, 

I  see  the  ebbing  day  fade  into  night. 

And  there  sometimes  the  mind  goes  peering  down 

Where  visions  unattainable  are  found; 

Dim  phantoms,  far  beneath  the  surface  gleam. 


Wi^tn  Sgnorame  ii  pligjf 

By  Edgar  C.  Bye,  '16. 

LIFE  says  that  Bliss  Perry  says  that  what  the  average  college 
man  knows  about  the  great  books  of  the  last  three  hundred 
years  isn't  much.  Bliss  Perry  says  further  that  what  the  same 
species  knows  about  the  great  books  in  its  own  mother  tongue  may  be 
even  less — and  it  worries  Bliss  Perry.  It  doesn't  worry  Life — not 
much.  Life  wants  to  know  what's  the  odds — perhaps  the  collegian  knows 
something  else  which  may  be  more  useful.  Perhaps  he  does — who 
would  ask  questions  when  Life  has  the  floor? 

Assuming,  then,  that  the  lament  of  Bliss  Perry  over  the  ignorance 
of  the  collegian  is  the  fruit  of  bitter  experience — and  even  Life  doesn't 
question  that — it  is  at  least  possible  that  the  non-collegian  knows  less. 
However  this  may  be,  there  remains  a  third  fact  which  is  a  fact  beyond 
peradventure.     There  is  no  doubt  about  it.     The  manager  says  so. 

The  man  who  knows  books  can't  sell  them. 

It  may  be  unnecessary  to  point  out  that  this  was  not  intended  as 
an  invitation  to  collegians,  and  others,  to  engage  in  the  book  business. 
Neither  was  it  a  lick  for  Life  and  a  dig  at  Bliss  Perry.  It  was  merely 
a  casual  observation  on  the  shocking  ineptitude  of  the  average  college 
man,  from  the  commercial  standpoint.  On  the  ineptitude  qualification, 
the  professor  and  the  manager  agree.  They  differ  only  as  to  the  par- 
ticular brand  of  ineptitude  afflicting  the  patient.     Why  argue? 

The  situation,  broadly  speaking,  is  this, — the  collegian  knows  little 
about  books,  the  non-collegian  presumably  knows  less,  the  salesman 
must  know — nothing.     What's  the  answer? 

The  manager  spoke  with  an  air  of  finality — that  air  which  is  such 
a  convenient  substitute  for  argument — but,  being  of  a  loquacious  turn, 
he  was  easily  induced  to  develop  his  theme.  And  the  drift  of  it  was 
something  like  this: 

"The  fellow  who  knows  books,  you  see,  has  formed  opinions  about 
them.  Now,  opinions  are  fatal  to  salesmanship.  /  never  read,  myself. 
A  sneaking  little  opinion  is  likely  to  ruin  my  selling  ability  for  a  week. 
If  one  of  my  salesmen  starts  to  tell  me  what  he  thinks  of  one  of  the 
best  sellers,  I  tell  him  to  forget  it  all  as  soon  as  he  can.  If  he  can't 
forget  it,  I  know  that  the  rest  of  us  will  have  to  do  all  the  work  on  that 
particular  book.  Once  in  a  while  we  get  a  conscientious  chap  afflicted 
with  the  "good  reading"  bug.  He  isn't  worth  anything.  He  has  the 
wrong  point  of  view.     His  loyalty  to  what  he  thinks  is  his  opinion  spells 


Where  Ignorance  is  Bliss  229 

disloyalty  to  the  firm.  The  first  duty  of  a  book  salesman  is  to  sell 
books.  We  are  not  in  business  to  give  him  an  opportunity  to  air  his 
opinions.     Excuse  me  a  minute,  will  you,  while  I  wait  on  this  customer?" 

I  excused  the  manager  and  pondered  on  the  ethics  of  book  sales- 
manship. I  also  overheard,  unavoidably,  the  details  of  the  transaction 
on  the  other  side  of  the  table. 

"Give  me  a  good  novel,"  the  customer  was  saying.  "Something 
with  punch  in  it." 

The  manager  recommended  four  or  five  from  the  piles  most  con- 
venient to  his  hand,  quoting  at  the  same  time  an  astonishing  assortment 
of  "book  talk"  such  as  publishers  use  to  decorate  their  announcements, 
and  finally  dismissed  his  delighted  victim  with  "the  most  invigorating 
and  virile  specimen  of  Mr.  B.  Seller's  characteristic  style."  After  which 
he  returned  to  me. 

"That  man  took  me  for  a  mind-reader,"  he  said,  "and  I  did  my 
little  best.  A  good  novel!  Why,  man,  they  are  all  good.  They  wouldn't 
be  here  if  they  were  not.  Every  book  here  has  a  string  of  testimonials 
to  its  goodness  which  would  make  Lydia  Pinkham  turn  green  with 
envy.  Then,  there's  the  author — he  thought  he  was  doing  a  good  job. 
The  publisher  thought  the  thing  was  live  enough  to  sell.  And  our 
buyer  fell  for  five  or  ten  copies.  Why  should  I  doubt  all  these  expert 
opinions? — especially  since  I  haven't  read  the  book  myself.  Besides, 
I  didn't  know  that  customer — never  saw  him  before — knew  nothing 
whatever  about  his  literary  tastes.  No  time  to  diagnose — not  worth 
it  anyway.  You  wouldn't  expect  me  to  pump  him  for  symptoms,  the 
way  the  doctors  do,  would  you?  How  should  I  know  what  he  considered 
good?  My  opinion  wouldn't  be  of  any  use  to  him,  even  if  I  had  one. 
So  there  you  are.     That's  according  to  Hoyle,  isn't  it?" 

The  arrival  of  another  customer  happily  saved  me  from  a  fatal  expres- 
sion of  unsophistication.  It  was  a  lady  this  time.  She  wanted  something 
standard,  suitable  for  a  birthday  gift  for  her  husband,  who,  it  appeared, 
was  just  crazy  about  the  classics.  The  word  standard  was  enough  for 
the  manager.  Looking  very  wise,  he  led  the  way  to  an  ominous  corner 
labeled  Standard  Sets.  He  discoursed  learnedly  on  the  standardness  of 
Ruskin  and  Carlyle  and  Ainsworth  and  Bulwer-Lytton.  He  was 
especially  enthusiastic  about  the  last  two,  whose  standardness  it  ap- 
peared was  pre-eminent.  The  lady  was  undecided.  Bulwer  was 
bound  in  red  and  would  match  the  color  scheme  of  the  study  admirably, 
but  Ainsworth  had  five  more  volumes  and  looked  much  more  impres- 
sive. I  did  not  stay  to  hear  the  decision,  but  fled  the  super-classic 
atmosphere  to  find  relief  in  a  table  full  of  Gift  Books  in  Dainty  Bindings. 


230  The  Haverfordian 

Back  of  me  was  a  miscellaneous  section  of  works  on  history,  biog- 
raphy, politics,  and  the  like,  labeled  Reference  Books,  from  which  a 
meek-looking  individual  was  endeavoring  to  select  a  standard  history 
of  the  United  States.  The  obliging  manager  soon  came  to  his  as- 
sistance. 

"Lucky  sale,  that,"  he  said  to  me  after  the  customer  had  gone. 
"That  Bancroft,  you  know,  was  celebrating  today  the  fifth  anniversary 
of  its  residence  with  us,  and  I  had  just  about  decided  to  mark  it  down 
half  for  the  stock-taking  sale  which  begins  tomorrow." 

He  broke  away  again  long  enough  to  dispose  of  a  Macaulay  to  a 
lady  who  wanted  a  good  history  of  England  for  her  son  who  was  in  high 
school.  The  manager  could  certainly  sell  books.  Taking  him  at  his 
word  in  regard  to  the  literary  intelligence  of  a  good  salesman,  I  ven- 
tured to  suggest  some  obvious  facts  in  regard  to  the  scope  and  peculiar 
value  of  Messrs.  Macaulay  and  Bancroft.  He  was  interested,  but 
apparently  quite  content  to  know  that  Macaulay  was  good  and  Ban- 
croft was  standard.  More  than  that  was  de  trop  from  the  standpoint  of 
salesmanship. 

"Interesting  dope,"  he  said  cheerfully.  "But  why  should  I  worry? 
I  am  here  to  sell  books,  you  know,  not  information." 

All  of  which  goes  to  show  how  foolish  it  is  for  Bliss  Perry  to  worry. 


By  L.  B.  Lippmann,  '14. 

Death-heavy  the  night  was  with  flowers; 

And  dark  was  the  copse  where  I  stood, 
Save  fire-flies  rising  in  showers 

As  sparks  do  from  smouldering  wood. 

And  there  as  I  waited  they  found  me; 

Pale  shadows,  all  wraith-like  and  mute, 
Encircling  as  vapors  around  me 

To  rhythmical  throbbing  of  lute. 

They  faded;  a  nimbus  showed  through  them; 

An  ecstasy  filled  me,  and  wrung 
The  depths  of  my  being;  I  knew  them — 

The  souls  of  the  songs  yet  unsung. 


i@ral)msi  at  a  ({Quarter 

By  Yoshio  Nitobe,  '15. 

I  WAS  at  the  opening  concert  of  the  Philadelphia  Orchestra  the 
other  day.  All  music  lovers  go  to  the  amphitheatre,  so  of  couser 
I  had  to  get  in  line  and  shuffle  along  with  the  rest  of  them — like 
so  many  hoboes  in  a  bread  line.  Furthermore,  it  was  raining,  but 
that  didn't  bother  me  very  much,  because  I  had  an  umbrella;  but  it 
was  mighty  tough  on  Cremonas.  I  know;  because  the  Public  Ledger 
said:  "The  weather  was  such  as  to  test  severely  the  sensitive  tempera- 
ments of  old  Cremonas,  and  four  of  the  violins  lost  the  E  strings  in  the 
first  movement  of  the  Brahms  Symphony  alone."  Cremona,  by  the  way, 
is  a  little  town  in  Lombardy  where  the  Amati  family  started  to  make 
fiddles  in  1600  until  Antonius  Stradivarius  came  along  and  beat  them 
all  at  it.  He  really  and  truly  made  540  violins,  12  violas  and  50  'cellos, 
but  his  fiddles,  like  certain  forms  of  animal  life,  increased,  multiplied 
and  waxed  great  upon  the  earth,  so  that  you  needn't  be  surprised  if  you 
meet  one  some  of  these  days  marked  down  to  $97. 

An  amphitheatre  is  "an  edifice  of  elliptical  shape,  constructed 
about  a  central  open  space,  with  tiers  of  seats  sloping  upward  and  back- 
ward." The  only  trouble  with  the  Academy  of  Music  amphitheatre  is 
that  there  is  not  enough  back  to  the  "backward,"  it's  mostly  all  up- 
ward. Furthermore,  it  crowds  your  legs,  which  is  disastrous  to  appre- 
ciation of  true  art.  Add  to  this  considerable  warmth  climbing  sky- 
ward and  you  feel  that  perhaps  being  a  "true  music  lover"  is  a  little 
cheap  at  25c.  And  then,  it  being  a  Friday  afternoon  concert,  every- 
body that  wasn't  a  man  was  a  woman  and  most  of  the  men  were  women 
too.  To  borrow  a  sporting  catalogue  term,  they  were  mostly  30-30s, 
but  they  seemed  to  be  well  primed  for  the  afternoon's  entertainment. 
Most  of  them,  at  least  in  the  amphitheatre,  looked  as  if  they  ought  to 
chew  gum,  but  they  didn't.  They  were  just  musical.  For  instance, 
some  of  them  talked  about  where  they  used  to  sit — "See — just  where 
that  man  is  standing — "  Others  were  inspecting  the  gathered  multi- 
tude. "Oh,  look,  Margy,  there's  a  coon  over  there.  Goodness!  I 
wish  they  didn't  like  good  music  so — "  These  Ethiopians  in  appearance 
at  least  appreciated  the  music  exceedingly.  They  endeavor  to  look 
very  intelligent  and  after  the  concert  you  can  hear  them  audibly  com- 
menting on  the  programme.  "Oah  yes — you  know  that  Korsakow's 
a  Russian,  which  undoubtedly  accounts  for  the  feelin'  in  that  there 
last  piece — "    This  said  with  a  roll  of  the  eyes  to  the  throng  scrambling 


232  The  Haverfordian 

up  the  ladder-like  aisle.  Nevertheless  we  cannot  depreciate  the  negro's 
place  in  American  music. 

By  this  time  we  have  come  to  that  delightful  portion  of  the  pro- 
gramme which  so  pleased  the  late  Shah  of  Persia.  When  asked  at  a 
concert  which  piece  most  charmed  him,  he  replied,  "The  first  one."  The 
orchestra  started  to  tune  up  again  in  order  to  repeat  the  first  number. 
"Ah,"  said  His  Majesty,  "that's  fine!"  Gradually  the  violins,  oboes, 
flutes  and  clarinets  are  keyed  up  to  a  fine  edge,  while  the  heavy  artillery 
— the  double  basses  or  .bull-fiddles,  the  kettledrums  and  brasses — groans 
and  snorts  and  rumbles  into  proper  action.  Then  suddenly  the  ninety- 
five  artists  who  man  the  orchestra  cease  their  tinkering,  blowing  and 
fiddling:  the  audience  bursts  forth  in  applause.  The  lights  are  dimmed 
and  Mr.  Stokowski  appears  in  that  delightful  tailored  effect  of  his. 
"What  nice  long  legs  he  has!"  I  hear  someone  say  to  my  left.  Mr. 
Stokowski  mounts  the  red  carpeted  director's  stand,  extends  his  grace- 
ful slim  arms  as  if  in  benediction,  pauses  a  dramatic  half-minute — 
then  slowly  lifts  his  baton  about  his  blond  head.  Fifty-nine  bows 
are  for  a  moment  poised  in  air  and  then  gently,  very  gently,  sweep  down- 
wards in  the  first  sweet  notes  of  the  Adagio  passage  from  the  overture 
of  "Der  Freischutz."  Like  some  woodland  echo  springing  from  a 
silvan  nook,  the  music  gathers  in  volume,  filling  the  whole  hall  with 
a  stream  of  melody.  I  am  enraptured;  then  the  music  takes  a  quicker 
turn — the  hero  is  cogitating;  next  we  are  in  the  wolf's  glen,  weird  in- 
cantations fill  the  air  and  magic  bullets  can  be  heard  as  they  drop  into 
the  melting-pot.  That's  the  trouble  with  overtures:  they  are  a  regular 
potpourri.  One  has  not  time  to  enjoy  one  passage  before  they  start 
something  else.  It  is  all  right  when  the  opera  is  to  follow;  but  given 
alone,  an  overture  is  like  a  menu  served  up  without  the  meal. 

Carl  Maria  von  Weber,  a  German,  died  in  1826  in  London,  whither 
he  had  gone  to  supervise  the  production  of  his  opera,  "Oberon."  He 
was  a  cousin  by  marriage  to  Mozart.  Meyerbeer  and  he  studied  music 
together.  Von  Weber  was  the  father  of  the  German  Opera  and  the 
founder  of  the  Romantic  School.  The  Romanticists  were  not  only 
freer  in  the  use  of  Form,  but  they  also  allowed  imagination,  racial 
characteristics  and  reality  to  have  full  but  harmonious  sway.  Von 
Weber's  greatness  in  descriptive  skill — such  as  the  portrayal  of  moon- 
light, the  murmur  of  mighty  trees  and  the  song  of  the  nightingale — 
has  never  been  surpassed. 

Next  on  the  programme  was  Brahms'  Second  Symphony  in  D 
Major.  Brahms,  before  his  uneventful  but  great  career  ended  in  1897, 
composed  four  symphonies.     These  works  placed  him  side  by  side  with 


Brahms  at  a  Quarter  233 

Mozart  and  Beethoven  as  one  of  the  three  great  masters  of  symphony. 
Intellectual,  despising  all  display,  unimpeachable  in  his  correctness, 
Brahms  is  generally  thought  of  as  a  composer  of  "pure"  music.  To 
this  day  a  few  purely  intellectual  artists  group  themselves  about  his 
memory  as  Brahmists,  in  opposition  to  the  more  crowded  school  of 
Wagnerites.  Brahms  has  the  reputation  of  being  dry,  he  has  given 
us  no  programme  and  it  is  hard  to  find  even  a  suitable  name  for  his  sym- 
phonies. Hanslick's  characterization  of  the  Second  Symphony  as  a 
pastoral  seems  to  have  met  some  criticism,  inasmuch  as  it  does  not 
account  for  the  strain  of  Iieroism  that  is  to  be  felt  in  the  restrained 
yet  impressive  movements  of  this  great  symphony.  To  me,  it  seemed  as 
if  I  were  listening  to  an  Enoch  Arden,  a  Jean  Valjean,  or  some  heroic 
character  who  had  suffered,  sacrificed,  who  had  weathered  life's  storms, 
accounting  to  me  in  the  serenity  of  a  life  triumphant,  his  expectations,  his 
sorrows,  his  joys,  and  finally  his  victory.  In  the  first  movement  there  is 
a  natural  freshness,  a  simplicity — yet  the  promise  of  power  and  great- 
ness. Perhaps  it  is  Enoch  Arden  accounting  to  me  the  spontaneous  joys 
of  a  golden  childhood  long  past.  In  the  Adagio  there  is  a  "sense  of  anxious 
questioning" — the  shadow  of  some  grave  situation  that  is  to  be  met. 
The  situation  is  faced,  the  sacrifice  made  and  Enoch  Arden  proceeds 
in  sweet  solemnity  to  tell  me  of  the  quiet  of  a  soul  that  is  at  peace. 
The  Scherzo  is  a  dainty  melody  in  dance  time  of  exquisite  lightness  and 
delicacy.  The  movement  fairly  glows  with  light,  yet  there  is  a  certain 
subdued  restraint  which  still  restrains  the  touch  of  the  heroic.  For  a 
moment  I  felt  that — 

"The  bride  hath  paced  into  the  hall, 
Red  as  a  rose  is  she; 
Nodding  their  heads  before  her  goes 
The  merry  minstrelsy." 

The  last  movement  was  allegro  con  spirito,  summing  up  the  symphony  in 
passages  of  humor,  quiet  melody  and  finally  a  tumultuous  climax  of 
restraint  and  power  at  the  end. 

To  hear  this  symphony  is  to  have  one's  senses  flooded  with  the 
chaste  beams  of  an  autumnal  moon;  it  lifts  the  hearer  out  of  his  sordid 
self,  but  it  does  not  leave  him  depressed.  There  is  no  reaction.  But 
just  why  it  does  so,  one  cannot  tell.  Its  greatness  is  subjective:  it  just 
is. 

The  third  number  on  the  programme  was  composed  by  a  Finn, 
forty-nine  years  old  today.     Jean  Sibelius  is  now  the  head  of  the  Finn- 


234  The  Haverfordian 

ish  Conservatorium — a  state  institution  supported  by  the  senate. 
In  Sibelius  one  finds  the  genius  of  the  Finnish  race:  the  languid  mysti- 
cism of  the  East,  the  vigor  of  the  West.  Sibelius  is  unique — he  can  be 
compared  to  no  other  composer,  because  above  all  he  is  Finnish.  His 
material  is  from  the  Kalevala  (collection  of  Runes  and  Folk  Lore 
gathered  by  Prof.  Lonnrot  in  1835).  His  favorite  subjects  are  Tuonela 
(Hades)  and  Kuolema  (Death),  as  conceived  of  in  the  legends  of 
Suomi  (Finland). 

Separating  man  from  Hades  there  circles  a  stream,  the  waters 
of  which  are  black  and  ominously  still,  though  the  current  is  rapid. 
The  Swan  of  Tuonela,  uttering  a  strange  wild  song,  glides  in  majestic 
course  upon  these  terrible  waters.  The  poem  is  a  "dark  dream  of 
mysticism" — but  there  is  greatness  in  the  theme.  The  Song  of  the 
Swan  is  not  mere  anguish,  nor  is  it  hopeless  terror;  it  is,  to  be  sure, 
unutterably  sad,  but  there  is  in  it  the  beauty  of  resignation — the  ac- 
ceptance of  the  inevitable.  In  the  voice  of  the  Swan,  it  seemed  to 
me  that  Sibelius  has  given  us  a  very  fine  conception  of  death  from  a 
pagan  viewpoint. 

The  finale  of  the  concert  was  Rimsky-Korsakow's  brilliant,  scintillat- 
ing Spanish  Caprice.  This  former  naval  ofificer  is  entirely  free  from 
the  melancholy  or  the  violent  methods  we  unjustly  attribute  to  the 
Slavic  temperament.  Rimsky-Korsakow's  outlook  is  very  clear  and 
objective;  he  sees  what  he  wishes  to  portray  and  paints  it  with  much 
skill.  He  is  a  master  of  onomatopoeia.  Above  all  his  Caprice  strikes 
one  as  interesting — his  use  of  cymbals,  castanets,  triangle  and  other 
paraphernalia  keeps  your  eye  jumping  from  one  player  to  another. 
His  orchestration  is,  I  suppose,  impressive;  but  somehow  after  that 
haunting  song  of  death  in  The  Swan  of  Tuonela  the  antics  of  the 
orchestra  failed  to  make  me  feel  the  soul  in  the  Caprice.  The  Caprice 
rises  in  a  grand  finale — the  climax  is  reached. 

The  folk  about  me  grab  for  hat  and  hatpin.  The  concert  is  over. 
I  seize  my  umbrella,  jam  on  my  felt  and  scramble  cut. 

And  as  I  saunter  down  Broad  Street  towards  Penn  Square,  I  meet  a 
friend  and  he  asks  me  my  impressions  of  the  concert. 

And  I  truthfully  answer: 

"Brahms  is  smoking  a  pipe — no,  it  is  an  English  horn — he  is  speak- 
ing and  I  am  deeply  impressed.  But  my  feet  are  asleep  and  I  must 
run — run,  for  the  stream  of  Tuonela  approaches,  sinister,  irresistible. 
Now  I  see  Rimsky-Korsakow  and  Enoch  Arden ;  they  dance  a  fandango ; 
Korsakow  loses  his  spectacles  dodging  the  chandelier;  he  grabs  for 
them.     Alas,  it  is  too  late!  the  Swan  of  Tuonela  stretches  forth  its  neck 


Brahms  at  a  Quarter  235 

and — gobble! — the  spectacles  are  gone!  Poor  Korsakow!  Poor  Swan! 
Dum,  dum,  dum,  what  is  that?  The  fandango  again?  No,  it's  bullets — 
bullets  falling  in  the  pot." 

In  the  outskirts  of  a  certain  city  in  Japan  there  lives  in  a  rustic 
cottage  a  blind  samuraii.  He  is  old  and  he  is  much  honored.  Most  of 
the  day  he  spends  in  trimming  his  garden  plants,  but  at  times  men 
gather  at  his  home.  And  after  the  ceremonial  tea  has  been  drunk, 
this  venerable  man  draws  from  a  lacquered  box  an  object  covered 
with  soft  yellow  silk.  Carefully  unwrapping  it,  he  holds  in  his  hand 
a  bamboo  root.  The  root  is  dark  with  age  and  pierced  with  holes. 
Then  deftly  placing  the  shakii-hachi  to  his  lips  he  blows — 

And  lo — "a  tenderness  invisible  seems  to  gather  and  quiver  about  us; 
and  sensations  of  places  and  of  times  forgotten  come  softly  back,  mingled 
with  feelings  ghostlier, — feelings  not  of  any  place  or  time  in  living  memory." 

In  Satsuma  there  are  musicians — some  of  them  military  men — who 
play  upon  the  feiwa.  And  when  they  play  the  "Battle  of  Sekigahara," 
it  is  said  that  strong  men  weep. 

These  artists  are  not  to  be  found  in  studio  or  concert  hall.  Despis- 
ing money,  often  living  in  poverty,  these  bards  sing  on  unmindful  of  life's 
petty  ways. 

In  ancient  Attica  Pan  ''culls  the  swaying  reeds  to  cut  them  in  uneven 
lengths  and  bind  them  side  by  side.  Then,  placing  them  to  his  lips,  he 
sighs The  clear  notes  glide  out  across  the  fields.  Some- 
times they  are  very  sad  and  men  who  hear  them  weep;  sometimes  they 
are  loud  and  clear  and  men  who  hear  them  laugh  and  sing;  sometimes 
they  are  shrill  and  men  draw  their  cloaks  about  them,  dreaming  of  singular 
things."* 

After  hearing  a  symphony  orchestra,  it  is  refreshing  to  remind  our- 
selves how  near  to  our  reach  Heaven  has  placed  what  is  beautiful,  and 
how  the  great  and  true  may  be  found  by  the  simplest  of  means 


^  Sexagenarian's!  Section 

By   Eugene   M.    Pharo,    '15. 

A  RESOUNDING  smack,  or  I  should  say  the  sound  of  a  resounding 
smack,  awoke  the  Professor  from  troubled  slumber  on  his  rope 
and  corn-husk  bed  in  the  little  hotel  at  Kellum,  Pennsylvania. 
Half  awake,  his  ears  were  again  assaulted,  this  time  by  words  evidently 
meant  to  be  angry,  issuant  from  the  mouth  of  Mary  the  cook.  It  was 
five-thirty  and  from  the  clatter  of  tin  the  Professor  judged  the  words 
were   spoken   to   the   milkman. 

"You  just  try  to  kiss  me  again!    Just  try  it  and  see  what  you  get!" 

Another  smack  smote  the  air — this  time  with  a  long-drawn-out 
sweetness. 

"Why,  you  bold  man!  You  did  it!    Well,  you  can  have — me  heart." 

The  Professor  rolled  o\er  with  a  grunt  of  disgust  and  looked  at  the 
calmly  smiling  features  of  his  slumbering  spouse. 

In  the  course  of  the  next  half-hour  the  clang  of  the  breakfast  bell 
awoke  them  both. 

"Oh,  Henry,"  quoth  the  Professor's  wife,  "  I've  just  had  the  strang- 
est dream!  A  great  bull  with  a  jangling  bell  about  his  neck  was  after 
me.  And  you  caught  him  by  the  horns  and  broke  his  neck,  because 
you  loved  me  so."  A  third  kiss  disturbed  the  torrid  serenity  of  the 
summer  morning. 

They  descended  to  the  breakfast  table.  The  usual  assemblage  was 
in  evidence  about  its  heavily  laden  area.  There  was  the  fat  man,  whose 
stomach  shook  the  table  when  he  laughed ;  and  the  thin  man,  who 
never  laughed  at  all;  "Old  Maid"  was  his  sobriquet.  Near  the  end, 
old  Elmer  the  peanut  man  mouthed  his  food  across  from  a  strange 
arrival  of  the  preceding  night.  That  is,  he  was  strange  to  the  Professor 
and  his  wife,  but  he  seemed  to  know  the  rest. 

"Why,  Elmer,  you're  not  married  yet!  The  last  time  I  was  here 
I  was  sure  you  was  standing  for  double  harness!" 

"I  ain't  got  nobody  to  take  me,"  whined  Elmer.  "Perhaps  if  I 
didn't  have  these  knots  on  my  face  I  might  o'  had  a  chanct." 

Elmer  was  undeniably  "knotty"  about  his  visage  and  neck. 

"It  ain't  that  I  don't  want  to — I  sure  love  the  ladies — God  bless 
em! 

The  Professor  smiled,  choked  down  his  cabbage  and  ham  and  walked 
to  the  Post  Office  for  his  mail. 

On  his  way  he  passed  a  knot  of  the  young  "bloods"  of  the  village. 


A  Sexagenarian's  Section  237 

"  I  went  to  town  last   night." 

"Where'd  youse  go?" 

"Oh,  Queen  Street — 'Big  Anne's.'  She's  some  class,  fellers,  and  I — " 

The  Professor  blushed  and  hurried  by,  feeling  very  stiff  and  creaky. 

In  his  abstraction  he  bumped  into  a  bunch  of  girls,  sixteen  years 
old  or  so,   returning  with   the  mail. 

"Did  you  get  a  letter  from  'Punk,'  Irma.-'  I  got  one  from  Jimm>'. 
He'll  be  here  next  Saturday  to  the  picnic.  'Oh,  it's  good,  good,  good.' 
You   kid,   but  we'll  have  some  fun." 

The  Professor  muttered  something  about  "silly  girls,"  and  entered 
the  "General  Store"  and  Post  Office. 

Notices  from  home  announced  that  his  cook,  his  good  cook,  was 
leaving  after  fifteen  years  of  faithful  service.  She  was  going  to  marry 
the  butcher's  delivery  man. 

The  Professor  read  the  rest  of  his  mail  on  the  way  back  to  the 
hotel.  It  contained  nothing  very  interesting.  His  sister's  child  had 
another  tooth.  Son  Paul  had  found  another  "peach  of  a  girl"  at  At- 
lantic City.     "Really  serious  this  time,  Dad."     Dad  smiled. 

On  arriving  at  the  hotel  he  gave  his  wife  her  mail  and  an  affectionate 
kiss,  and  went  upstairs. 

Comfortably  seated  in  his  room,  he  lit  his  calabash,  drew  a  pad 
towards  him  and  started  on  an  article  for  the  Atlantic  Monthly.  The 
dear  man  wiote  three  thousand  words  before  the  next  Saturday,  in  dead 
seriousness,  affixed  his  title"  The  Unnatural  Predominance  of  Sex  Interest 
in  Modern  Fiction,"  and  confidently  awaited  an  approving  check. 


Syrinx.     Pastels  of  Hellas 
Mitchell  S.  Buck;  Claire  Marie,  New   York, 

IF  the  object  of  Mr.  Buck's  work  is  to  interpret  the  sensuous  epi- 
cureanism which  so  strongly  characterized  the  art  and  life  of  the 
wealthy  Greek  colonies  in  Asia  Minor,  Sicily  and  southern  Italy, 
he  has  undoubtedly  been  very  successful.  His  pastels  present  the  ideals 
of  the  Hellenic  voluptuary  with  taste  and  refinement.  The  sparkle 
of  the  winecup,  the  merriment  of  the  feast,  are  well  set  ofif  by  the  pic- 
tures of  sylvan  and  pastoral  life.  One  finds  Pan  and  Dionysus,  the  gods 
of  rustic  life,  ever  in  his  pages.  There  is  an  abundance  of  verdant 
glades,  of  tinkling  fountains,  of  piping  shepherds  and  joyous  nymphs. 
The  tutelary  gods  of  wood  and  stream  are  seldom  far  from  the  poet's 
lips.  Nor  is  the  mysterious  element  in  Greek  thought  neglected  The 
mysticism  of  Apollo  worship,  notably  in  the  pastel  entitled  "  Delphi,"  the 
night  and  its  manifold  secrets,  are  delineated  with  the  hand  of  an  artist. 

DELPHI 

On  the  wide  green  slopes  of  Parnassus  there  is  a  marble  temple,  a 
very  holy  temple  in  the  eyes  of  men,  where  a  god  speaks  in  a  mysterious 
way. 

Purified  by  the  ritual  ablutions,  clad  in  spotless  white  and  crowned 
with  laurel,  a  young  priestess,  very  pale  and  very  beautiful,  approaches  the 
dread  chasm  which  opens  upon  the  underworld. 

Her  flesh  quivers  at  the  approaching  ecstacy,  her  breast  rises  and  falls 
in  the  divine  afflation,  her    eyes   darken  with  prophecy.     How  proud  she 

is  to  be  the  mouthpiece  of  a  god! But  at  length  her  limbs 

relax,  her  head  falls  forward  and,  very  slowly,  she  begins  to  speak. 

But  I — /  love  the  simple  gods  of  the  woods  and  fields;  they  are  nearer, 
they  speak  more  gently,  and  their  voice  is  the  song  of  birds  and  the  murmurings 
of  the  night. 

The  author  proves  himself  a  master  of  the  difficult  pastel  form.  His 
coloring  is  orientally  rich  without  being  garish  For  instance,  an  ex- 
ample in  the  beautiful  word  painting,  entitled  "Lesbos." 


Book  Review  239 

LESBOS 

Upon  the  bosom  of  this  sun-kissed  sea,  beneath  fair  skies,  caressed  by 
gentle  southern  winds,  perfumed  like  enamored  sighings,  lies  the  Isle  of 
Dreams. 

Its  marble  cliffs,  bright  with  anemone,  fragrant  with  myrtle,  rest  like 
glorious  temples  on  the  blue  luaters.  On  the  flowered  grass  among  the 
olive  groves  or  shadowed  by  the  pines  where  lapping  waves  caress  the  sandy 
shore,  virgins  and  youths,  inspired  with  beauty,  walk  singing,  hand  in 
hand. 

In  the  bright  cities,  laughter  fills  the  air,  mingling  with  pulsing  music 
and  fresh  voices.  From  the  altars  of  the  sanctuaries,  thin  filaments  of  in- 
cense waver  out,  diffusing  through  the  sunlight. 

There  Sappho  lives  to  sing  of  love.  There  young  Lanchus,  white- 
limbed  and  beautiful,  pours  from  the  glittering  wine  cups  crimson  libations 
to  the  gods.     And  over  all,  the  breath  of  desire  floats  like  a  perfumed  cloud. 

And  yet,  even  to  one  who  knows  ever  so  little  of  the  Hellenic  life  and 
culture,  it  would  seem  that  Mr.  Buck's  fleeting  pastels  interpret  only 
one  phase  of  the  glorious  whole,  and  that  phase  neither  the  most  im- 
portant nor  the  most  enduring.  One  searches  in  vain  through  his  work 
for  any  trace  of  the  stern  spirit  of  Lacedaemon;  there  is  little  that  seems 
to  bear  the  stamp  of  Attic  inspiration.  Something  there  is  of  Sicily,  and 
yet,  when  one  compares  "Syrinx"  with  the  matchless  pastoral  idylls 
of  Theocritus,  the  modern  work  seems  a  trifle  strained,  a  trifle  unnatural, 
by  contrast.  Mr.  Buck  seems  to  have  taken  the  Asiatic  Greeks  as 
his  models,  and  to  have  based  his  work  on  the  poetry  of  the  second  and 
third,  rather  than  on  that  of  the  fourth  and  fifth  centuries.  The  at- 
mosphere of  his  shadowy  pastels  suggests  the  twilight,  not  the  dawn 
or  the  noontide  of  Hellenic  literature.  And  yet,  even  though  they  must 
be  considered,  in  some  measure,  the  product  of  a  decadent  age,  these 
"Pastels  of  Hellas"  reflect,  albeit  faintly  and  imperfectly,  the  richest 
poetic  literature  that  the  world  has  ever  known.  In  their  delicate 
shading  and  true  sense  of  artistry  one  may  well  find  rest  and  relief  from 
the  noise  and  clangor  of  the  everyday  world. 


Alumni  ©epartmcnt 


Ex-'46 
David  Sands  Brown,  Jr.,  of 
the  Class  of  '46,  died  at  Bala,  Pa., 
on  October  3d,  at  the  age  of  87. 
Mr.  Brown  was  born  in  Philadel- 
phia. He  entered  Haverford  in 
1841  and  left  the  following  year. 
He  became  a  manufacturer  and 
later  married  Miss  Catharine  P. 
Stewardson. 

Dr.  R.  M.  Jones  has  published 
a  review  of  Shand's  "Foundations 
of  Character"  in  the  October  issue 
of  Present  Day  Papers.  Dr.  Jones 
considers  this  work  "a  masterly 
piece  of  psychological  study, "which 
"will  for  many  years  be  recognized 
among  the  leading  books  on  those 
great,  subtle  forces  that  make  hu- 
man life — namely,  the  instincts, 
emotions  and  sentiments."  He 
thinks,  however,  that  Shand  does 
not  place  sufficient  emphasis  on  the 
formative  influence  of  the  intellect, 
will  and  ideals  on  character.  But 
he  covers  the  subject  of  "the  inner 
life"  with  the  care  and  complete- 
ness of  scientific  investigation. 

Dr.  Jones  considers  of  especial 
interest  the  author's  classification 
of  human  sentiments  and  emotions 
under  "systems,"  instead  of  treat- 
ing them  as  elements.  An  instinct 
is  differentiated  from  an  emotion 
by  the  fact  that  the  former  is  only 
conducive  to  one  kind  of  behavior, 
while  an  emotion,  even  of  the  sim- 


plest nature,  has  "a  variety  of 
different  kinds  of  behavior  con- 
nected with  it." 

Anyone  who  reads  this  book 
sees  how  unfounded  and  mistaken 
is  the  idea  that  sentiment  is  effem- 
inate. In  fact  no  "solid  charac- 
ter" can  exist  which  is  not  the 
growth  of  sentiment. 

Dr.  Jones  says  the  book  contains 
so  much  thought  and  is  so  scien- 
tifically written  that  it  is  not  easy 
reading.  But  anyone  who  is  in- 
terested in  this  subject,  will  be 
amply  repaid  by  its  perusal. 

'82 

George  A.  Borton  published 
an  article  in  the  June  number  of 
the  Journal  of  Biblical  Literature, 
in  which  he  shows  that  a  sabbatical 
year  is  alluded  to  in  Galatians  4:10. 
This  proves,  Mr.  Borton  goes  on  to 
say,  that  the  Epistle  to  the  Gala- 
tians was  written  at  the  end  of  the 
year  54  or  the  beginning  of  the 
year  55  A.   D. 

He  also  has  two  articles  in  the 
Sunday  School  World;  one  on  a 
New  Testament  account  of  the 
creation,  the  other  on  the  "De- 
cipherment of  the  Hittite  Inscrip- 
tions." 

'85 

Articles  by  G.  A.  Barton  have 
appeared   recently  in   the  Biblical 


Alumni  Department 


241 


World  and  in  the  Journal  of  Bib- 
lical Literature. 

'87 
The  Macmillan  Company  pub- 
lished in  July  a  volume  of  nearly 
six  hundred  pages  by  Dr.  Henry 
H.  GoDDARD,  on  "Feeble-Mind- 
edness,  Its  Causes  and  Conse- 
quences." 

'88 
J.  E.  Johnson,  Jr.  delivered  a 
very  interesting  lecture  on  "The 
Recent  Developments  in  Cast  Iron 
Manufacture"  at  the  Franklin 
Institute,  15  S.  Seventh  St.,  Phil- 
adelphia, on  October  8th.  In  his 
paper  Mr.  Johnson  discussed  the 
present  theory  of  cast  iron,  ex- 
plaining its  deficiencies,  and  point- 
ing out  the  unknown  or  neglected 
quantities  which  cause  them.  He 
connected  up  this  completed  ex- 
planation with  the  known  facts  of 
practice  in  regard  to  coke  and  char- 
coal irons,  and  finally  described  a 
method  for  converting  ordinary 
coke  iron  into  a  product  superior  to 
the  best  charcoal  iron,  at  low  ex- 
pense. Samples  of  the  converted 
material  were  shown,  together  with 
photomicrographs  of  its  structure. 
The  lecture  was  illustrated  by 
lantern  slides. 

'89 
Warner  Fite  has  an  article  in 
the  October  issue  of  the  Harvard 
Theological  Review  on  "The  Motive 
of    Individualism    in    Religion." 


'92 
Mrs.  John  Peart  has  announced 
the  marriage  of  her  daughter  Caro- 
line to  Christian  Brinton,  on 
Thursday,  October  15th.  The 
ceremony  took  place  at  West  Ches- 
ter. 

'93 

Charles  J.  Rhoads  was  recently 
elected  governor  of  the  new  Fed- 
eral Reserve  Bank  of  Philadelphia, 
which  was  formally  organized  in  a 
meeting  of  the  directors  at  the 
board  room  of  the  Girard  Trust 
Company.  Mr.  Rhoads,  who  was 
vice  president  and  treasurer  of  the 
Girard  Trust  Company,  will  be  the 
active  executive  head  of  the  new 
institution,  the  chairman  being  the 
representative  of  the  Federal  Re- 
serve Board  at  Washington,  D.  C. 
It  is  generally  understood  that  Mr. 
Rhoads  will  resign  his  position  with 
the  Girard  Trust  Company,  in 
order  to  give  all  his  attention  to 
the  duties  of  governor  of  the  bank. 

'96 

Dr.  Thomas  H.  Haines  has  been 
chosen  chief  psychologist  of  the  new 
psychological  bureau  now  being 
established  by  the  State  Board  of 
Administration  to  study  and  place 
juvenile  delinquents  who  are  com- 
mitted to  the  Administration 
Board.  Dr.  Haines  will  have  to 
classify  such  delinquents  by  mak- 
ing an  exhaustive  psychopathic 
study  of  them,  and  determining 
their  mental  and  physical  defects. 


242 


The  Haverfordian 


He  has  been  a  professor  of  psy- 
chology in  Ohio  State  University 
since  1901,  and  first  assistant  phy- 
sician in  the  Boston  Psychopathic 
Hospital  for  the  last  fifteen  months. 
His  connection  with  the  Boston 
Hospital,  which  is  recognized  as 
the  greatest  of  its  kind  in  this  coun- 
try, well  fits  him  for  the  work  he  is 
about  to  assume. 

Dr.  Haines  received  the  degrees 
of  A.  B.  and  A.  M.  from  Haverford 
in  1896.  Later,  Harvard  conferred 
upon  him  the  degree  of  Master  of 
Arts,  and  also  of  Doctor  of  Phi- 
losophy. He  received  his  M.  D. 
degree  from  Starling,  Ohio,  in  1912. 
Two  years  of  his  study  were  spent 
in  Europe.  He  studied  mental 
diseases  and  defectives  at  Munich, 
Germany;  Zurich,  Switzerland; 
and  London.  From  March  until 
June  of  this  year  he  acted  as  half- 
time  professor  of  psychology  at 
Smith  College,  Northampton,  Mass. 

'97 
Rev.  Elliot  Field  recently  left 
the  church  at  Wissahickon,  Phil- 
adelphia, to  assume  the  pastorate 
of  the  First  Presbyterian  Church 
of  West  Hoboken,  at  the  following 
address:  252  Palisade  Avenue,  West 
Hoboken,  N.  J. 

The  engagement  is  announced 
of  Edward  Thomas,  to  a  Brain- 
tree,  Massachusetts,  girl. 

'00 
W.  W.  Justice,  Jr.,  has  recently 
been   appointed   as  a   member   on 


Philadelphia's  Foreign  Trade   Ex- 
pansion Committee. 

The  Class  of  1900  expect  to  cele- 
brate their  fifteenth  reunion  next 
June.  Arrangements  are  already 
being  made  for  this  anniversary  of 
the  class. 

'02 
An  article  on  "The  Influence  of 
the  Popular  Ballad  on  Wordsworth 
and  Coleridge"  by  C.  Wharton 
Stork  appears  in  the  September 
issue  of  the  Publications  of  the 
Modern    Language    Association. 

'03 
Franklin  E.  Barr  and  Miss 
Elsie  Smith,  of  Newark,  N.  J.,  were 
married  on  November  5th.  Their 
home  will  be  5820  Morris  St.,  Ger- 
mantown,  Pa. 

The  1903  Class  Letter  has  been 
issued  by  Dr.  H.  J.  Cadbury,  the 
class  Secretary-Treasurer. 

Henry  H.  Garrigues  is  re- 
ported to  be  still  in  the  employ  of 
the  Penn.  R.  R.,  but  to  have  been 
transferred  to  Broad  Street  Station 
in  an  important  position.  He  is 
living  in  Ardmore. 

J.  E.  Hollingsworth  is  in- 
structor of  Latin  and  Greek  in 
Whitworth  College, Spokane, Wash. 
This  college  was  formerly  in  Ta- 
coma.  Mr.  Hollingsworth  has  been 
head  of  the  Greek  department  at 
De  Pauw  University. 


Alumni  Department 


243 


Dr.  H.  M.  Trueblood  has 
taken  up  the  duties  of  his  appoint- 
ment in  the  department  of  Physics 
at  the  University  of  Penns>'hania 
and  is  living  at  Haverford. 

'05 
Marion  B.  Seevers  has  entered 
into  a  partnership  with  George  E. 
Brammer  and  Fred  W.  Lehmann, 
Jr.,  for  the  practice  of  law  under 
the  firm  name  of  Brammer,  Leh- 
mann &  Seevers  at  517-20  Fleming 
Building,  Des  Moines,  Iowa. 

'06 
The  engagement  of  Mr.  Thomas 
K.  Brown,  Jr.,  and  Miss  Helen  W. 
Barnes,   of   Philadelphia,  has  been 
recently    announced. 

Roderick  Scott,  who  was  re- 
cently married  to  Miss  Agnes 
Kelly,  is  assistant  Y.  M.  C.  A.  sec- 
retary at  Vincennes,  Indiana.  Scott 
expected  to  return  to  Petrograd 
as  secretary  of  the  Y.  M.  C.  A.  in 
that  city,  but  was  detained  by  the 
war. 

'08 

M.  Albert  Linton  recently 
read  a  paper  at  the  annual  meeting 
of  the  American  Actuarial  Society 
at  Milwaukee,  dealing  with  certain 
features  of  the  mortality  experi- 
ence of  the  Provident  Life  and 
Trust  Company. 

Announcement  was  made  that 
for  the  paper  read  last  year  the 
Society  had  awarded   Mr.   Linton 


the  prize  of  $100  for  the  best  paper 
presented  by  an  Associate. 

'09 
Henry  Doak  is  now  on  the  fac- 
ulty  of   the    University   of    North 
Dakota. 

T.  K.  Lewis  is  practicing  medi- 
cine at  Merchantville,  N.  J. 

H.  M.  Lutz  was  married  to  Miss 
Jennie   Lind   on  September   1st. 

Chas.  B.  Thompson  is  an  interne 
in  a  Boston  hospital. 


OVER  360  SAMPLES  OF 
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ACTON  m^'^^ 

29  SOUTH  SEVENTH  STREET 
PHILADELPHIA 


244 


Percival  B.  Fay  is  Associate 
Professor  of  Romance  Languages 
at  the  University  of  California. 

Lawrence  C.  Moore  is  engaged 
in  the  practice  of  medicine  at  Chat- 
ham, Pa. 


The  Haverfordian 

"Careful  Handling  and  Quality" 

Send  us  Your  Suitings  to  be 

Dry-Cleaned,   Scoured 
and    Pressed 

At   Reasonable  Rates 


Walter  C.  Sandt  is  pastor  of 
the  Holy  Trinity  Lutheran  Church 
at  Cattsauqua,  Pa. 

R.  A.  Spaeth  is  on  the  faculty 
of  Clarke  College,  Massachusetts. 

The  Spiers  Junior  School,  Devon, 
Pa.,  opened  for  the  scholastic  year 
1914-15  on  October  1st.  M.  H.  C. 
Spiers  is  headmaster  of  this  insti- 
tution. 

'12 
W.  H.  Roberts,  Jr.,  was  mar- 
ried on  September  28th  to  Miss 
Helen  Boyd  Kester  at  Christ 
Church  Chapel,  20th  and  Pine  Sts. 
Mr.  and  Mrs.  Roberts  intend  to 
build  at  Moorestown,  N.  J.  next 
spring. 

L.  M.  Smith  has  returned  from 
mission  work  in  China,  and  is 
studying  at  the  University  of 
Pennsylvania. 

Lance  B.  Lathem  is  studying 
the  piano  at  the  Leefson-Hill  Con- 
servatory, Chestnut  St.,  Philadel- 
phia. He  also  has  many  pupils  in 
Chester  and  on  the  Main  Line. 

'14 
Thomas   R.   Kelly  is  teaching 
at  Pickering  College,    Newmarket, 
Ontario. 


Our  College  Agent 

Mr.  I.  Thomas  Steere 


Aubrey  Howell 


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Insurence 

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THE    HAVERFORDIAN 


Yoshio  Nitobe,  Editor-in-Chief 

ASSOCIATE  EDITORS 
F.  M.  Morley,  1915  K.    P.    A.    Taylor,    1915 

E.  M.  Pharo,  1915  E.  C.  Bye,  1915 

D.  B.  VanHoIlen,  1915  Robert  Gibson,  1917 

BUSINESS  MANAGER  SUBSCRIPTION  MANAGER 

Albert  G.  Garrigues,  1916  Edward  R.  Moon,  1916 

Price,  per  year $1.00  Single  Copies SO.lfl 

The  HaVBRFordian  is  published  on  the  tenth  of  each  month  during  College  year.  Its  purpose 
is  to  foster  the  literary  spirit  among  the  undergraduates  and  to  provide  an  organ  for  the  discussion  of 
questions  relative  to  college  life  and  policy.  To  these  ends  contributions  are  invited,  and  will  be  con- 
sidered solely  on  their  merits.  Matter  intended  for  insertion  should  reach  the  Editor  not  later  than  the 
twenty-first  of  the  month  preceding  the  date  of  issue. 

Entered  at  the  Haverford  Post-Office.  for  transmission  through  the  mails  as  second-class  matter. 

Vol.  XXXVH  HAVERFORD,  PA.   DECEMBER.   1914  No.   7 


(Ebitorial  Comment 

ADVERTISING  HAVERFORD— LET  IT  BEGIN 

LAST  June  a  certain  effort  to  secure  for  Haverford  a  fair  representa- 
tion of  Philadelphia  schoolboys  found  expression  in  an  article, 
"The  Energetic  Alumnus,"  published  in  the  Alumni  Quarterly. 
To  quote  President  Sharpless:    "The  percentage  of  rejected  appli- 
cants to  Haverford  is  not  large,  perhaps  ten  per  cent There  ought 

to  be  twice  as  many  applicants  as  at  present,"  the  author  of  the  article 
in  question  comments,  "  It  is  necessary  to  swallow  our  pride  to  look  at  the 
percentage  of  rejections  with  a  view  of  increasing  it,  or  else  to  claim  that 

every  admission  is  the  admission  of  a  paragon Football,  soccer, 

and  what-not  teams  have  been  lauded  to  the  skies  with  the  score  against 

them  at  least  48-0,  4-0,  or  290-15!     With  due  respect  to  the 

members  of  the  Phi  Beta  Kappa,  the  holders  of  Corporation  Scholarships, 
prizes  for  reading,  writing  and  arithmetic,  how  do  we  know  what  standard 


246  The  Haverfoedian 

of  scholarship  we  have?  Complacency  is  a  congenital  character- 
istic of  the  jelly-fish,  and  also  a  baccalaureate  acquisition  of  a  Haver- 
fordian." 

That  this  comparison  is  not  over-drawn  is  shown  by  the  fact  that 
four  months  passed  by  after  the  publication  of  this  article  with  many 
comments,  but  absolutely  no  action  from  the  Alumni  body.  It  remained 
for  the  public-spirited  founder  and  editor  of  the  Alumni  Quarterly  to 
appoint  an  undergraduate  committee  to  tabulate  schools  and  school- 
boys. It  remained  for  the  Board  of  the  Alumni  Quarterly,  at  a  meet- 
ing held  late  in  October,  to  organize  a  plan  of  campaign. 

From  the  standpoint  of  the  undergraduate,  a  reform  of  some  sort  is 
urgent.  He  is  weary  of  the  formula:  "No,  Haverford,  not  Harvard. 
No,  it's  just  outside  of  Philadelphia.  We  have  one  hundred  and  eighty- 
five,  but  we  hope  to  grow.  Yes,  we're  just  a  mile  from  Bryn  Mawr." 
He  is  weary  of  the  ineffectual  running  of  as  many  college  activities  as 
grace  a  university.  He  longs  for  greater  specialization,  and  more  time 
to  devote  to  his  work.  He  sees  the  defect  in  a  Founder's  Club  which  urges 
proficiency  in  a  few  activities  when  there  are  not  enough  proficient  men 
to  go  around.  He  looks  forward  to  the  time  when  restriction  to  a  few 
activities  shall  be  a  necessity  rather  than  a  rule. 

The  manufacturer  increases  his  sales  by  bettering  his  product,  or 
by  increasing  his  publicity.  Some  favor  the  first  method.  They  would 
enlarge  our  equipment  and  strengthen  our  Faculty.  Others  have  con- 
fidence enough  in  Haverford's  wares  to  demand  their  advertisement. 
Both  plans  are  necessary  to  progress,  but  it  is  the  second  of  the  two  which 
makes  the  stronger  appeal  at  this  time. 

Whatever  the  method  adopted,  Haverfordians  must  be  unanimous 
in  their  desire  for  prompt  action.  Too  often  at  Haverford  the  wheels  of 
reform  grind  slowly  and  not  even  exceeding  fine.  The  premise  is  granted 
— we  wish  more  students.  The  Alumni  Quarterly  has  our  confidence. 
As  yet  in  its  infancy,  it  has  had  the  courage  to  originate  a  plan  of  great 
import  to  the  future  of  Haverford.  It  should  be  properly  authorized  to 
take  the  next  steps  in  the  campaign.  Whatever  policy  may  be  outlined 
in  its  next  issue,  let  the  Quarterly,  its  sponsor,  carry  it  to  completion, 
and  let  whatever  power  to  which  it  appeals  exercise  discretion  in  naming 
properly  authorized  persons  to  organize  the  new  work. 

K.  P.  A.  T. 


WHERE  IS  OUR  SENSE  OF  HUMOR? 

THE  above  question  was  lately  asked  by  the  News  in  an  article 
deploring  the  seriousness  with  which  Wogglebug  football  games 
were  beginning  to  be  regarded.  We  beg  to  suggest  that  this  sense 
of  humor  in  a  distorted  form  may  be  found  in  some  of  our  Thursday 
meetings. 

We  are  such  an  industrious  body  of  students,  and  we  do  so  hate  to 
lose  any  time,  that  some  of  us  make  good  use  of  the  meeting  to  gain  some 
much-needed  sleep.  Others  seek  nourishment  in  gum-chewing,  carrying 
on  business  in  whispers,  or  reading.  Then  again,  in  accordance  with  our 
spirit  of  efficiency,  when  something  worthwhile  is  being  said,  we  pause 
awhile  to  listen.  And  there  is  no  doubt  that  at  the  end  of  four  years  of 
this  industriousness  we  gain  some  good.  When,  however,  remembering 
that  a  certain  amount  of  play  is  necessary  for  every  hard-working  man, 
we  start  to  make  use  of  meeting  to  laugh  outright  at  the  speakers,  our 
desire  for  recreation  and  our  sense  of  humor  are  decidedly  out  of  place. 

Our  lack  of  reverence  and  our  disrespect  are  largely  due  to  the  fact 
that  we  do  not  realize  that  we  are  in  a  house  of  God.  There  are  no 
stained  glass  windows,  no  imposing  paraphernalia  of  worship,  and  no 
soft- toned  music  to  "soothe  the  savage  breast."  The  simplicity  of  a 
Friends'  meeting-house  is  beautiful  when  we  realize  the  sincerity  and 
refinement  which  it  embodies;  but  simplicity  is  not  always  impressive 
and  the  average  college  man  is  perhaps  more  susceptible  to  display  than 
to  any  inward  workings  of  his  soul — at  least  judging  from  his  behaviour 
in  worship.  Add  to  this  lack  of  impressiveness  the  disrespect  for  authority 
on  the  part  of  the  American  youth,  and  the  Quaker  system  of  preaching 
whereby  there  is  exercised  little  control  over  who  should  speak,  what 
he  should  say,  and  how  he  should  say  it,  and  we  get  some  of  the  behaviour 
which  has  disgraced  Thursday  meetings  of  late. 

Taking  all  this  for  granted,  however,  there  is  no  reason  why  the 
Haverford  man  should  not  be  manly  enough  to  exert  a  little  more  self- 
control.     If  he  cannot  be  a  Christian,  he  at  least  can  be  a  gentleman. 


^n  Unappreciated  pioneer  in  America  "^erfiie 

By  Edgar  C.  Bye,  '15. 

THE  chief  crime  possible  to  an  American  poet  is  to  remain  among 
the  Hving  after  publishing  a  few  verses.  Dead  poets  command 
respect  for  th  ir  successes  and  intelligent  sympathy  with  their 
failures.  The  second  offense  is  like  unto  the  first.  It  is  the  audacity 
of  dar'ng  to  be  original.  The  successful  poet  of  these  United  States 
must  deliver  his  goods  in  Grecian  urns  or  Cloisonne  vases.  The  carpet- 
bag is  anathema. 

In  1871,  a  thin  little  volume  appeared  in  London,  bearing  the  title 
"Pacific  Poems,"  and  containing  two  rather  long  efforts  in  narrative 
verse.  Anonymity  awakened  interest,  as  usual.  Reviewers  were  very 
kind.  The  St.  James  Gazette  attributed  one  of  the  unfathered  twins  to 
Browning.  When  the  modest  author  emerged  from  his  third-floor  back, 
he  proved  to  be,  not  Browning,  but  an  eccentric  American  by  the  name 
of  Miller.  Here  was  a  chance  to  lionize.  The  lionizing  began,  with 
much  joy  to  all  concerned,  including  Miller,  who  felt  that,  at  last,  his 
feet  were  on  the  first  rung  of  the  uncertain  ladder.  He  soon  brought 
out  "the  book,"  as  he  fondly  calls  it,  and  had  it  dubbed,  "Songs  of  the 
Sierras."  Literary  London  found  the  author  amusing,  as  it  had  found 
Robert  Burns  once  upon  a  time.  Miller's  life  had  been  so  romantic, 
don't  you  know?  especially  since  everybody  had  such  a  deliciously 
uncertain  idea  of  just  what  it  had  been.  He  was  said  to  have  been 
miner,  journalist,  renegade,  filibuster,  lawyer  (no  climax  intended!). 
Here  was  the  companion  of  the  notorious  Walker,  here  was  the  original 
Joaquin  Murietta,  here  was  the  tall  Alcalde — right  here  in  London, 
gentlemen — civilized  and  rendered  approachable  by  a  year  on  the  Conti- 
nent. The  British  press  was  enthusiastic — their  encouraging  remarks 
form  the  pathetic  collection  of  clippings  preserved  by  Miller  in  the  last 
collected  edition  of  his  works.  Not  so  in  America.  The  lion  returned 
to  find  himself  scarcely  more  in  honor  than  before  he  had  sailed.  After  a 
period  of  journalistic  work  in  the  East  he  returned  to  his  beloved  West, 
where  he  produced  several  volumes  of  verse,  at  least  one  successful  novel, 
and  a  mall  group  of  plays.  "The  Danites,"  dramatized  from  the  novel, 
kept  the  boards  for  a  season,  although  Miller  afterward  wished  that  he 
had  never  written  it.  The  play  and  the  novel  are  negligible;  the  verse 
has  been  treated  as  if  it  were  so,  too.  One  two-volume  history  of  Ameri- 
can literature  devotes  a  half-page  to  the  accumulation  of  cobwebs  and 
dust  upon  its  memory;  ;  nother  octavo  ignores  Miller  entirely.     Th 


An  Uuappreciated  Pioneer  in  American  Verse  249 

death  of  the  poet  last  year  eHcited  perhaps  a  score  of  magazine  articles, 
as  if  nothing  in  his  life  became  him  like  the  leaving  it.  The  current 
encyclopedias  accord  him  a  paragraph.  Truly,  the  path  of  the  American 
poet  leads  but  to  neglect ! 

Now  that  he  has  expiated  the  crime  of  being  alive,  perhaps  one  may 
venture  to  inquire  into  the  enormity  of  his  other  offense — originality. 
It  was  this  tendency  which  made  him  the  victim  of  the  lionizing  process — 
a  process,  please  note,  indicating  merit,  and  by  no  means  disgraceful. 
The  fact  is  that  the  perspective  of  the  British  critic  in  reviewing  a  trans- 
oceanic poet  is  truer  than  that  of  the  American  critic.  The  Englishman 
realizes  that  the  poetry  of  a  young  country,  deficient  in  national  experi- 
ence, must  exhibit  crudity  if  it  be  truly  indigenous.  The  great  poets  of  a 
country  are  those  who  are  a  product  of  the  type  of  civilization  in  which 
they  live,  and  the  interpreters  of  it,  not  those  who  are  the  finished  masters 
of  an  exotic  culture.  It  is  therefore  inevitable  that  the  greatest  poets 
of  these  United  States  should  exhibit  the  most  glaring  faults.  Long- 
fel'ow,  Bryant,  Whittier,  even  the  gifted  Poe,  while  they  wrote  verse  of 
varying  merit  in  the  English  tongue,  have  contributed  to  the  corpus  of 
English  literature,  but  have  done  little  or  nothing  to  found  a  distinctively 
American  school.  If  there  is  to  be  an  American  literature  which  will  be 
more  than  a  transatlantic  English  literature,  it  must  be  built,  not  merely 
upon  the  peculiar  tint  of  its  local  color,  not  upon  the  flavor  of  its  dialect, 
but  rather  upon  a  fundamental  difference  in  the  national  genius  which 
motivates  it.  Since  our  national  genius  is  immature,  our  great  poetry 
must  be  immature.  The  poets  of  America  who  have  sought  to  emulate 
their  English  predecessors  are  little  old  men,  holding  their  learned  noses 
in  big  books,  when  they  ought  to  be  in  the  backyard  apostrophizing 
pushmobiles.  American  critics  have  been  unable  or  unwilling  to  ac- 
knowledge the  immaturity  of  our  national  experience,  and,  after  lining 
up  American  poets  against  a  conventional  background,  have  praised  those 
who  harmonized  with  it  and  damned  those  who  did  not.  The  English 
critic,  by  supplying  the  pr-per  background,  has  been  able  to  see  the 
incongruity  of  the  traditionalists  and  the  real  greatness  of  those  who, 
while  they  were  an  appropriate  part  of  the  landscape,  sharing  its  faults 
as  well  as  its  beauties,  were  nevertheless  egregious.  Hence  it  is  safe  to 
say  that  when  the  thoughtful  Englishman  hailed  Joaquin  Miller  as  an 
American  poet,  he  was  not  entirely  deluded  by  the  romatic  charm  of  an 
unfamiliar  local  color.     The  man  was  delivering  American  goods. 

No  one  will  claim  that  Miller  was  a  great  poet.  His  faults  are 
obvious.  He  allowed  his  natural  lyric  ability  free  reign  before  he  had 
learned  the  essentials  of  his  art,  much  as  he   allowed  his  moods  and  pas- 


250  The  Haverfordian 

sions  to  control  his  conduct  before  he  had  learned  to  live.  In  this,  by 
the  way,  he  was  not  wholly  un-American.  Born  with  a  poet's  heart,  he 
fed  upon  Byron  and  Swinburne;  bred  to  a  wild,  free,  open-air  life,  he 
crystallized  his  emotions  in  verse  not  incomparable  to  theirs  in  its  ro- 
mantic quality  and  its  felicity  of  expression,  but  lacking  unity  of  purpose, 
judicious  balance,  and  artistic  restraint — again,  not  unlike  his  life,  and 
not  altogether  un-American.  For  this  reason  his  long  poems  are  largely 
unsuccessful,  the  conspicuous  example  being  "The  Song  of  Creation." 
Perhaps  the  best  of  them  is  "The  Arizonian,"  the  poem  which  the  St. 
James  Gazette  attributed  to  Browning.  In  an  entirely  different  line, 
"The  Ideal  and  the  Real"  most  nearly  approaches  success.  It  is  need- 
less to  enlarge  on  the  characteristic  defects  by  which  both  of  these  efforts 
are  marred. 

Most  of  Miller's  work  is  narrative.  He  excels  in  short  descriptive 
passages.  In  "Joaquin  Murietta,"  the  early  poem  from  which  he  took 
his  name,  for  instance,  he  bids  us 

"Behold  the  ocean  on  the  beach 

Kneel  lowly  down  as  if  in  prayer, 

I  hear  a  moan  as  of  despair, 

While  far  at  sea  do  toss  and  reach 

Some  things  so  like  white,  pleading  hands. 

The  oc  an's  thin  and    oary  hair 

Is  trailed  alon  ■  the  silver  sands 

At   every   s'gh   and   sounding   moan." 

From  the  impossible  drama  called  "Ina,"  we  cull  this  fine  bit 


"'Tis  midnight  now.     The  bent  and  br  ken  moon, 
All  batt  r'd,  black,  as  from  a  thousand  battles. 
Hangs  silent  on  the  purple  walls  of  heaven." 

When  he  says, 

"  The  long,  white  moonbeams  reaching  there, 
Caressing  idle  hands  of  clay. 
And  resting  on  the  wrinkled  hair, 
And  great  lip    pushed  in  sullen  pout. 
Were  God's  own  fingers  reaching  out 
F  om    heaven    to    that   Lnesome   place," 

one  is  reminded  of  Cy:  ano  de  Bergerac's  dying  conceit, 
"  Vous  voyez,  le  rayon  de  lune  vient  me  prendre. " 


An  Unappreciated  Pioneer  in  American  Verse  251 

His  youthful  ancy  delighted  in  descriptions  of  beautiful  women. 
Again  and  again,  throughout  his  work,  he  returnes  to  the  theme  and 
elaborates  it  with  tropical  luxuriance.  To  take  a  single  example,  one  of 
the  most  restrained,  perhaps 

"Her  long,  strong,  tumbled,  careless  hair, 

Halj  curled  and  knotted  anywhere, — 
By  brow  or  breast,  or  cheek  or  chin. 

For  love  to  trip  and  tangle  in!" 

Miller's  skill  in  transmuting  commonplace  and  even  disgusting 
details  into  poetry  is  similar  to  Masefield's,  and  not  inferior.  For  in- 
stance : 

"And  then  a  half -blind  bitch  that  sat 
All  slobber-mouthed,  and  monkish  cowled, 
With  great,  broad,  floppy,  leathern  ears, 
Amid  the  men,  rose  up  and  howled. 
And  doleful  howled  her  plaintive  fears." 

Or  this  delicate  master-touch  from  the  poem  on  "Attila's  Throne, 
Torcello," 

"Some  snails  had  climbed  the  throne  and  writ 
Their  silver  monograms  on  it 
In  unknown  tongues." 

But  enough  of  quotation.  The  examples  given  are  sufficient  to  illus- 
trate the  lyric  and  descr  ptive  power  of  the  man.  It  is  hardly  to  be  ex- 
pected that  he  will  be  remembered  for  such  jewels  as  these,  scattered 
here  and  there  through  the  pages  of  his  six  volumes.  No  doubt  his  fame 
will  rest  on  such  scrap-book  effusions  as  "Is  It  Worth  While?"  "In 
Men  Whom  Men  Cond  mn,"or  "For  Those  Who  Fail."  And,  perhaps, 
in  the  production  of  these  and  their  reception  by  the  public  (I  do  not 
say  it  disparagingly)  ,  there  is,  again,  the  note  of  Americanism. 

Miller  is  greatest  in  short  pas-ages  or  single  lines.  He  lacks  the 
power  of  sustained  effort,  a  deficiency  which  may  not  be  so  damning 
after  all,  if  Poe's  heory  'n  regard  to  the  imposs'bility  of  a  long  poem  be 
tenable.  It  is  for  this  reason  that  his  bes  lyrics  are  those  short  sets  of 
verses  prefixed  to  his  longer  poems,  especially  the  ones  which  introduce 
th?  "Songs  of  the  Sierras"  and  the  "Songs  of  the  Sunlands." 

The  "Songs  of  the  Sierras''  was  the  book  which  had  to  come  out  as 
soon  as  Miller  found  that  an  audience  awaited  him  in  London.  It  con- 
tained his  earliest  eflorts,  and  we  may  now  say,  his  best.     It  was  in 


252  The  Haverfordian 

his  book  that  the  English  reviewer  saw  the  element  which  was  not 
British.  It  is  upon  this  book  that  the  reputation  of  Joachin  Miller, 
as  an  American  poet,  will  rest.  Even  though  we  do  hear  the  splash  of 
"the  beautiful,  high-born  rain"  on  the  Rialto  and  smell  the  aroma  of 
the  alfalfa  in  Torcello,  nevertheless,  we  do  not  find  ubiquitous  in  the 
later  poems  that  indigenous  quality  which  characterizes  the  poet's  work 
before  his  Continental  tour.  If  Miller  had  followed  consistently  his  own 
sincere  conviction  that  "the  world  has  no  use  for  two  Homers  or  even  a 
second  Shakespeare,  if  he  were  possible,"  we  might  have  had  five  volumes 
of  virile  Western  verse  as  the  product  of  his  more  mature  genius — more 
songs  of  the  Sierras  without  the  juvenility  of  the  first — instead  of  sundry 
Byronic  fragments  scattered  through  four  volumes,  and  a  single  book- 
full  of  promising  Americanism. 

It  has  been  suggested  that  Miller's  English  admirers  were  carried 
away  by  the  romantic  atmosphere  of  a  far  country,  mistaking  what  was 
merely  unfamiliar  for  virgin  soil.  In  addition  to  what  has  been  aid 
in  regard  to  the  cor  ectness  of  the  British  perspective,  it  only  remains 
to  indicate  briefly  that  the  originality  of  Miller  consists,  not  solely  in 
th  ■  nature  of  the  material  with  whi  h  he  worked,  but  in  the  essential 
spiritual  peculiarity  which  motivates  his  songs.  It  is  hardl  possible  to 
prove  this  within  the  limits  of  this  essay,  but,  ju  t  as  the  attempt  has 
been  made  to  show,  by  means  of  a  few  characteristic  quotations,  that 
Miller  is  really  entitled  to  the  designation  poet,  so  here  a  few  examples 
may  serve  to  suggest,  if  not  to  prove,  his  Americanism. 

It  should  be  said  at  the  outset,  that  here,  as  elsewhere,  the  faults 
are  those  of  an  immaturity  never  outgrown,  and  of  a  technical  ignorance 
never  dispelled.  The  greatness  is  in  short  passages  and  in  the  intro- 
ductory lyrics  rather  than  in  the  construction  of  the  long  narrative 
poems,  except,  possibly,  "The  Arizonian."  This  poem  may  be  called 
the  poet's  masterpiece  in  the  line  of  work  to  which  he  gave  most  atten- 
tion— namely,  narrative  verse.  When  we  consider  Miller's  lyrical  power, 
together  with  h's  incapacity  for  sustained  effort,  we  cannot  but  feel, 
in  spite  of  the  mediocrity  of  the  verses  included  in  "The  Ultimate  West," 
that  he  would  have  succeeded  better  if  he  had  crystallized  his  tropical 
emotions  into  short  lyrics  instead  of  into  lengthy  narratives. 

If  you  doubt  the  essential  Americanism  of  the  "Songs  of  the  Sierras," 
read  the  first  few  pages  of  "Walker  in  Nicaragua"  with  a  mind  free  from 
patriotic  prejudice.  You  will  find  there  love  of  life  in  the  open,  love  of 
strife  for  gain  and  glory,  side  by  side  with  a  recognition  of  the  beauty  of 
home-life  and  peace.    You  will  find  a  noble  confusion  of  moral  values,  a 


An  Unappreciated  Pioneer  in  American  Verse  253 

tendency  to  justify  by  argument  what  has  been  done,   unwisely,  out 
of  the  fullness  of  a  good  heart. 

"/  did  not  question,  did  not  care 

To  know  the  right  or  wrong.   I  saw 

That  savage  freedom  had  a  spell, 

And  loved  it  more  than  word  can  tell. 

I  snapped  my  fingers  at  the  law, 

And  dared  to  laugh,  and  laughed  to  dare." 

"  The  standing  side  by  side  till  death. 
The  dying  for  some  wounded  friend. 
The  faith  that  failed  not  to  the  end. 
The  strong  endurance  till  the  breath 
And  body  took  their  ways  apart, 
I  only  know,  I  keep  my  trust. 
Their  vices:  earth  has  them  by  heart; 
Their  virtues:  they  are  with  the  dust." 

It  may  be  said  that  these  are  not  distinctively  American  qualities. 
This  is  not  the  place  to  discuss  the  American  character.  Whatever  view 
one  may  take,  few  will  deny  that  they  were  qualities  characteristic  of 
the  environment  which  Joaquin  Miller  was  interpreting.  They  will 
hardly  be  found  in  such  combinations,  and  so  emphasized,  in  any  other 
literature.  Throughout  the  poem  the  same  spirit  is  present,  often  more 
prominently  than  in  the  examples  given.  The  same  rhetorical  com- 
mendation of  the  quiet  life  and  the  same  longing  for  it  in  the  midst  of 
stress  and  passionate  effort,  characterizes  "The  Arizonian."  What  a 
strange  combination  of  New  England  and  the  Southwest  one  finds  in  it! 
One  other  example  must  serve  to  express,  in  closing,  the  essence  of 
Joaquin  Miller  and  his  Westland.  It  is  the  lyric  which  introduces 
"Ina."  The  local  color  is  characteristically  luxuriant;  but  there  is 
besides  a  supreme  expression  of  the  wild,  unmeasured,  unsuccessful 
efforts  of  the  poet  to  crystallize  the  transcendant  thoughts  and  expe- 
riences which  swept  his  soul.  His  spiritual  strife  and  his  comparatively 
insignificant  results  are  but  a  reflection  of  the  travail  of  our  nation. 
Parturiunt  monies,  nascitur  ridiculus  mus.  The  lines  are  these: — 
"Sad  song  of  wind  in  the  mountains 

And  the  sea  wave  of  grass  on  the  plain. 

That  breaks  in  bloom  foam  by  the  fountains, 

And  forests,  that  breaketh  again 

On  the  mountains,  as  breaketh  a  main. 


254  The  Haverfordian 

"Bold  thoughts  that  were  strong  as  the  grizzlies, 
Now  weak  in  their  prisons  of  words: 
Bright  fancies  that  flashed  like  the  glaciers, 
Now  dimmed  like  the  luster  of  birds 
And  butterflies  huddled  as  herds. 

"Sad  symphony,  wild  and  unmeasured. 
Weed  warp,  and  woof  woven  in  strouds, 
Strange  truths  that  a  stray  soul  had  treasured, 
Truth  seen  as  through  folding  of  shrouds 
Or  as  stars  through  the  rolling  of  clouds." 


"WW 

By  Jack  G.  C.  Le  Clercq,  '18. 

An  answer  to  Dr.  Burgess  and  to  any  others  who  fail  to  see  why  America 
should  favor  the  Allies. 

EVERY  nation  directly  or  indirectly  concerned  in  the  present  war 
has  published  declaration  after  declaration  testifying  to  its 
innocence  in  bringing  about  this  titanic  struggle  which  seems 
to  have  shattered  modern  civilization  with  one  blow ;  however,  on  the 
Day  of  Judgment  it  must  and  will  be  proved  that  the  guilt  of  the 
present  catastrophe  lies  upon  Germany.  France  is  being  blamed  for 
being  instrumental  in  beginning  the  great  war,  because  she  has  been 
ever  fostering  the  feeling  of  revanche  in  her  children's  breasts  by  drap- 
ing the  statue  of  Alsace-Lorraine  in  Paris  with  black. 

No  greater  error  can  be  made. 

The  royalist  party  in  France  (which  is  in  a  very  great  minority), 
with  Leon  Daudet  and  Charles  Maurras  at  its  head,  has  again  and  again 
done  all  in  its  power  to  stay  the  socialistic  doctrine  of  anti-militarism; 
because  it  was  the  only  faction  in  the  republic  able  to  foresee  what 
was  going  to  happen,  and  because  it  was  well  aware  that  disarmament 
for  France  without  the  disarmament  of  every  nation  in  Europe  would  be 
nothing  short  of  sheer  folly.  Thus  we  see  that  the  sociaUst  party  in 
France  was  the  first  advocate  of  disarmament,  but  that  it  was  stopped 
in  its  inefficient  desire;  this  movement  was  excellent,  no  doubt,  but  to 
the  salvation  of  France  the  royalist  party  saw  that  Germany  would 
never  abide  by  it. 

Therefore  France  had  to  keep  up  the  race  with  Germany,  and  in  order 
to  do  so  she  appealed  to  the  emotional  patriotism  of  her  sons  by  putting 
in  mourning  the  effigy  of  a  possession  which  she  had  come  to  consider 
as  her  own. 

And  then,  in  a  burst  of  patriotism,  the  French  government  had  the 
three-years  military  service  practically  decreed;  Germany  thereupon 
saw  that  it  must  deal  a  swift  blow  if  it  wished  to  subdue  France. 

Just  then  a  scandalous  trial  and  a  ridiculous  verdict  staggered  all 
France,  and  one  and  all  the  people  were  ready  to  accept  a  king — either 
the  king  of  the  Belgians  or  Philippe  VH,  due  d 'Orleans,  the  exiled  prince; 
Germany  had  another  reason  for  attacking  France,  for  the  hour  of  the 
salvation  of  France  was  about  to  come  with  royalism  and  the  old  regime. 

In  striking  France  and  the  republic  a  swift-dealt  blow,  Germany 
expected  to  see  the  French  royalists  side  with  her  against  the  republic, 


256  The  Haverfordian 

but  she  did  not  know  what  French  patriotism  was;  and  to  her  intense 
surprise,  royalist  and  republican,  socialist  and  imperialist,  with  a  wave 
of  enthusiasm,  sinking  all  petty  governmental  differences,  flocked  to  the 
flag  as  brothers  and  as  Frenchmen  in  defence  of  the  patrie  against  a  foe 
at  its  very  doors,  menacing  it  with  ruin. 

And  Germany  committed  a  similar  blunder  regarding  the  Irishmen 
and  Home  Rule. 

These  reasons  are  all  political,  of  course,  and  perhaps  some  years 
after  the  war  we  may  find  them  entirely  erroneous;  but  France  is  espe- 
cially emphatic  on  one  point,  and  that  is,  that  she  is  fighting  Germany 
more  than  the  Triple  Alliance. 

France  herself  sympathizes  with  Austria  against  Servia's  cowardly 
action;  she  sees  that  Russia  must,  some  day,  take  Germany's  place, 
and  that  another  War  of  the  Nations  must  ensue — she  is  fighting  against 
Germany  for  all  that  she  holds  dear:  Ufe,  liberty,  democracy,  justice, 
and  Alsace-Lorraine.  But  now  the  question  arises:  what  point  of  view 
is  America  to  take? 

It  is  the  duty  of  America  to  sympathize  with  the  Allies,  because  from 
France  and  England  is  she  risen,  because  in  the  very  earliest  days  of 
American  civilization,  England  and  France  gave  her  the  best  of  their 
blood  and  sent  her  the  men  whose  seed  now  forms  the  nucleus  of  greater 
America,  because  the  Allies  are  now  fighting  for  all  that  America  respects : 
universal  peace,  liberty,  freedom  and  the  Federation  of  the  World,  because 
if  Germany  wins  this  war  America,  free  and  democratic,  will  find  herself 
face  to  face  with  Germany,  autocratic  and  fundamentally  despotic. 

America  has  other  reasons  yet  for  favoring  the  Allies.  She  well  re- 
members that  France  helped  her  to  gain  her  independence  and  that  it  was 
largely  thanks  to  the  help  of  Lafayette  that  George  Washington ,  the  Father 
of  American  Liberty,  was  able  to  bring  about  the  freedom  of  his  motherland . 
And  then,  last  of  all,  come  the  reasons  of  sheer  humanity,  fellow-feeling 
and  brotherhood;  she  sympathizes  with  the  Triple  Entente  because 
Germany  has  put  to  the  sword  man,  woman,  and  child,  because  she  has 
made  of  prosperous  Belgium  a  desert  and  desolate  waste,  because  she 
has  destroyed  masterpieces  of  human  architecture,  inspired  by  God  and 
dedicated  to  His  glory,  because  she  has  made  the  rivers  red  with  blood 
and  the  countryside  horrible  to  behold  with  the  mangled  and  gory  bodies 
of  the  slain. 

To  think  that  not  even  the  Red  Cross  flag,  in  addition  to  the  sanctity 
of  the  place,  could  deter  the  Germans  from  shelling  the  glorious  Cathedral 
of  St.  Remy  at  Rheims,  and  what  is  yet  more  shameless,  it  had  been  used 
for  none  other  but  religious  and  humanitarian  purposesl 


"Why"  257 

But  by  destroying  the  Cathedral  of  Rheims  and  depriving  France 
of  it,  she  has  nevertheless  bequeathed  to  France  a  Parthenon — a  never- 
to-be-forgotten  memorial  of  France  at  bay  against  the  Lion  of  Germany. 
And  Louvain?   what  of  Lou  vain? 

"My  heart  bleeds  for  Louvain,"  remarks  the  war  lord,  but  will 
words  ever  restore  the  beauteous  city  hall,  even  if  they  be  sincere  and 
heartfelt? — a  thing  incongruous  with  the  Kaiser's  character.  America 
will  give  but  one  thought  to  the  present  events  in  Europe,  to  the  Belgian 
homesteads  broken  up,  to  the  Belgians  without  a  morsel  of  food,  to  the  use 
the  Germans  are  making  of  floating  mines  (a  degradation  to  which  none  of 
the  Allies  have  ever  descended) ;  now  that  the  Angel  of  Death  is  hover- 
ing over  the  battlefields  of  France,  spreading  death  and  desolation  on  its 
path,  America  will  call  on  Germany  to  repay  the  havoc  she  has  wrought. 
In  the  Court  of  Civilization,  in  the  "Parliament  of  Man,"  in  the 
Justice-House  of  "the  Federation  of  the  World,"  with  the  martyrdom 
and  crucifixtion  of  Belgium,  with  the  vandalism  of  Rheims,  with  the 
needless  loss  of  guiltless  life  on  the  high  seas,  with  the  utterly  godless 
irreverence  of  William  IH,  with  the  terrible  famine,  poverty,  wrong  and 
death  staring  her  in  the  face,  the  United  States  of  America,  in  the  glory 
of  her  justice  and  magnanimity,  will  absolve  Germany  of  any  worldly 
or  material  sentence,  leaving  her  to  remember  these  remarkable  lines 
from  the  pen  of  the  newest  of  England's  poets: 

"But  after  the  day  there's  a  price  to  pay 

For  the  sleepers  under  the  sod. 
And  He  you  have  wronged  for  so  many  a  day — 
Listen  and  hear  what  He  has  to  say: 
'Vengeance  is  Mine.     I  will  repay.' 

What  can  you  say  to  God?    .    .    .     .    .    ." 


pallabe  of  Autumn 

By  Felix  M.  Morley,  '15. 


Across  the  gentle  golden  glow 

Where  summer,  fickle  to  the  last, 
Lies  dying,  decked  with  splendid  show. 

Unmindful  that  her  reign  is  past; 

Above  where  birds  are  flitting  fast, 
Round  the  soft  bud  the  warmth  deceives, 

A  strange,  mysterious  sound  is  cast: 
The  rustle  of  the  falling  leaves. 

But  when  the  evening  zephyrs  blow, 

Sweet  harbingers  of  wintry  blast, 
Foretelling  gloomy  sleet  and  snow, 

December  days  and  skies  o'ercast. 

Then  every  green  enthusiast 
Thinks  with  dismay  of  past  reprieves. 

At  sunset  comes  a  dread  forecast: 
The  rustle  of  the  falling  leaves. 

The  brook  his  voice  has  lost,  and  slow 

He  cringes  through  the  woods,  aghast; 
Some  subtle  change  is  in  the  flow. 

Reflected  from  the  dull  clouds  mass'd, 

Sunless,  in  sullen  legions  vast; 
Oh,  strange  effect  that  night  achieves 

When  hearing,  with  a  mind  outcast, 
The  rustle  of  the  falling  leaves! 

Envoi 

Friend,  since  thine  own  free  choice  thou  hast, 
Whether  to  sun  or  shadow  cleave, 

Must  then  -with  fading  life  be  classed 
The  rustle  of  the  falling  leaves? 


By  Yoshio  Nitobe,  '15. 

"  There  is  a  tide  in  the  affairs  of  men, 

Which,  taken  at  the  flood,  leads  on  to  fortune.  ..." 

Part  I 

BY  the  Tobyhanna  stream,  which  flows  through  the  Pocono  hills, 
there  is  a  gnarled  and  ancient  pine,  beneath  which  the  needles 
have  fallen  season  after  season.  The  forest  fires  which  swept 
the  hills,  by  some  providence  or  other  passed  on  either  side  of  this  tree, 
leaving  it  unscathed.  Later,  saplings  and  birches  grew  up  on  the  charred 
ground,  over  which  the  pine  stood  forth  in  rugged  prominence,  domineer- 
ing the  forest. 

One  sultry  summer's  day,  when  the  sky  was  brazen  clear  except  for 
the  miasma  which  lurked  along  the  river  banks  and  which  seemed  to 
render  the  very  atmosphere  torpid,  a  party  of  picnickers  gathered  beneath 
the  shadow  of  the  pine.  The  party  consisted  of  an  elderly  man  and 
some  eight  young  people,  the  girls  in  middy-blouses  and  the  men  in  white 
flannels. 

The  elderly  man  was  tall  and,  in  spite  of  his  white  hair  and  beard, 
very  erect.  From  under  his  shaggy  brows  his  eye  at  times  peered  with 
a  far-away  look;  then  again  his  glance  would  brighten  as  someone  ad- 
dressed him,  and  his  almost  stern  features  would  soften  into  lines  of 
the  utmost  beauty.  On  his  rugged  countenance  were  stamped  those  quali- 
ties which  spell  the  master  man,  and  with  it  a  spirituality  which  added 
to  strength  the  power  of  a  seer.  Dr.  Matthew  Kirk  was  a  Quaker  minister 
and  scholar.  Traveled  and  lettered,  with  friends  in  every  walk  of  life 
and  clime,  a  man  of  hard  work  and  practical  ideas,  he  was  withal  a 
prophet — the  kind  whose  hand  guides  the  plow  along  its  furrow  while  his 
eyes  are  set  upon  the  stars.  And  from  the  eminence  of  spiritual  power  and 
intellect,  Dr.  Matthew  Kirk  looked  forth  upon  the  world  and  wherever 
he  beheld  suffering  or  wrong,  there  went  his  prayers  and  efforts  for  its 
rectification. 

When  the  sandwiches,  the  salad  and  all  the  good  things  had  been 
eaten,  and  the  spoons  and  cups  had  been  packed  away,  the  picnickers 
threw  themselves  upon  the  fragrant  needles  to  chatter  and  laugh  awhile 
in  merry  groups,  and  to  rest  till  the  heat  of  the  sultry  day  had  passed. 
But  gradually  the  merriment  of  separate  groups  subsided ,  as  one  by  one 
they  stopped  in  their  chatter  to  listen  to  Dr.  Kirk.     For  as  the  pine  be 


260  The  Haverfordian 

neath  whose  branches  he  sat,  dominated  the  sapHngs  of  the  forest,  so  did 
this  master  of  men  dominate  the  group  around  him. 

And  among  those  that  Hstened  there  were  two  whose  earnestness 
and  interest  were  the  object  of  Dr.  Kirk's  special  attention. 

One  was  a  German  girl,  who  was  studying  at  Vassar.  Her  home 
was  in  Berlin.  The  other  was  a  Japanese  navy  officer  attached  to  the 
Imperial  Embassy  in  Washington.  Lieutenant  Masunosuke  Matsudaira 
was  the  son  of  a  nobleman. 

"You,  Gertrude  Von  Tirpitz,  and  you,  Lieutenant  Matsudaira,  are 
from  nations  which  glorify  arms.  You  perhaps  will  not  agree  with  me, 
but,  in  the  eyes  of  God,  the  profession  of  arms  is  the  profession  of  murder. 
The  God  of  Love  and  the  Prince  of  Peace  cannot  distinguish  the  murderer 
who  in  passion  kills  a  fellowman  from  the  soldier  who,  with  a  bayonet, 
throws  himself  upon  the  enemy." 

"Ah,  Dr.  Kirk,"  exclaimed  the  young  German  girl  feelingly,  "do  not 
say  so!     It  is  that  his  fatherland  may  live  that  the  soldier  kills  in  battle 


"Yes,  Fraulein,  it  is  that  his  own  ends  may  seemingly  prosper  that  a 
man  commits  murder,"  answered  Dr.  Kirk. 

"But,  Doctor"  said  the  Japanese  lieutenant  quietly,  "did  not 
our  Jesus  say  that  'greater  love  hath  no  man  than  this,  that  a  man  lay 
down  his  life  for  his  friends'?  Surely,  to  die  for  the  Emperor,  and  that 
others  may  live,  is  righteousness?" 

"Lieutenant  Matsudaira,  I  have  great  respect  for  Bushido  and  the 
knightly  code  of  honor  inculcated  in  the  Samuraii,  but  that  does  not  mean 
that  there  is  not  something  better.  If  to  die  were  the  ambition  of  a 
soldier,  he  would  take  the  first  opportunity  to  get  shot  by  the  enemy. 
But  instead,  he  hides  behind  trenches,  in  the  shadows  of  the  forest,  and 
picks  off  the  enemy;  for  his  ambition  is  not  to  die,  it  is  to  kill.  If, 
unfortunately,  he  gets  shot,  his  comrades  say  he  has  done  his  duty — 
not  because  he  was  shot,  but  because  he  did  his  best  to  kill  before  he  got 
shot!  At  the  moment  when  a  soldier  feels  the  sickening  crush  as  his 
rifle  butt  sinks  into  a  human  brain;  at  the  moment  when  his  opponent 
grows  pale,  gurgles  and  flutters  his  eyelids  as  the  bayonet  seeks  his 
inwards  and  the  warm  blood  spurts  and  gathers  on  the  cold  steel — does 
the  soldier  think  of  love?  Is  his  soul  filled  with  a  sense  of  love  for  his 
emperor,  for  his  wife  and  children  leading  him  on  to  run  the  danger  of 
losing  his  own  life?  No!  his  soul  is  filled  with  hate.  Kill,  kill,  kill  is  all 
that  urges  on  his  being.  And  therefore,  Lieutenant  Matsudaira,"  and 
here  Dr.  Kirk  became  very  earnest,  and  he  lowered  his  voice  so  that  only 
Gertrude  Von  Tirpitz  and  the  Japanese  could  hear,  "if  you  have  accepted 


The  Storm  261 

Christ  as  you  say  you  have,  His  call  to  you  in  that  passage  which  you 
mentioned  is  this,  that  you  should  go  home  to  your  country  and  renounce 
arms  and  speak  of  the  'greater  love'  which  alone  can  lead  to  righteousness 
and  your  country's  greatness." 

The  Japanese  navy  officer  bowed  his  head  for  a  moment  in  thought, 
then  he  looked  up  with  a  rather  puzzled  expression  and  smiled — a  Jap- 
anese smile.  To  the  occidental  it  may  mean  anything,  whatever  his 
imagination  or  suspicions  may  figure:  to  the  Japanese  it  meant,  "I 
appreciate  your  earnestness,  but  I  do  not  agree  with  you.     I  do  not 

understand.     But  let  there  be  nothing  but  pleasantness  between  us " 

Lieutenant  Matsudaira  said: 

"I  thank  you  for  your  kind  advice.     I  will  think  the  matter  over." 

It  had  started  to  darken  and  little  rifts  of  clouds  scurried  overhead. 
The  ominous  hush  of  an  approaching  storm  was  broken  only  by  the 
treacherous  gusts  of  wind  which  whined  in  the  tree-tops  and  rushed 
down  the  ravine. 

Then  suddenly  great  drops  of  water  splashed  on  the  dust-parched 
leaves,  followed  by  a  regular  tattoo — the  vanguard  of  the  approaching 
storm.  Before  the  little  party  of  picnickers  could  gather  up  their  odds 
and  ends  and  start  home,  a  veritable  cloud-burst  deluged  them,  driving 
them  to  seek  shelter  beneath  the  pine. 

To  the  howl  of  the  wind  and  the  driving  rush  of  the  rain,  lightning 
soon  added  new  terrors.  Some  suggested  walking  home;  others,  wait- 
ing, while  Dr.  Kirk  advised  them  to  get  out  in  the  open  and  face  the 
rain,  rather  than  stand  beneath  a  tree  in  danger  of  being  struck  by  light- 
ning. Two  of  the  girls,  however,  refused  to  budge,  saying  they  preferred 
getting  struck  to  being  drenched  to  the  skin.  The  truth  was,  they  were 
terrified.  In  this  commotion,  in  which  the  poor  campers  could  hardly 
hear  each  other  above  the  storm,  a  bolt  of  lightning  struck  the  pine,  tore 
one  side  open  to  the  heart,  and  striking  the  ground  by  the  campers, 
rolled  off  towards  the  ravine.  The  whole  party  were  flung  violently 
to  the  ground — all  they  saw  was  a  blinding  glare  of  light,  all  they  felt 
was  a  terrific  crash. 

The  lieutenant  struggled  to  his  feet  and  extended  a  hand  to  Gertrude 
Von  Tirpitz. 

"Are  you  hurt?" 

"No — look  out  for  the  Doctor." 

They  both  started.  Matthew  Kirk  was  still  sitting  at  the  foot  of  the 
shattered  tree.  His  face  had  turned  to  the  whiteness  of  his  hair;  his 
lips  were  apart  as  in  benediction;  his  eyes  peered  straight  before  him 
with  that  far-away  look. 


262  The  Haverfordian 

The  lieutenant  scooped  up  a  palmful  of  water  and  laved  his  brow. 
Dr.  Kirk  fluttered  his  eyelids;  then  his  strong,  pale  lips  enunciated,  so 
lightly  that  only  Gertrude  and  the  Japanese  could  hear,  the  words :  "I 
fear  not,  for  God  is  love." 

****** 

It  was  evening,  two  weeks  after  the  terrible  accident.  Dr.  Kirk  had 
been  buried  in  the  forest,  in  obedience  to  his  will.  The  summer  colony 
was  adjusting  itself  to  a  new  order  of  things. 

In  that  time  Lieutenant  Matsudaira  and  Gertrude  Von  Tirpitz  had 
been  much  together,  and  now  the  young  sailor  was  to  leave  on  the  mor- 
row. 

" Masunosuke,  will  you  never  forget  me?" 

"Never!" 

"Are  we — are  we,  then,  really  in  love?" 

"Yes, — it  is  not  a  dream.  It  cannot  be:  it  is  too  fine,  too  beautiful 
to  be  but  a  mere  dream.  It  is  love,  and  there  is  nothing  that  can  stand 
between  us;  for  is  it  not  true  that  God  Himself  is  Love?" 

"Yes — Godis  Love.  How  beautiful  is  the  idea!  But  do  you  remem- 
ber Dr.  Kirk  saying  that?  It  meant  something  so  impractical  to  him — I 
couldn't  understand  him." 

"Neither  could  I,  but  perhaps  we  may  be  able  to  discover  it  some- 
time when  we — you  and  I" — and  Matsudaira  pointed  to  the  roseate 
sunset  glow — "are  away  beyond." 

"Yes — perhaps." 

"And  now,  farewell — I  go!"  The  young  Lieutenant  clicked  his 
heels  together  and  saluted — "My  Admiral!"  he  said  laughingly,  and 
was  gone. 

Gertrude  Von  Tirpitz  sat  on  a  moss-grown  rock  and  cried  like  a 
little  child. 

Part  II 

Several  years  later,  Japan  as  ally  to  Great  Britain  had  been  drawn 
into  the  maelstrom  of  the  Great  War. 

Lieutenant  Matsudaira,  after  years  of  experimentation,  had  invented 
a  terrible  explosive  which  had  become  a  secret  of  the  Japanese  Ministry 
of  Navy.  A  14-inch  shell  loaded  with  Matsudite  would  burst  into  several 
large  fragments  powerful  enough  to  shatter  a  gun  turret  and  into 
thousands  of  splinters,  which  sought  out  every  nook  and  cranny  within 
a  hundred  yards'  radius  of  the  explosion — each  piece  red-hot  and  setting 
fire  to  everything  inflammable  within  reach.  The  poisonous  gases 
released  by  one  shell  were  powerful  enough  to  kill  a  company  of  men  in 


The  Storm  263 

close  marching  order.  Because  of  the  tremendous  killing  power  of  his 
discovery,  the  Imperial  Household  had  conferred  on  him  the  Second 
Order  of  the  Rising  Sun,  and  the  Ministry  of  Navy  had  raised  him  to 
the  rank  of  Commander. 

In  spite  of  these  honors,  on  a  certain  day  in  December  the  fol- 
lowing conversation  took  place  in  the  office  of  the  Ministry,  Hibiya 
Park,  Tokyo.  Three  men  were  present,  the  Minister  of  the  Navy, 
the  Chief  of  the  Yokosuka  Admiralty,  and  the  Chief  of  the  Intelli- 
gence Department.  The  last-named  was  a  man  called  Akiyama:  for 
certain  reasons  the  names  of  the  others  are  withheld. 

The  Minister:  "Mr.  Akiyama,  what  have  you  to  report  concerning 
Commander  Matsudaira?" 

Akiyama:  "Your  Excellency,  I  have  to  report  that  correspondence 
still  continued  from  Berlin  until  after  the  Ultimatum  of  the  15th.  From 
certain  trustworthy  sources  in  Germany,  the  lady  is  a  distant  connection 
of  Admiral  Von  Tirpitz.  The  lady  is  also  a  close  friend  of  Lieutenant 
Hegelmann,  who  was  in  Tsing  Tau  on  the  27th  of  July,  but  has  since 
not  been  reported  upon.     Probably  he  is  on  one  of  the  'lost'  cruisers." 

The  Minister:   "Is  that  all?   Is  there  no  evidence  in  the  letters?" 

Akiyama:  "The  letters  are  very  difficult  examples  of  the  Obvious 
Class.  Their  tone  is  that  of  love,  but  a  man  from  the  Ministry  of  Justice 
and  I  hope  to  decipher  them  by  tomorrow  night.  We  have  certain 
clues.  We  are,  however,  positive  that  the  Commander  has  no  copy  of 
the  formulas  of  Matsudite  in  his  rooms." 

The  Minister,  relieved:  "I  am  glad  of  that,  but  otherwise  your 
report  is  exceedingly  unsatisfactory.  I  for  one  have  perfect  confidence 
in  Matsudaira.     How  has  he  been  behaving  of  late.  Chief?" 

Chief  of  Admiralty:  "As  usual  his  behavior  has  been  unimpeachable 
excepting  for  some  rather  suspicious  talk  of  pacificism.  I  am  afraid  he 
is  a  socialist." 

Akiyama :  ' '  Yes,  your  Excellencies,  he  is  a  very  suspicious  character. " 

Admiral:  "But  this  suspense  is  bad:  I  would  sacrifice  my  best 
friend  to  be  sure  that  that  Matsudite  formula  was  safe;  in  no  small 
manner  does  the  glory  of  our  Empire  depend  upon  that  secret." 

Just  then  a  buzzer  rang  beneath  the  Minister's  desk.  The  Minister 
pressed  a  button,  the  door  opened,  and  a  frock-coated  secretary  entered, 
bearing  a  telegram.     It  had  been  received  in  the  building. 

The  Minister  opened  it,  gave  it  a  glance,  rose  and  handed  it  to  the 
Chief  of  the  Yokosuka  Admiralty. 

He  read:  "The  two  German  cruisers,  Breslau  and  Scharnhorst, 
sighted  in  square  463,  steaming  S.  S.  W.,  14  knots.  9.18  a.  m.  Despatch- 
Boat,  Suzuya." 


264  The  Haverfordian 

The  Chief  went  to  the  phone:  "  Yokosuka  Admiralty,  Room  Seven! 
Hello,  Plan  Number  S-47,  relative  to  square  463  plus  submarine  Ka-3  im- 
mediately.    Order  of  Chief  of  the  Admiralty." 

The  Minister:  "Who  is  in  command  of  Ka-3?" 

"Lieutenant  Katsura,  sir." 

"Replace  him  by  Commander  Matsudaira!" 

"Yes,  sir,  but " 

"If  he  fails,  Matsudite  is  safe.  If  he  succeeds,  we  need  not  suspect 
him." 

The  Chief  again  went  to  the  phone:  "Release  Lieutenant  Katsura: 
Commander  Matsudaira  commands  Ka-3." 

A  few  minutes  later,  in  Yokosuka,  Masunosuke  Matsudaira  was 
ordered  to  lead  the  submarine  against  the  Germans.  He  donned  his 
service  uniform,  gathered  up  a  few  odds  and  ends  and  went  straight  for 
Dock  No.  6,  where  the  Ka-3  was  lying  sleek  and  sinister.  On  the  way 
an  orderly  handed  him  some  letters.  He  jammed  them  in  his  pocket. 
At  the  dock  a  small  group  were  gathered  together.  On  board  the  sub- 
marine the  engineers  were  going  over  the  oil-engines  with  a  last  caress; 
on  deck  a  score  of  men  were,  rapidly  taking  down  the  railing,  the  flag- 
posts  and  a  machine  gun. 

As  Commander  Matsudaira  approached  the  group,  the  officers  lined 
up  and  saluted.  A  staff  officer  stepped  forward  and  handed  him  his 
orders.  Matsudaira  bowed,  received  them  and  saluted  in  return.  A 
command  spoken  to  a  lieutenant,  who  barked  them  at  his  sailors,  and  the 
ropes  were  cast  off.  The  engines  whirred  and  Ka-3  was  off.  In  and  out, 
past  the  great  grey  dreadnaughts  and  battle-cruisers  she  glided,  and  to 
the  harbor  mouth,  where  she  zigzagged  through  the  mines.  The 
beautiful  green  hills  of  Yokosuka  receded ;  the  silent  battleships  were  lost 
in  the  shadows  and  faded  away.  The  droning  whirl  of  the  engines  and 
the  rush  of  the  waters  alone  broke  the  silence;  then  at  times  a  wave 
would  fall,  pounding  the  steel  deck  of  the  ship  with  a  hollow  boom. 
And  off  in  the  dim  horizon,  in  the  neighborhood  of  Square  Number  463 
of  the  Pacific,  lurked  her  prey;  and  at  the  thought  of  it  Ka-3  seemed  to 
laugh  and  to  shake  the  spray  from  her  sleek  steel  sides. 

"Commander,  she  rides  nicely  today;   all  is  ready  below." 

"Yes,  Lieutenant,  she  pulls  like  a  she-wolf  at  her  leash.  Lay  off 
everyone  possible  and  tell  them  to  go  to  bed.  No  talking — they've  got 
to  sleep.    We  will  sight  the  enemy  at  about  daybreak." 

"Yes,  sir." 

Then  the  sun  set  and  the  twilight  darkened  with  all  its  roseate 
glow;  into  the  black  night,  with  the  roar  of  her  engines  muffled  by 


The  Storm  265 

the  blanket  of  the  sea,  scurried  the  Ka-3.  In  the  little  water-tight 
conning  tower  sat  three  men:  the  Lieutenant  with  charts  and  instru- 
ments before  him,  an  ensign  at  the  wheel  while  Commander  Matsudaira 
scribbled  in  the  log. 

Finally  he  closed  the  log  and  sat  awhile  in  thought.  Then  as  if  at 
a  sudden  memory,  he  pulled  a  letter  from  his  pocket.  He  glanced  at 
his  two  companions;  with  set,  determined  faces  they  were  peering  into 
the  darkness.  Their  lips  were  compressed  and  they  talked  in  whispers; 
their  eyes  were  illuminated  with  a  strange,  cruel  light.  Then  furtively 
he  raised  the  letter  to  his  forehead ;  if  he  had  been  an  occidental  he  would 
perhaps  have  kissed  it.     He  opened  the  letter  and  read : 

Berlin. 
My  dear  Commander  Matsudaira: 

I  can  no  longer  call  you  by  your  first  name.  You  are  an  enemy  of  the 
Fatherland  and  I  must  hate  you.  Not  only  must  I  hate  you,  but  I  do  hate 
you,  for  you  are  a  Japanese  and  I  abhor  your  nation.  Whatever  may  have 
passed  between  us  is  upon  receipt  of  this  letter  annulled. 

I  have  given  my  hand  to  Lieutenant  Hegelmann,  your  old  rival  and  an 
honorable  man.  Your  navy  will  have  a  sore  reckoning  when  Lieutenant 
Hegelmann  meets  them;  for  he  is  on  the  Breslau. 

Gertrude  Von  Tirpitz. 

For  a  time  Commander  Matsudaira  sat  perfectly  still:  step  by 
step  he  reviewed  his  friendship  with  Gertrude,  their  common  ideals, 
their  confidences,  and  finally  his  first  meeting  with  her  at  Pocono.  Yes, 
he  remembered  it  all — could  he  be  the  same  man  who,  clad  in  flannels, 
had  gaily  picnicked  in  the  Pocono  hills?  What  was  he  doing  cooped  up  in 
this  little  steel  box  full  of  volcanic  explosives?  Why  was  his  brow  so 
feverish?  Why,  though  his  voice  was  steady,  did  that  queer  lump  make 
him  swallow  so  often — and  why  did  these  men  of  his  flit  around  so  si- 
lently beneath  the  waves  of  the  sea,  with  that  tense,  hungry  look  in 
their  eyes? 

Then,  as  if  recovering  himself  from  a  trance,  he  shrugged  his 
shoulders,  and  said  half  aloud: 

"Ah,  she  was  only  a  woman!" 

No  sooner  had  he  spoken  than  he  began  to  wonder  whether  he  had 
really  said  it  or  not.  Could  Masunosuke  Matsudaira,  whose  ideals  were 
so  high,  to  whom  Gertrude  had  meant  all  the  world,  suddenly  dismiss 
the  whole  matter  by  saying,  "Ah,  she  was  only  a  woman"? 

Then  he  slowly  reread  the  letter  and  this  time  he  smiled. 

"Ah,"  he  thought,  "  Hegelmann  on  the  Breslau!  What  luck!" 


266  The  Haverfordian 

A  couple  of  hours  later,  when  dawn  was  starting  to  lighten  the  east' 
the  man  at  the  wheel  leaned  over  to  the  Commander  and  said : 

"Smoke  ahead,  sir." 

Matsudaira  pressed  a  button,  pulled  a  lever  or  two  and  gave  out 
some  orders.  The  the  combined  bridge  and  conning  tower  was  opened 
and  ten  sailors  crawled  out  on  the  slippery  deck  and  removed  the  wire- 
less apparatus  and  adjusted  the  periscope. 

Half  an  hour  later  the  tanks  were  opened  and  Ka-3  sounded;  the 
two  cruisers  were  right  ahead.  The  men  were  at  their  positions,  the 
torpedo  tube  loaded.  Matsudaira  made  a  rapid  tour  of  the  boat.  To 
the  torpedo  crew  he  said: 

"I  salute  you — we  go  to  die  for  our  Emperor!" 

"Yes,  sir!  and  to  destroy  the  enemy,  Nippon  Banzai!"  they  an- 
swered in  unison.  Their  voices  were  hoarse  from  suppressed  excitement, 
and  their  sweat-seared  faces  glistened  and  their  eyes  gleamed  terribly 
in  the  dim  unnatural  light. 

Commander  Matsudaira  took  his  position  at  the  periscope.  The 
two  mirrors  swept  the  sea.  The  Scharnhorst  was  first,  the  Breslau  follow- 
ing her.  By  maneuvering  he  had  gotten  ahead  of  them,  and  with  speed 
lowered,  the  Ka-3  stood  by,  waiting  for  her  prey.  With  eyes  fastened  on 
the  periscope,  he  kept  calling  out  the  degrees  with  the  utmost  precision: 
"27-28-31-40-43,"  etc.  The  wheel  swept  back  and  forth  in  response. 
Commander  Matsudaira  could  now  distinguish  the  officers  on  the  bridge : 
they  suspected  nothing. 

"27 — ready — Pull!"  he  shouted.  The  Lieutenant  yanked  a  lever: 
on  the  sign  board  in  front  of  the  torpedo  crew  flashed  out  the  word 
Fire.  A  short  metallic  click,  the  noise  of  the  water  rushing  into  the 
empty  tube,  and  the  Ka-3  seemed  to  buck  as  she  vomited  forth  the 
torpedo.  Then  the  crew  breathlessly  glued  their  eyes  on  Matsu- 
daira. Excepting  for  the  unearthly  pallor  of  his  face,  he  seemed  more 
like  a  scientist  studying  the  stars  than  a  fighter,  as  he  peered  at  the  mir- 
rors. Suddenly  his  face  relaxed,  a  horrible  grin  spread  from  the  corners 
of  his  thin  lips. 

"Struck!"  he  shouted.  At  that  word  the  torpedo  crew  burst  out 
in  a  devilish  yowl:  "Nippon  Banzai,  Teikoku  Banzai!"  Their  naked 
bodies  feverishly  sprang  into  action  as  they  charged  their  tube  anew. 

"21!     Pull!" 

Again  a  moment  of  suspense.  This  time  the  torpedo  struck  the 
Scharnhorst  amidships  and  finished  whatever  work  the  first  one  had  left 
undone.  The  Scharnhorst  seemed  to  rise  in  a  thousand  fragments  and, 
as  if  in  agony,  literally  torn  in  two,  she  plunged  into  the  sea. 

Matsudaira  grinned  and  as  if  in  a  trance  kept  saying. 


The  Storm  267 

"Matsudite,  Matsudite — oh,  what  a  powder!"  An  exultant  satis- 
faction and  pride  filled  his  heart. 

Through  the  periscope  he  could  see  the  tossing  of  arms,  and  here 
and  there  the  pale  speck  of  a  face.  Though  no  sound  could  reach  him 
except  the  whirl  of  Ka-3's  engines,  there  suddenly  crashed  upon  his 
hearing  the  moans  of  the  drowning  and  the  mangled.  He  looked  about 
him.  Were  those  naked  men  with  gleaming  eyes  and  cruel  faces  his 
men,  his  crew — doing  his  will? 

The  Ka-3  was  now  opposite  the  Breslau. 

Mechanically  he  shouted: 

"22! — . "  Then  it  seemed  as  if  his  voice  choked.  "Lieutenant!" 
he  shouted,  "hard  to  port!" 

The  Breslau  loomed  big  and  passed  unharmed. 

"Thank  God!"  he  whispered. 

"Shall  we  fire,  sir?"  cried  one  of  the  men. 

Matsudaira  only  answered, 

"To  Yokosuka!" 

Part  III 

The  news  of  the  victory  had  been  wirelessed  ahead,  but  the  crew  of 
Ka-3  could  only  think  of  the  Breslau  they  had  not  even  fired  upon. 
They  could  not  understand  it,  but  they  kept  their  silence. 

The  Ka-3  glided  into  Yokosuka  harbor;  the  great  dreadnoughts 
and  the  battle-cruisers  were  not  silent  this  time.  They  thundered  their 
applause  with  guns  and  sirened  their  greeting  with  horns,  for  Ka-3,  their 
little  sister,  had  gone  forth  and  killed. 

Unheeding  the  congratulations  showered  upon  him,  and  as  if  living 
in  a  dream,  Matsudaira  boarded  the  first  train  for  Tokyo. 

At  the  Ministry  of  Navy  everybody  stood  aside  to  allow  the  hero 
to  pass.     Matsudaira  went  straight  to  the  Minister's  office. 

"I  have  come  to  ask  permission  to  inspect  the  formula  of  Matsu- 
dite," he  said  simply.  "I  have  observed  its  action  in  use  and  I  wish 
to  make  some  changes." 

The  Minister  of  the  Navy  called  his  confidential  secretary. 

"Allow  Commander  Matsudaira  access  to  the  archives." 

Matsudaira  followed  his  guide  past  several  guards  into  a  subter- 
ranean hallway,  at  one  end  of  which  was  a  small  steel  door.  The  sec- 
retary unlocked  the  combination,  switched  on  the  electric  light  and 
entered.  Matsudaira  beheld  a  small  chamber  lined  with  countless 
boxes,  each  with  its  steel  door  and  combination.  He  could  hardly 
believe  that   this   un-awe-inspiring,  apparently   unguarded   vault   con- 


268  The  Haverfordian 

tained  maps,  manuscripts  and  communications  for  the  possession  of 
which  certain  powers  would  have  given  millions. 

The  secretary  opened  a  box  labelled,  "In  Reference  to  Matsudite," 
and  removed  a  manuscript  bound  loosely  together. 

"These,  Commander  Matsudaira,  are  your  papers,"  he  said  smil- 
ingly. 

The  navy  officer  grasped  them  eagerly. 

"Are  there  no  loose  papers?" 

The  secretary  turned  his  back  to  look.  Matsudaira  removed  a 
small  bottle  from  his  pocket  and  dashed  it  over  the  manuscript.  Then 
with  a  single  motion  he  lit  a  match  and  set  fire  to  the  invaluable  papers. 
The  flames  flared  up  to  the  ceiling;  the  secretary  turned  in  utter 
astonishment. 

Matsudaira  whipped  out  an  automatic  and  covered  the  secretary. 

"I  beg  your  pardon,  sir,  but  on  penalty  of  death  I  ask  you  to  be 
silent." 

The  secretary  could  scarce  believe  his  eyes;  he  looked  at  the  flam- 
ing pile — at  that  countless  treasure  which  he  regarded  as  almost  holy, 
disappearing  to  blackened  ashes.  And  then  he  looked  at  the  features 
of  Matsudaira- — at  this  maniac,  this  traitor,  this  anarchist;  and  his  aston- 
ishment grew  to  wonder.  The  feverish  anxiety  on  Matsudaira's  coun- 
tenance seemed  to  leave  him  and  pass  away  with  the  ruddy  glow  of  the 
charred  embers.  And  the  secretary  more  and  more  marvelled  at 
his  calmness. 

When  the  last  scrap  of  paper  had  been  burnt,  Matsudaira  held  the 
automatic  by  its  barrel  and,  bowing,  handed  it  to  the  secretary.  The 
secretary,  as  if  dazed,  mechanically  accepted  it.  The  two  passed  out 
of  the  vault  together  without  a  word. 

But  in  the  heart  of  Masunosuke  Matsudaira  was  great  peace;  for 
the  first  time  in  his  life  he  felt  at  rest,  and  it  was  because  he  had  under- 
stood.    To  himself  he  murmured: 

"I  am  not  afraid:  God  is  love." 

Many,  many  months  later,  in  a  fashionable  apartment  on  the 
Unter  den  Linden,  Fraulein  Gertrude  Von  Tirpitz  was  entertaining  her 
future  husband.  Captain  Hegelmann.  The  two  sat  together  on  a  sofa 
in  a  trim  little  parlor;  Gertrude  was  presiding  over  a  tea-table.  Out- 
side the  curtained  windows,  the  rain  pattered  gently  and  the  arc-lights 
were  shimmering  on  the  wet  pavements.  The  rumble  of  traffic  sounded 
like  the  wash  of  a  distant  sea.  .   .   . 

"Yes,  Gertrude,  it  was  early  dawn — I  was  on  duty  on  the  bridge, 


The  Storm  269 

when  suddenly  the  Scharnhorst  was  struck.  Ah,  it  was  terrible!  By 
bad  seamanship  we  were  so  close  that  we  could  not  go  far  away,  and  in  a 
twinkling,  the  cry  of  "  Unterseeboot "  rose  all  along  our  decks.  The 
ugly  beast  passed  right  by  us.  We  could  not  depress  our  guns  suffi- 
ciently to  hit  her — and  it  happened  so  quickly  that  nothing  but  the  ma- 
chines could  be  manned  in  time  anyway.  Why  they  didn't  strike  us  I 
have  no  idea,  unless  they  had  run  out  of  'fishes,'  especially  since  those 
Japs  are  devils  when  it  comes  to  fighting,  although  they  are  uncivilized 
monkeys.     Bah!" 

Just  then  the  maid  entered  with  a  letter.  Captain  Hegelmann 
got  up,  stretched  his  legs,  twirled  his  blond  moustache,  and  folding 
his  hands  behind  his  back,  gazed  out  the  window. 

Fraulein  Von  Tirpitz  rose  and  took  up  the  letter.     It  had  been  a  long 
time  in  coming,  and  had  evidently  passed  through  many  hands.  She 
read: 
"My  dear  Fraulein, — 

"Masunosuke  Matsudaira,  late  Commander  I.  J.  N.,  on 
the  eve  of  his  execution  salutes  you.  My  family  have  forsaken  me,  my 
country  has  repudiated  me.  I  am  utterly  alone.  Yet  there  are  two 
towards  whom  my  thoughts  have  wandered  of  late,  and  the  thought  of 
them  has  cheered  my  heart.  One  of  them  I  hope  to  soon  see;  the  other 
I  now  address. 

"I  am  to  die  because  I  at  last  understand  the  significance  of  the 
words,  'God  is  love.'  To  such  a  one  the  profession  of  arms  is  nothing 
less  than  a  dedication  to  the  forces  of  evil  and  darkness. 

"Do  you  remember  the  strange  words  which  Dr.  Kirk  spoke  to  you 
and  to  me  beneath  the  pines  of  Pocono  so  shortly  before  his  death? 
Those  words,  which  I  did  not  then  understand,  like  a  spring  of  pure 
water  have  bided  their  time  and  at  last  in  their  fullness  have  flooded 
my  soul. 

"And  though  I  shall  never  live  to  see  that  day,  yet  can  I  see  it  now 
upon  these  prison  walls,  when  there  will  be  neither  'Greek  nor  Jew, 
barbarian,  Scythian,  bond  nor  free,  but  Christ  will  be  all  and  in  all.' 
Then  the  battle  flags  will  be  truly  furled  and  the  world  will  be  ruled  by 
God  and  the  parliament  of  man. 

' '  And  what  I  have  done  and  what  I  must  undergo  I  would  not  have 
otherwise.     The  storm  is  over.     Above  all,  I  fear  not,  for  God  is  love. 

Farewell. 

Masunosuke  Matsudaira." 

As  Gertrude  Von  Tirpitz  finished  the  letter,  a  puzzled  expression 
crept  over  her  countenance;  then,  tossing  it  aside,  she  exclaimed: 
"How  odd!    Fritz,  won't  you  have  another  cup  of  tea?" 


^tar  JBreams  a  vuianeiu 

By  Douglas  Waples,  '14. 

Far  in  the  purple  distance  hangs  a  mist; 
Deep  in  its  bosom  lie  two  pallid  stars, 
Adrift  within  a  sea  of  amethyst. 

These  love  and  in  their  loving  hold  their  tryst, 
As  far  and  faint  they  hear  the  grinding  worlds: 
Far  in  the  purple  distance  hangs  a  mist. 

Like  mortal  man  and  maiden  oft  they've  kissed — 
Those  lovers  fair,  so  pure,  so  wonderful. 
Adrift  within  a  sea  of  amethyst. 

Here  listening,  hand  in  hand  where  toil  is  missed, 
They  watch  the  sun  sink  in  the  saffron  sea: 
Far  in  the  purple  distance  hangs  a  mist. 

Here  wandering,  naught  unlovely  is  enticed 
To  grate  against  the  melody  of  love, 
Adrift  within  a  sea  of  amethyst. 

Yet  now  to  sing  love's  threnody  they  list. 
While  the  old,  old  stars  sigh  out  love's  aftermath. 
Far  in  the  purple  distance  hangs  a  mist. 
Adrift  within  a  sea  of  amethyst. 


By  Joshua  L.  Baily,  '12. 

HAVERFORD'S  greatest  product  in  the  field  of  musical  activity 
gave  his  annual  song  recital  at  Witherspoon  Hall,  November 
11,  and  the  opportunity  to  hear  Dr.  David  Bispham  was  too 
great  a  temptation  for  the  present  writer  to  resist. 

Perhaps  the  most  convincing  evidence  of  Dr.  Bispham's  popularity 
in  his  home  city  was  the  fact  that  every  seat  in  the  house  was  sold  an  hour 
before  the  recital  took  place,  and  those  not  fortunate  enough  to  hold 
season  tickets  were  assigned  to  chairs  placed  on  the  stage,  and  the  pleasure 
of  sharing  the  platform  with  so  distinguished  a  soloist  was  largely  diluted 
by  his  being  compelled  to  turn  his  back  on  this  part  of  the  audience  and 
stand  on  the  other  side  of  the  piano. 

Dr.  Bispham  prefaced  his  program  by  a  brief  address,  in  which  he 
stated  that  he  believed  art  in  general,  and  musical  art  in  particular, 
should  be  absolutely  independent  of  present  belligerency  abroad,  and  that 
his  program  included  songs  in  four  languages,  by  composers  of  six  national- 
ities. He  then  put  his  audience  in  good  humor  by  apologizing  for  his 
inability  to  sing  any  songs  in  Bulgarian  or  Turkish,  as  he  would  like  to 
do.  To  those  who  heard  his  rather  severe  arraignment  of  those  who  sing 
"in  tongues  not  understanded  of  the  people,"  at  Haverford  a  few  years 
ago,  this  did  not  seem  inconsistent,  but  merely  an  indication  of  his  unwill- 
ingness to  become  a  fanatic  for  any  cause,  no  matter  how  worthy.  Fur- 
ther, Dr.  Bispham  deserves  credit  for  not  letting  his  enthusiasm  for  the 
American  composer  overcome  his  aesthetic  judgment,  and  so  the  names 
of  Mozart  and  Schumann  appear  on  the  same  program  with  Walter 
Damrosch  and  Henry  Hadley. 

The  program  fell  materially  into  two  parts,  the  second  of  which  was 
confined  to  American  composers.  The  first  song,  from  Mozart's  Figaro, 
like  all  operatic  selections,  seemed  incomplete  by  itself,  and  it  was  fol- 
lowed by  four  other  songs  so  little  known  that  an  intelligent  criticism  of 
them  is  beyond  the  power  of  the  present  writer.  But  the  next  three 
deserve  special  mention.  Schubert's  extremely  lyric  version  of  "Haiden 
Roslein"  possesses  all  the  beauty  and  simplicity  of  Goethe's  poem.  Per- 
haps it  is  even  too  simple,  and  one  sympathizes  with  the  accompanist's 
innovation  in  playing  the  closing  measures  before  the  song  as  a  sort  of 
musical  anacrusis. 

The  next  composition  was  very  different.  One  might  think  that 
Tschaikowsky's  dark  pessimism  would  blend  in  unison  with  the  despair 


272  The  Haverfordian 

and  resignation  of  Goethe's  "Nur  wer  die  Sehnsucht  kennt."  Yet 
there  is  Httle  in  the  music  alone  to  suggest  sadness;  perhaps  Tschai- 
kowsky  did  not  wish  to  be  guilty  of  tautology.  Possibly  Schubert's 
setting  of  the  same  poem  has  a  more  sympathetic  appeal,  but  such  a  com- 
parison is  unfair,  since  Schubert's  supremacy  as  a  song  writer  is  unques- 
tioned, and  Tschaikowsky's  musical  ideals  found  most  perfect  expression 
in  the  symphony. 

And  then  came  the  gloomiest  song  of  all — Richard  Strauss'  "Song  of 
the  Stone-Breaker."  The  subject  of  this  is  the  man  who  has  forfeited  his 
liberty  and  exchanged  his  name  for  a  number,  and  lost  his  very  personality 
and  is  compelled  to  break  stone  on  the  highway.  Such  a  one  is  but  little 
better  than  a  mere  animal,  or  a  machine,  and  the  grief  he  feels,  or  would 
feel,  but  cannot,  is  so  great  that  it  transcends  musical  expression.  Strauss 
appreciates  this,  and  instead  of  attempting  the  impossible,  confines 
his  composition  to  imitating  the  meaningless  clangor  of  the  "hammer 
that  breaketh  the  rock,"  wielded  by  a  hand  that  works  for  a  social  order 
of  which  it  is  not  a  member,  and  has  no  anticipation  of  a  day  when  there 
shall  be  no  work. 

No  one  can  be  a  good  accompanist  without  being  a  good  soloist,  so 
it  was  only  generous  and  courteous  that  Dr.  Bispham  saw  fit  to  let  Mr. 
Harry  M.  Gilbert  play  one  number  alone,  the  first  movement  of  a  sonata 
by  Serge  Bartkiewicz,  a  modern  composer,  showing  the  influence  of 
Chopin.  In  fact,  the  second  theme  is  almost  identical  with  Chopin's 
Nocturne  in  D  flat.  The  generous  applause  which  followed  was  well 
merited. 

Dr.  Bispham  introduced  his  next  two  numbers,  the  Prologue  of 
"The  Atonement  of  Pan"  by  Henry  Hadley,  and  the  Flint  song  from 
Wm.  J.  McCoy's  "The  Cave  Man,"  with  a  description  of  the  original 
production  of  these  two  compositions  by  the  Bohemian  Club  of  San 
Francisco  at  night  in  a  large  grove  of  sequoias  in  the  Sierras.  The  first 
number  was  largely  melodrama,  but  the  second  was  very  lyric ;  both 
gave  excellent  opportunity  for  the  display  of  Dr.  Bispham's  dramatic 
art. 

Will  Marion  Cook's  "An  Exhortation"  was  the  only  song  by  a  negro 
composer,  the  only  humorous  song,  and  the  only  one  to  receive  an  encore 
(Sydney  Homer's  "Banjo  Song").  Dr.  Bispham's  impersonation  of  the 
colored  preacher  whose  enthusiasm  outweighed  his  dignity  will  not  be 
soon  forgotten  by  those  who  witnessed  it. 

The  last  song  was  "Danny  Deaver,"  which  Dr.  Bispham  has  made 
famous  everywhere.  There  is  little  about  this  song  to  recommend  it  to 
the  average  soloist ;  it  requires  a  dramatic  artist  to  realize  its  possibilities. 


Book  Review  273 

and  Dr.  Bispham  is  such  a  one.  Suffice  it  to  say  that  one  must  not  only 
hear,  but  see,  the  soloist  in  order  to  appreciate  fully  such  a  work  of  art. 

The  program  was  closed  with  Rossetter  Cole's  arrangement  of  Long- 
fellow's "  King  Robert  of  Sicily."  In  the  face  of  Dr.  Bispham's  dramatic 
ability,  the  musical  accompaniment  of  this  melodrama  seems  a  rank 
tautology.  Possibly  it  was  not  composed  for  such  an  artist  as  Dr.  Bisp- 
ham, but  having  been  composed,  has  been  retained,  quite  unnecessarily. 

But  th  best  was  yet  to  come.  The  audience  arose  and  began  to 
overflow  at  the  exits.  As  I  passed  the  artists'  room  and  saw  the  soloist 
surrounded  by  the  heterogeneous  verbosity  of  an  admiring  multitude, 
he  beckoned  me  to  enter.  In  such  a  crowd  but  little  time  could  be  be- 
stowed on  each  one,  and  a  few  seconds  after,  as  I  was  walking  up  Broad 
Street,  had  any  one  asked  what  I  had  enjoyed  most,  I  might  have  con- 
sidered the  "Cave  Man, "or  the  "Stone  Breaker,"  or  the  "Hedge  Rose," 
for  they  are  all  beautiful;  but  I  am  sure  I  would  have  decided  in  favor 
of  that  warm  handshake,  and  enthusiastic,  "I  am  so  glad  to  see  you. 
And  how  is  Haverford?" 


Earth  Triumphant,  By  Conrad  Aiken.     MacMillan,  $1.35,  net. 

AFRESH  contribution  to  modern  verse  is  Conrad  Aiken's  Earth 
Triumphant.     This  is  a  collection  centering  about  three  narra- 
tive poems  of  good  length,  "Earth  Triumphant,  "Youth,"  and 
"Romance." 

The  first  of  these  tells  the  story  of  a  man's  grief  at  the  loss  of  his 
wife,  and  of  his  final  regeneration  in  the  spring  of  the  year  by  a  new  love. 
Mr.  Aiken's  method  is  perhaps  seen  to  better  advantage  here  than  in  any 
of  the  other  poems.    His  attack  is  very  direct ;  his  treatment  realistic. 

"For  still  the  tall  glass  glimmered  there 
Where  night  and  day  she  did  her  hair. 
And  over  a  chair-back  still  hung  down 
Her  soft  pink  satin  dressing-gown." 

There  is  no  lack  of  feeling: 


274  The  Haverfordian 

"He  would  keep 

Inviolate   her  quiet  sleep, 

Keep  her  in  her  own  room  there, 

With  shutters  down,  year  after  year. 

Till  some  mysterious  dawn  would  break 

And  she  would  wake,  and  she  would  wake!" 


Earth  Triumphant  is  done  in  rhymed  couplets.  Unlike  Noyes, 
Mr.  Aiken  does  not  practise  dramatic  effects,  or  abrupt  changes  in  versi- 
fication. There  is  a  certain  haunting  monotony,  which,  for  its  very 
faithfulness,  has  a  more  lasting  effect  than  verse  calculated  to  catch  the 
vagrant  sense. 

"Youth"  is  the  story  of  a  domineering,  Byronic  young  man  who 
commits  murder  for  the  joy  of  killing,  flees  to  the  country,  and  falls  in 
love  with  a  farmer's  daughter.  Her  influence  upon  him  is  such  that  his 
instinct  for  fight  and  destruction  gives  way  to  the  calm  intention  of 
spending  the  rest  of  his  life  away  from  the  struggle  of  the  city.  To  Mr. 
Aiken  this  is  the  epitome  of  failure,  when  to  most  it  would  mean  the 
reawakening  of  a  better  life. 

"And  life  made  slave  of  him Meanwhile  the  earth  .■  > 

Still  through  the  starlight  danced  her  endless  song, 

Turning  her  lad's-love  to  slow  death  and  birth, 
Still  changing  gray  for  green,  the  weak  for  strong; 

Life's  cry  she  heard  not,  knew  not  right  or  wrong; 

Youth  rose,  youth  fell;   she  smiled  to  sun,  danced  on, 

Smiling  the  same  smile,  dancing,  dawn  to  dawn." 

In  philosophy,  Mr.  Aiken  is  a  believer  in  Youth  and  the  free  play  of 
Instinct.  In  verse,  he  depends  upon  reality  and  simpHcity  of  style.  Of 
all  the  new  notes  sounded  in  modern  verse,  this  one,  for  its  universal 
appeal,  seems  most  likely  to  live. 

Mr.  Aiken  discredits  the  sentimental  jargon  that  finds  space  so  freely 
in  our  magazines.     Speaking,  rather,  of  the  true  poets: 

"Hirelings  are  we  of  the  time. 
God  pity  us!   For  we  must  seek 
In  city  filth,  in  streets  that  reek. 
Dark  inspiration  for  our  rhyme. 


Alumni  Department 


275 


And  yet,  from  sordid  and  from  base, 

Passion  can  lift  a  shining  face 

And  walking  through  a  street  at  night 
I  saw  a  jail  in  soft  moonlight; 
And  there,  behind  the  chequered  bars, 
A  still  shape  came  to  look  at  stars 


K    P.  A.  T. 


Alumni  department 

IT  is  our  painful  duty  to  record 
the   deaths   of   three   of   our 
alumni:    William    C.    Alder- 
son,   ex-'58;   Charles   S.    Rowland, 
'72,  and  Charles  F.  Lee,  '07. 

William  C.  Alderson  died  at  his 
home  in  Overbrook,  Pa.,  early  in 
November.  Mr.  Alderson  was  for 
several  years  connected  with  the 
Girard  Trust  Company  of  Phil- 
adelphia, having  been  its  treasurer 
in  1880  and  1881.  After  leaving 
that  company  he  was  associated 
with  the  Lehigh  Valley  Railroad, 
and  until  his  retirement  a  few  years 
ago  he  was  for  some  time  its 
treasurer. 

Charles  S.  Howland,  '72,  died 
on  October  23,  1914.  Mr.  How- 
land  was  born  at  Union  Springs, 
N.  Y.,  September  4,  1851,  the  son 
of  Charles  W.  Howland  and  Gu- 
lielma  M.  Hilles.  He  entered  the 
sophomore  class  at  Haverford  in 
1869,  but  left  college  during  his 
senior  year.  On  December  17th, 
1873,  he  was  married  to  Miss  Mary 
C.  Shipley. 

He  engaged  in  business  in  Wil- 


mington, Del.,  and  Philadelphia, 
and  later  became  an  important  and 
influential  officer  in  the  George 
Junior  Republic  in  New  York. 
He  left  this  office  shortly  before 
the  closing  of  the  Republic.  His 
later  life  was  marked  by  a  period 
of  ill-health  which  extended  to 
the  time  of  his  death. 

Charles  F.  Lee  died  at  the  Pres- 
byterian Hospital,  Chicago,  on 
October  17th,  1914.  The  inter- 
ment was  made  at  FriendsviUe, 
Tenn.  Mr.  Lee  graduated  from 
Earlham  College  in  1906,  and 
spent  the  following  year  at  Haver- 
ford. He  then  entered  Harvard 
and  spent  several  years  at  that 
institution,  studying  philosophy 
and  psychology.  He  received  the 
A.  M.  degree  from  Harvard  in  1909. 

The  address  of  his  sister,  Rosa 
E.  Lee,  is:  R.  F.  D.  No.  3,  Con- 
cord, Tenn. 

Thanks  to  the  courtesy  of  Alfred 
C.  Garret,  we  are  enabled  to  insert 
the  following  letter  by  Dr.  Wil- 
liam Wistar  Comfort,   '94,  on  the 


276 


The  Haverfordian 


conditions  in  England  relative  to 
the  present  war.  It  may  serve 
as  the  sequel  to  his  article  con- 
cerning French  mobilization,  which 
appeared  in  a  former  numbei  of  the 
Haverfordian.  The  letter  is 
taken  from  the  Philadelphia  Even- 
ing Bulletin. 

Lyndhurst,  Hants,  Eng.,  Oct.  1. 

I  have  just  returned  from  a  tour 
of  one  hundred  and  fifty  miles  on 
my  bicycle  in  Hampshire,  Sussex 
and  Surrey.  I  visited  many  small 
towns  in  business  and  residential 
districts  between  London  and  the 
South  Coast.  Except  for  officers 
who  had  established  their  men  in 
some  of  the  country  hotels,  and  fo. 
printed  directions  concerning  en- 
listment which  are  posted  every- 
where, I  should  not  have  suspected 
that  England  was  at  war. 

In  sp'te  of  the  numbers  of  men 
and  horses  she  is  sending  to  the 
fighting  line,  there  is  no  such  pa- 
ralysis of  the  national  life  under  the 
voluntary  service  as  theie  is  in 
Europe  to-day  with  universal  con- 
scription. The  roads  were  well 
filled,  not  only  with  the  motors 
and  motorcycles  oi  the  leisure 
class,  but  with  the  homely  produce 
carts  and  heavy  drays  of  internal 
commerce.  At  one  place  were  met 
hundreds  of  English  gypsies  with 
their  wagons  and  livestock  return- 
ing westward  from  the  hop  fields 
of  Kent. 

There  are,  of  course,  many  thou- 
sands of  Germans  in  England,  who 


are  supposed  to  have  been  regis- 
tered with  the  authorities.  In 
view  of  the  strict  surveillance 
under  which  we  had  been  kept  in 
France,  it  is  remarkable  how  indif- 
ferent the  English  are  in  regard  to 
foreigners.  I  had  occasion  to  ride 
thirty  miles  along  the  South  Coast 
from  Southampton  to  Chichester, 
and  was  all  the  way  within  what 
they  call  the  five-mile  limit  of  the 
shore.  Passing  by  Portsmouth 
and  beneath  the  great  forts  which 
bristle  on  the  chalk  cliff  behind 
this  town,  I  had  my  papeis  in 
hand  ready  to  display  them  at  a 
moment's  notice.  Not  a  police- 
man turned  his  head  even  to  look 
at  me.  It  was  leally  humiliating! 
In  reply  to  my  amazed  story  of 
the  tameness  of  it  all,  an  English- 
man in  the  hotel  at  Chichester 
remarked:  "Well,  you  know,  we 
are  very  slow  to  get  excited.  The 
people  would  not  stand  for  it  if 
they  were  held  up  and  questioned 
on  the  road.  They  might  think 
there  was  really  some  danger.  As 
for  catching  spies,  it  is  too  late  for 
that;  the  Germans  know  already 
all  there  is  to  know." 

The  fact  is  that  in  a  month's 
time,  in  the  very  centre  of  a  great 
concentration  camp  we  have  not 
been  stopped  or  questioned  once 
regarding  our  identity.  The  sol- 
diers talk  freely  on  almost  any  topic 
connected  with  their  work  and 
training,  the  public  may  follow  the 
troops  on  their  cross-country 
"hikes"  and  roam  at  will  through 


Alumni  Department 


277 


the  camp,  and  there  are  even  on 
sale  innumerable  pictures  of  Tom- 
my Atkins  engaged  in  all  his  duties 
and  pleasures.  Amateurs  stroll  at 
will,  taking  photographs  of  any 
military  scene  that  interests  them. 
Engl.\xd's  Fighting  Spirit 
What  I  said  of  the  country  dis- 
tricts visited  awheel,  is  not  true  of 
the  larger  cities  and  railroad 
centres.  There  are  several  great 
concentration  camps  where  colo- 
nial regiments  are  got  into  train- 
ing for  immediate  service,  and 
where  recruits  for  Lord  Kitchener's 
huge  army  are  being  trained  to 
take  the  field  next  spring.  All 
the  railroads  approaching  those 
military  centres  and  the  country 
for  miles  around  give  evidence  of 
England's  fighting  spirit.  On  the 
lines  of  the  London  and  South- 
western Railway,  for  instance,  the 
track  and  all  the  stations  are  pa- 
trolled between  London  and  South- 
ampton. The  waiting  rooms  in  the 
stations  are  fitted  up  as  quarters 
for  the  officers  in  charge  of  the 
movement  of  troops  and  recruits. 
The  regular  schedules  are  some- 
what upset  on  those  lines  by  the 
frequent  passing  of  trains  bearing 
troops  to  the  seaports  or  carrying 
wounded  toward  the  hospitals  of 
the  inland  towns.  As  a  rule,  only 
the  less  seriously  wounded  are 
brought  back  to  England,  and  one 
frequently  has  some  of  these  un- 
fortunate fellows  as  traveling  com- 
panions in  a  third  class  carriage. 
The    country    chaps    who    had 


been  wounded  in  the  legs  and  feet 
at  Mons  and  Charleroi  were  as 
lively  as  crickets  after  a  quick  re- 
co\-ery  in  the  hospital  and  all 
anxious  to  get  back  and  have 
"another  crack  at  'em."  They 
all  desire  the  privilege  of  a  personal 
interview  with  the  German  Em- 
peror! Their  vivid  account  of 
action  on  the  field  was  as  graphic 
as  anything  I  have  ever  heard. 
They  all  agreed  that  learning  of 
rules  in  advance  was  a  waste  of 
time:  "You  soon  learn  how  to  do 
for  yourself  under  fire."  And  their 
description  of  ducking  shrapnel, 
of  lying  down  to  fire  under  cover, 
and  their  jumping  up  for  a  quick 
advance  or  retreat  over  open 
ground,  of  calculating  how  long  an 
interval  there  would  be  before  the 
machine  guns  opened  up  again — 
all  this  was  thrilling  when  heard 
from  the  participants  themselves. 

Some  Defects  Admitted 

They  all  agreed  on  some  points: 
the  infantry  equipment  is  too 
heavy,  more  artillery  is  needed, 
shrapnel  wounds  are  worse  than 
rifle  bullets,  and  that  the  news- 
paper editors  who  print  letters 
from  privates  to  their  families 
ought  to  be  put  to  torment!  These 
lads  were  as  merry  about  the  whole 
adventure  as  schoolboys  on  a 
holiday,  and  I  can  well  imagine 
the  admiration  of  the  highly  strung 
French  for  these  cool,  good-natured 
Allies  who  sing  their  songs  and 
crack  jokes  in  the  trenches. 


278 


The  Haverfordian 


Here  at  Lyndhurst  in  the  beau- 
tiful old  New  Forest,  associated 
with  the  life  and  death  of  some  of 
the  earliest  Norman  kings,  we  have 
witnessed  the  mobilization  of  the 
Seventh  Division.  I  may  not  say 
how  many  troops  are  here.  It 
would  be  indiscreet  to  publish  the 
figures,  and  besides,  I  cannot  get 
the  same  from  any  two  informants ! 
Those  who  know  what  a  division 
is  may  form  their  own  estimate. 
There  are  at  any  rate  many  thous- 
ands of  them:  some  home  regi- 
ments and  reservists,  some  from 
Gibraltar  and  Malta,  and  the 
Gordon  Highlanders  from  Egypt. 
On  reaching  here,  they  certainly 
get  a  dose  of  hard  work.  Twenty 
and  thirty  mile  jaunts  are  in  order 
several  times  a  week.  Infantry, 
hussars,  light  artillery,  heavy  artil- 
lery— everybody  goes. 

They  start  generally  early  in  the 
morning,  and  after  their  distant 
maneuvres  they  come  back  in  the 
dusk  of  the  autumn  evening  when 
the  moon  is  already  well  in  the  sky. 
No  rain  has  left  the  road  dusty, 
and  the  state  they  are  in  after  ten 
or  twelve  hours  of  marching  and 
drilling  can  be  imagined.  But  as 
the  long  lines  approach  the  vast 
camp  on  the  heath  from  various 
directions,  the  men  break  into 
songs  and  hurrahs  for  everything 
and  everybody.  The  fifes  and 
drums  of  the  regulars  break  out, 
and  the  Scotch  bagpipes  bring  all 
the  ranks  into  step,  and  the  nurses 
and  chambermaids  to  the  windows 


to  see  the  kilts  swing  by.  Then 
many  a  kiss  is  thrown  and  the  jest 
passed  between  the  whitecapped 
maids  and  those  jaunty  gallants. 
They  are  all  anxious  to  get  away, 
and  it  is  said  that  now  their  com- 
plement is  made  up,  they  will  be 
off  in  a  few  days.  How  many  of 
them  will  never  come  back,  and 
how  many  of  those  superb  horses 
are  destined  to  be  blown  to  pieces! 

Scrupulous  Care  of  Horses 

I  meant  to  say  a  word  about  the 
horses;  they  deserve  it  for  them- 
selves, because  they  are  counted 
more  precious  than  mere  men. 
The  cavalry  horses  in  general,  and 
all  the  officers'  horses  are  beautiful 
creatures,  long  and  slim  like  hunt- 
ers, with  manes  clipped  close  and 
tails  bobbed,  but  not  docked.  All 
whites  and  grays  are  tabooed,  so 
blacks  and  bays  predominate.  The 
artillery  beasts  are,  of  course,  of 
an  entirely  different  stock,  being 
on  the  Percheron  lines  with  heavy 
fetlocks!  All  are  most  scrupulously 
cared  for,  being  tethered  in  long 
lines  by  one  fore  foot  and  one  hind 
foot,  as  well  bedded  in  dried  heather 
and  foddered  with  pressed  clover 
as  any  hunter  in  his  box  stall.  The 
saddle  and  harness  of  each  is  neatly 
stacked  behind  him  and  covered 
with  tarpaulin  against  the  heavy 
dews.  The  whole  camp  which  ex- 
tends over  a  couple  of  miles  of 
heath  is  laid  with  water  pipes  con- 
necting with  troughs  of  wood  or 
rubber   where   the   horses   are   led 


Alumni  Department 


279 


to  water  as  regularly  as  in  their 
stables  at  home. 

Under  the  very  trying  situations 
which  arise  sometimes  when  hun- 
dreds of  horses  are  ridden  to  water 
at  the  same  time,  I  have  not  heard 
a  single  word  of  strong  language  on 
the  part  of  the  men,  who  are  in 
many  cases  trained  hostlers  and 
who  love  their  charges.  Though 
drunkenness  causes  the  military 
authorities  some  trouble,  the  lan- 
guage, demeanor  and  attitude  of 
th  privates  toward  the  public  is 
most  commendable.  The  canteen 
is  the  only  legitimate  source  of  liquor 
and  the  "publics"  are  out  of  bounds. 

The  great  camp  near  us  is  always 
alive,  and  offers  a  fascinating  spec- 
tacle when  viewed  from  one  of  the 
little  hills  that  rise  on  what  was 
till  recently  the  New  Forest  golf 
links.  The  "greens"  are  roped  off 
to  prevent  damage,  but  there  will 
be  no  more  golf  for  a  while.  At 
meal  times  the  companies  line  up 
before  the  wooden  field  kitchens, 
where  each  man  receives  his  por- 
tion in  his  mess  pan.  Then  they 
sit  down  in  groups  on  the  natural 
carpet  provided  by  the  heather, 
and  eat  as  men  do  eat  who  live  in 
the  open  air  and  take  such  violent 
exercise.  The  white  tents  stretch 
as  far  as  the  eye  can  reach,  and 
if  one  is  indiscreet  enough  to  ap- 
proach, one  sees  queer  sights  wh  ch 
strengthen  the  current  belief  in 
the  passion  of  the  Englishman  for 
cold  water.  Each  officer's  tent  is 
provided   with   folding   bed,    table 


and  a  rubber  wash  basin,  beside 
which  stands  a  canvas  bucket  of 
fresh  water.  The  men,  seventeen 
of  whom  sleep  in  one  of  the  big 
conical  tents,  like  the  spokes  of  a 
wheel  have  to  go  to  the  water  tubs 
and  wash  in  public.  Shaving  is 
going  on  everywhere  and  under  the 
most  difficult  circumstances.  A 
mirror  is  stuck  in  a  tree  or  even  laid 
on  the  ground  and  the  fellows  get 
somehow  in  front  of  it.  The  lath- 
ering of  the  whole  head,  followed 
by  frequent  plunges  into  a  bucket 
of  water,  gives  a  most  favorable 
impression  of  cleanliness  to  the  by- 
stander. The  most  comical  sight 
is  that  of  the  Gordon  Highlander 
in  neglige  making  his  Sunday  even- 
ing toilette.  He  has  left  off  his 
bonnet  and  his  khaki  coat.  The 
effect  is  produced  by  what  is  left: 
flannel  shirt,  Gordon  plaid  kilties 
with  khaki  apron  over  the  front  to 
protect  the  shirt,  bare  knees,  fancy 
stockings  and  white  leggings,  and 
a  Turkish  towel  about  the  neck! 
He  looks  like  an  animated  pen- 
wiper doing  a  "pas  seul"  on  the 
stage. 

Ch.'^fe  Under  Delay 
Each  main  section  of  the  camp 
has  its  canteen,  its  big  tent  for 
writing  and  music,  and  another 
tent  where  ladies  serve  tea.  Of 
course,  the  officers  have  nothing  to 
complain  of  in  these  admirably 
comfortable  quarters.  But  they 
all  chafe  under  the  delay  and  wish 
to  be  off  to  the  front.  No  news 
makes    any    difference    to    them. 


280 


The  Haverfordian 


There  is  plenty  to  make  them  seri- 
ous; partings  between  men  and 
women  and  Httle  children,  espe- 
cially on  Sundays,  when  they  come 
all  the  way  from  London  for  the 
good-byes;  Sunday  services,  when 
solemn  messages  are  spoken,  and  our 
old  hymns  sung  with  tearful  eyes; 
printed  prayers,  which  are  distrib- 
uted by  the  sergeants  to  be  stuck 
in  their  caps  for  use  over  there  in 
France.  Yes,  there  is  plenty  to 
sober  up  a  father  of  a  family. 

But  they  are  volunteers,  every 
man,  fighting  of  his  own  free  will 
for  his  honor,  his  home,  his  country, 
and  King.  And  they  know  the 
whole  nation,  the  empire,  is  back 
of  them;  back  of  them  with- 
prayers,  back  of  them  with  moral 
support,  back  of  them  with  a  thou- 
sand agencies  to  look  after  their 
widows  and  orphans,  back  of  them 
to  the  extent  of  fifty-five  million 
dollars  for  the  last  week  without  a 
grudge.  So  they  want  to  be  off. 
This  is  only  the  overture  of  the 
great  symphony  of  glory  and  an- 
guish on  th;  banks  of  the  Marne 
and  the  Aisne. 

After  taps  I  step  out  and  survey 
the  great  sleeping  camp  in  the 
moonlight — the  pointed  tents  look 
for  all  the  world  like  the  ranges  of 
moun'ains  I  used  to  make  out  of 
clay  on  the  modeling  board  years 
ago  at  school.  It  is  all  so  peaceful, 
as  the  sentries  pace  back  and  forth 
in  the  soft  heather  behind  the  big 
field  guns. 

W.  W.  C. 


Among  the  Haverfordians  on 
soccer  teams  in  and  around  Phila- 
delphia are  the  following:  Pearson, 
'05;  Priestman,  '05;  C.  Long- 
streth,  '13 ; — all  of  the  Germantown 
Cricket  Club;  C.  C.  Morris,  '04; 
S.  W.  Miflin,  '00;  Rossmaessler, 
'05;  Brey,  '09;  Edwards,  '10;— 
representing  the  Merion  Cricket 
Club;  and  Cadbury,  '03;  Furness, 
'10;  Taylor,  '11;  E.  Stokes,  '14; 
T.  Elkinton,  '14;— of  the  Moores- 
town  Cricket  Club. 

In  this  connection  mention  may 
be  made  of  several  members  of  the 
alumni  who  have  officiated  in 
football  games  this  fall,  the  names 
of  Thome,  '04;  A.  Lowry,  '09; 
Wheeler,  '12;  Ramsey,  '09;  and 
Murray,  '12 ; — being  most  conspicu- 
ous. 

The  Committee  of    the    Alumni 
Quarterly  lunched    at  the  Univer- 
sity Club,  Friday,  October  30th,  to 
plan  for  the  December  issue.  Those 
present  were:    P.  S.  Williams,  '94 
E.   R.   Tatnall,    '97,   treasurer;    J 
H.  Scattergood,  '90;    J.  W.  Sharp 
'88;     R.    M.    Gummere,    '02;     W 
Sargent,  Jr.,   '08;    C.   D.   Morley 
'10,  and  K.  P.  A.  Taylor,  '15.     J 
H.    Haines,    the    secretary   of   the 
Committee,  was    unavoidably    ab- 
sent. 

'93 

Charles  Osborne  is  employed  as 
engineer  in  the  New  York  State 
Highway  Department,  having  been 


Alumni  Department 


281 


located  at  Albany  for  several  years  Farnum's    "Economic    Utilization 

in   this  connection.     Mr.   Osborne  of  History "  in  the  last  issue  of  the 

is  taking  a  course  in  shorthand  and  American  Economic  Review  (Pages 

typewriting,  aside  from  his  work.  1 19f.f.) 


'94 

W.  W.  Comfort  had  an  essay  in 
The  Dublin  Review  for  last  July,  on 
"Professor  Bedier  and  the  French 
Epic."  His  permanent  address  is, 
Care  of  Morgan,  Grenfcll  &  Co., 
22    Old    Broad    Street,    London. 

Samuel  W.  Morris  has  been 
elected  secretary  of  the  Girard 
Trust   Company,   of   Philadelphia. 

'97 

William  O.Beal  had  a  chart  show- 
ing the  "Photographic  Positions  of 
Comet  1911c"  in  X.\\e  Astronomical 
Journal,  published  August  13,  1914. 
Mr.  Beal  received  his  A.  M.  from 
Haverford  in  1897. 

Elliot  Field  is  the  author  of  a 
new  college  song,  which  was  used 
by  the  student  body  during  the 
Swarthmore  game. 

f 

Edward  Thomas  was  married  on 
November  10th  to  Miss  Margaret 
Loring  Dike  at  Braintree,  Mass. 
Mr.  and  Mrs.  Thomas  will  be  at 
home  after  January  1st,  at  841 
West  End  Avenue,  New  York  City. 

R.  C.  McCrea,  Dean  of  the 
Wharton  School  at  the  University 
of  Pennsylvania,   has  a  review  of 


The  Annual  Dinner  of  the  Class 
of  '97  was  held  in  the  College  Din- 
ing Room  (upper  room)  on  Satur- 
day evening,  November  21st.  The 
president  and  secretary  of  the 
class  are  Elliot  Field  and  Ben- 
jamiti  R.  Hoffman. 

G.  M.  Palmer  is  general  sales 
manager  for  the  White  Adding 
Machine  Company,  at  New  Haven, 
Conn.  His  address  is.  Care  of 
White  Adding  Machine  Co.,  York 
and  Grove  Streets,  New  Haven. 

'98 

W.  C.  Janney  has  just  returned 
from  an  extended  hunting  trip  in 
Maine. 

'00 

H.  H.  Jenks  has  moved  to  414 
Midland  Ave.,  Wayne,  Pa. 

'01 

The  John  C.  Winston  Co.  has 
published  a  volume  by  E.  Marshall 
Scull  on  "Hunting  in  the  Arctic 
and  Alaska." 

'02 

William  Pyle  Philips  was  mar- 
ried    to      Miss     Harriet     Bininger 


282 


The  Haverfordian 


Paris    on   December   1st,   in   New 
York. 

Shipley  Brown  has  left  his  posi- 
tion in  the  Hotel  Morton,  Atlantic 
City,  N.  J.,  and  has  bought  a  farm 
near  Kennett  Square,  Pa. 

The  Class  of  1 902  held  a  reunion 
Saturday,  November  21.  Those 
present  took  tea  at  the  home  of 
Dr.  R.  M.  Gummere. 

Another  volume  of  German 
Classics  in  English  has  been  pub- 
lished, in  which  Dr.  C.  W.  Stork 
has  several  poems. 

'03 

Robert  Louis  Simkin  spoke  re- 
cently in  a  meeting  of  the  College 
Y.  M.  C.  A.  He  described  some 
of  his  experiences  in  China  during 
the  late  revolution.  Mr.  Simkin 
is  prominent  as  a  missionary  in 
West  China.  He  is  studying  in 
the  United  States  this  year. 

A.  G.  Dean  recently  gave  an 
address  at  the  Philadelphia  Foun- 
drymen's  Association. 

'04 

Recently  a  son  was  born  to  Mr. 
and  Mrs.  H.  H.  Morris,  at  Shang- 
hai,  China. 

Chester  R.  Haig,  M.  D.,  was 
married  to  Miss  Hilda  Morse,  of 


Merchantville,  N.  J.  The  wedding 
took  place  on  Wednesday  evening, 
November  18th,  1914,  in  Grace 
Church.  Rev.  Harold  Morse,  who 
is  Miss  Morse's  father  performed 
the  ceremony. 

C.  C.  Morris,  '04,  and  Arthur 
H.  Hopkins,  M.  D.,  '05,  were 
among   the   ushers. 

Ex-'04 

Wilfrid  Mansell  Powell,  son  of 
the  British  consul  at  Philadelphia, 
is  a  soldier  in  His  Majesty's  Army. 

'05 
At  the  last  annual  meeting  of  the 
Class   of    1905,    J.    H.    Morris,    of 
Bryn  Mawr,  was  elected  secretary 
of  the  class. 

A.  M.  '05 

Ralph  Waldo  Trueblood  and 
Miss  Elsie  Marion  Smith  were 
married  at  Los  Angeles,  Cal.,  on 
November  9th. 

'06 
On  June  13th,  1914,  a  daughter, 
Anna  Craven  Smiley,  was  born  to 
Mr.  and  Mrs.  A.  K.  Smiley. 

'07 

Micharl  Henry  March  married 
Miss  Susan  B.  Richards,  of  Potts- 
town,  Pa.,  at  the  residence  of  Dr. 
and  Mrs.  Charles  W.  Richardson, 
in  Washington,  D.  C,  on  June  10. 


Ali'mni    DiCI'AKTMENT 


283 


Emmett  R.  Talnall,  '07,  was  best  '11 

man. 

The    Class   of    1911    held    a    re- 
William    R.    Rossmaessler  spent      union  the  Friday  before  the  Swarth- 
this  summer  in  England,  traveling      more  game. 

part  of  the  time  with  the  Merion 

Cricket  Club  team. 


On  June  24,  1914,  a  daughter, 
Alice  Bent  Tatnall,  was  born  to 
Mr.  and  Mrs.  Emmett  R.  Tatnall. 

On  July  16,  1914,  a  son.  Chap- 
man Brown,  was  born  to  Mr.  and 
Mrs.  Paul  W.  Brown. 

On  June  25,  1914,  a  daughter, 
Sarah  Willets  Godley,  was  born  to 
Mr.  and  Mrs.  Francis  D.  Godley. 

Ex-'08 

Wilson  Sidwell,  after  spending 
several  years  in  Argentine  Re- 
public, is  now  superintending  the 
road  and  bridge  construction  for 
the  government  of  Paraguay.  He 
expects  to  return  to  the  United 
States  in  1915.  His  address  is: 
Care  Departmento  de  Formento, 
Asuncion,  Paraguay,  S.  A. 

'10 

Guy  S.  K.  Wheeler,  '10;  E.  Page 
Allinson,  '10;  C.  Mitchell  Froe- 
licher,  '10;  Charles  Fygis  Clark, 
'10;  and  Victor  Schoepperle,  '11; — 
held  a  reunion  at  Town's  End 
Farm,  West  Chester,  Pa.,  the  week- 
end of  the  Swarthmore  game. 


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PHILADELPHIA 


284 


The  Haverfordian 


Charles  Wadsworth,  III,  is  study 
ing  Chemistry  in  the  Harvard 
Graduate  School. 


'13 


The  engagement  has  been  an- 
nounced of  Philip  C.  Gifford  and 
Miss  Helen  S.  Thomas,  of  Avon- 
dale,  Pa. 

John  U.  Van  Sickle  and  Norris 
F.  Hall  are  studying  in  the  Grad- 
uate School  of  Harvard  University. 

Mendenhall,  Pickett  and  Porter 
represented  the  Class  of  1913  at  the 
Trinity  game  in  Hartford,  No- 
vember 7th. 

A.  H.  Goddard  is  now  in  Wash- 
ington, D.  C,  working  in  the  Civil 
Service. 

P.  H.  Brown  had  the  honor  of 
presenting  to  the  Class  of  1913  its 
first  class  baby,  a  boy — Harold  W. 
Brown — born  in  June,  1914.  Mr. 
Brown  has  been  promoted  to  the 
head  of  the  Department  of  Manual 
Training  at  Earlham  College. 

P.  G.  Baker  is  still  with  the 
Westinghouse  Electric  Company, 
of  Pittsburgh,  Pa. 

Joseph  Tatnall  is  traveling  for 
the  Brown  and  Baily  Company,  of 
Philadelphia. 

C.  O.  Young  is  now  located  at 
Washington,  D.  C,  and  is  working 
for  the  government  in  the  Chemis- 
try Department. 


Joseph  M.  Beatty  is  teaching  at 
Pomfret  School,  Pomfret,  Conn. 

Norman  H.  Taylor  has  entered 
the  Harvard  Medical  School. 

W.  Webb  is  studying  at  the  New 
York  State  Library  School  at 
Albany,  N.  Y. 

Philip  C.  Gifford  is  teaching  at 
the  Moses  Brown  School,  Provi- 
dence, R.  I. 

'14 

The  engagement  has  been  re- 
cently announced  of  Herbert  W. 
Taylor,  to  Miss  Irene  Lawrence,  of 
New  York. 


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29  SOUTH  SEVENTH  STREET 
PHILADELPHIA 


THE    HAVERFORDIAN 


Yoshio  Nitobe,  Editor-in-Chief 

ASSOCIATE  EDITORS 
F.  M.  Morley,  1915  K.    P.    A.    Taylor,    1915 

E.  M.  Pharo,  1915  E.  C.  Bye,  1915 

D.  B.  VanHoUen,  1915  Robert  Gibson,  1917 

William  H.  Chamberlin,  1917 

BUSINESS  MANAGER  ASS'T.  BUSINESS  MANAGER 

Albert  G.  Garrigues,  1916  Edward  R.  Moon,  1916 

SUBSCRIPTION  MANAGER 
Arthur  E.  Spellisy,  1917 

Price,  per  year SI. 00  Single  Copies $0. 15 

The  Hayerpordian  is  published  on  the  tenth  of  each  month  during  College  year.  Its  purpose 
is  to  foster  the  literary  spirit  among  the  undergraduates  and  to  provide  an  organ  for  the  discussion  of 
questions  relative  to  college  life  and  policy.  To  these  ends  contributions  are  invited,  and  ?.'ill  be  con- 
sidered solely  on  their  merits.  Matter  intended  for  insertion  should  reach  the  Editor  not  later  than  the 
twenty-first  of  the  month  preceding  the  date  of  issue. 

Entered  at  the  Haverford  Post-Office,  for  transmission  through  the  mails  as  second-class  matter. 

Vol.  X~XXV«    '  HAVERFORD,  PA.  JANUARY,   1915  No.  8 


Cbitorial  Comment 

THE  SUNDAY  REVIVAL 

THE   Billy   Sunday   revival   is  such  a  dynamic  event  in  the   his- 
tory of  Philadelphia  and  forces  itself  so  vigorously  upon  the 
attention  of  every  thinking  person  that  it  calls  for  some  con- 
sideiation  in  these  columns. 

There  can  be  no  question  in  anyone's  mind  that  Billy  Sunday  is  a 
person  of  extraordinary  power.  He  is  sincere,  white-hot  in  his  convic- 
tions, possessed  of  very  unusual  oratorical  gifts,  and  he  is  a  genius  in  his 
use  of  advertising  as  a  psychological  preparation  for  his  message.  He 
is  as  intense  as  a  Hebrew  prophet  in  his  denunciation  of  individual  and 


286  The  Haverfoedian 

social  sins,  and  a  wonderful  play  of  humor  is  joined  to  his  powerful 
diagnosis  of  sin. 

The  effect  of  his  revival  woik  in  other  cities  has  been  impressive 
and  far-reaching.  He  has  done  things  which  speak  loudly  in  favor  of 
the  effectiveness  of  his  ministry.  Thousands  of  men  and  women  aie 
leading  Christian  lives  today  because  he  reached  them,  and  many 
cities  have  been  "cleaned  up"  as  a  result  of  his  moving  appeal. 

But  at  the  same  time  there  is  much  to  be  regretted  both  in  his  method 
and  in  his  message.  His  slangy  and  bizarre  descriptions  of  Bible  nar- 
ratives and  especially  his  colloquial  way  of  spealdng  of  God  and  of 
Jesus  Christ  tend  to  lower  the  tone  of  religion  and  to  obliterate  reverence. 
His  crude  and  dogmatic  way  of  dealing  with  the  discoveries  that  have 
been  made  by  modern  scientific  and  historical  research  is  trying  to  one 
who  has  learned  to  respect  and  admire  the  patient  work  of  truth-seekers 
and  to  all  who  are  loyal  to  truth.  His  failure  to  appreciate  the  honesty, 
sincerity  and  goodness  of  those  with  whom  he  differs  is  also  a  mark  of 
narrowness  which  is  regrettable.  The  Christianity  which  is  to  win 
and  hold  and  inspire  mature  and  serious  men  must  minister  to  the 
mind  as  well  as  to  the  emotions  and  must  not  compel  one  to  surrender 
what  he  knows  in  order  to  become  religious.  Billy  Sunday  will  do  much 
good  and  he  will  probably  accomplish  a  work  which  quieter  and  saner 
methods  would  not  accomplish,  but  we  must  not  for  that  reason  con- 
clude that  his  type  of  Christianity  is  either  complete  or  all-round  or  even 
best  adapted  to  the  life  and  thought  of  our  age. 

RuFus  M.  Jones. 


ANNOUNCEMENT 

The  Haverfordian  announces  with  pleasure  the  election  of  William 
Henry  Chamberlin,  '17,  to  the  Editorial  Board,  and  of  Arthur  E.  Spellisy, 
'17,  to  the  Business_Board. 


THE  AMERICAN-JAPANESE  WAR 

IN  the  United  States  there  is  a  wide-spread  belief  in  the  inevitable- 
ness  of  an  American-Japanese  conflict,  which  at  the  present  time 
has  figured  largely  in  Congress  and  in  the  press  due  to  the  dis- 
turbed condition  of  the  world  and  to  the  encouragement  of  such  a  belief 
given  from  German  quarters. 

This  belief  is  exceedingly  dangerous,  for  in  itself  it  is  the  gravest 
cause  for  a  possible  American-Japanese  conflict.  Some  there  are  who 
declare  that  the  cause  of  the  European  War  is  Pan-Slavism,  pacificists 
are  blaming  it  upon  militarism,  while  the  economist  will  prove  that  the 
war  was  brought  about  by  the  commercial  expansion  of  nations.  One 
cause,  however,  seems  to  be  all-embracing  and  fundamental:  without 
it  there  would  have  been  no  commercial  jealousy,  no  militarism,  and 
but  little  dread  of  Russia.  That  cause  is  international  suspicion  arising 
from  fear  due  to  ignorance,  and  it  is  exactly  from  this  stuff  that 
the  idea  of  an  American-Japanese  conflict  arises. 

There  is  no  reason  for  an  American-Japanese  conflict,  but  it  will 
inevitably  come  if  the  peoples  of  the  two  nations  become  so  suspicious 
of  each  other  that  they  see  in  every  passing  rift  of  circumstance  a  storm 
cloud  pregnant  with  the  utterances  of  Mars. 

Ex-President  Taft,  who  was  Governor  General  of  the  Philippines 
under  McKinley  and  Roosevelt,  lately  expressed  himself  as  follows 
before  the  Senate  Committee  of  the  Philippines: 

"Chairman  Hitchcock — 'Aside  from  the  cost  of  maintaining  the 
Philippines  in  case  of  war,  is  it  not  likely  to  prove  an  issue?' 

"Mr.  Taft — 'No,  I  do  not  think  so.  I  do  not  see  why  it  should. 
The  only  power  that  would  be  likely  to  regard  it  as  a  desirable  place 
for  itself  and  as  a  reason  for  beginning  hostilities,  I  do  not  think  wants  it 
at  all — I  mean  in  the  popular  estimation — ^I  do  not  think  cares  for  it  at 
all,  and  by  that  I  mean  Japan.  I  was  twice  in  Japan,  and  had  con- 
ferences with  the  authorities  there  on  this  very  subject.  They  have  had 
quite  enough  to  satisfy  any  sentiment  of  that  sort  in  the  difficulties 
they  have  had  in  arranging  matters  in  Formosa.'  " 

Strategically — whatever  that  term  so  much  bandied  about  by 
superficial  journalists  may  mean — the  Philippines  would  add  little  to 
what  Formosa  already  furnishes  to  Japan.  And  as  for  colonization, 
the  not  abnormal  pressure  of  342  persons  per  square  mile  would  hardly 
persuade  a  people  living  between  the  latitudes  of  Newfoundland  and 
Florida  to  migrate  to  a  locality  which  lies  between  the  latitudes  of  Hayti 
and  Brazil.     That  this  is  not  theorizing  is  proved  by  the  refusal  of 


288  The  Haverfordian 

colonists  to  go  to  Formosa,  which  is  north  of  the  Philippines.  Japan's 
debt  of  $1,276,852,486  makes  it  furthermore  impossible  for  her  to  support 
a  luxury  which  has  cost  America  2  millions,  is  not  yet  self-supporting,  and 
which  has  only  9.5  per  cent  farm  lands  of  which  only  }/2  are  tilled. 
It  is  doubtful  if  Japan  would  take  the  Philippines  as  a  gift  unless 
America  would  pay  her  an  income  to  act  as  a  nurse. 

Another  fear  is  that  Japan  in  the  course  of  her  expansion  will  seize 
California.  It  is  well  to  remember  that  nations  expand  in  the  line 
of  least  resistance.  The  4,791  mile  width  of  the  Pacific  hardly  con- 
stitutes such  a  line,  not  to  mention  the  strength  of  the  nation  already 
occupying  California.  If  Japan  is  bound  to  expand,  the  390,000 
square  miles  of  Manchuria  will  be  found  more  convenient  than 
California. 

Expansion  of  Japan's  ego,  combined  with  the  Alien  Land  Law 
trouble,  as  a  reason  for  her  fighting  America,  can  hardly  offset  the  fact 
that  of  the  527  million  dollars  Japan  exports,  America  takes  143  million 
dollars.     Where  would  Japan  get  her  sinews  of  war? 

Thus  there  are  absolutely  no  reasons  for  such  a  war.  And  even  if 
they  did  exist,  it  takes  two  to  make  a  quarrel.  So  long  as  the  American 
people  refuse  to  be  excited  by  jingoism,  and  the  Federal  government 
tempers  firmness  with  justice  and  courtesy,  there  need  be  no  fear  of 
an  American-Japanese  conflict. 


^rt  for  ^vt's;  B>nkt 

By  W.  H.  Chamberlin  '17. 

REALLY,  Kathleen,  I'm  afraid  we'll  have  to  put  off  our  happiness 
a  little  longer.  You  know  the  hard  times  have  made  me  lose 
a  good  many  pupils;  but  I  trust  that,  perhaps,  in  a  few  months — " 

"  It's  the  same  old  story,  Fritz.  You  sacrifice  yourself,  and  me,  and 
the  happiness  of  both  of  us,  to  some  absurd  and  fantastic  notions  about 
the  kind  of  music  you  ought  to  write." 

The  first  speaker  was  a  young  man,  perhaps  twenty-five  years  of 
age.  He  was  of  medium  height,  with  slightly  rounded  shoulders.  His 
face  was  pale  and  not  particularly  interesting,  except  for  the  blue  eyes, 
which  were  at  once  kind  and  abstracted  in  their  expression.  His  com- 
panion, a  girl  two  or  three  years  his  junior,  presented  a  magnificent  type 
of  Celtic  beauty.  Her  figure  was  full  and  perfectly  proportioned.  The 
deep  blue  of  her  eyes  was  set  off  by  the  sheen  of  her  glossy  black  hair. 
Her  complexion,  a  perfect  combination  of  red  and  white,  offered  a  rare 
union  of  health  and  beauty.  The  pair  were  seated  on  a  retired  bench  in 
one  of  New  York's  larger  parks. 

"I  don't  quite  understand  what  you  mean  when  you  speak  of  my 
notions  about  music,  Kathleen.  I  only  try,  humble  and  unworthy  as 
I  am,  to  follow  in  the  footsteps  of  the  great  masters  of  the  past.  I  know 
that  a  poor,  struggling  music  teacher,  who  only  dimly  aspires  to  become 
a  composer,  has  little  claim  upon  the  love  of  such  a  being  as  you  are;  but 
I  can't  change  my  nature,  Kathleen,  or  fly  through  the  air  on  wings 
when  Providence  has  only  given  me  the  means  to  plod  wearily  along  on 
the  ground." 

"  I'm  not  blaming  you  for  lack  of  ability,  Fritz,  but  for  lack  of  sense 
to  direct  that  ability.  These  masters  of  the  past,  whom  you  speak  of 
with  such  reverence — did  they  make  themselves  successful  in  life?" 

"They  made  themselves  immortal." 

"That  isn't  the  question.  I  mean,  did  they  make  themselves  generally 
known,  did  they  enjoy  their  fill  of  fame  and  riches  before  they  died?" 

"On  the  contrary,  they  met  with  very  little  material  success.  But 
the  art  they  produced — " 

"Oh,  for  heaven's  sake,  forget  your  tiresome  art  for  a  while  and 
think  of  life!  Life  calls  to  us,  beckons  us,  opens  her  treasures  for  us  to 
enjoy;  and  you  hold  back  with  some  quibble  about  art.  Can't  you  see, 
Fritz," — the  girl's  voice  took  on  a  softer  and  more  ingratiating  tone — 
"that  the  strict  ideas  about  so-called  'good'  music,  which  are  all  right  in 


290  The  Haverfoedian 

the  older  countries,  lose  all  their  meaning  and  become  senseless  and  anti- 
quated in  this  big,  free  New  World  of  ours?  What's  the  use  of  sacrificing 
all  the  joy  and  richness  of  life  to  a  set  of  hidebound  musical  conventions 
that  no  one  in  this  country,  outside  of  a  few  anaemic  men  and  dried-up 
old  maids,  even  pretends  to  understand?" 

"But  the  conscience,  the  artistic  conscience — "  stammered  Fritz, 
almost  overwhelmed  by  this  flood  of  arguments,  supported  by  facts 
which  he  knew  to  be  true. 

With  a  woman's  quickness  of  perception  Kathleen  reaHzed  that  the 
victory  was  now  well  within  her  grasp.  Bending  her  eyes  upon  him  in 
glance  of  irresistible  sweetness,  she  rejoined,  in  her  softest  accents:  "Is 
art  always  to  reign  supreme  in  your  mind,  dear  Fritz?  Do  you  give  no 
thought  to  me?  Do  you  have  no  consideration  for  the  fidelity  with  which 
I  have  preserved  my  love  for  you  through  all  the  long  hours,  and  the 
weariness,  and  the  drudgery  of  my  office  work? " 

"Well,"  replied  Fritz,  acknowledging  his  submission  by  an  appear- 
ance of  roughness,  "tell  me  plainly  what  you  want  me  to  do." 

"  Don't  talk  as  if  I  were  trying  to  persuade  you  to  break  into  a  bank 
or  commit  a  murder,"  said  the  girl,  with  a  pretty  pout.  "All  I  want  you 
to  do  is  to  turn  your  great  musical  ability  to  writing  something  that  the 
public  likes,  something  with  a  'punch'  in  it."  Fritz  threw  up  his  hands 
in  a  gesture  of  protesting  horror ;  but  Kathleen,  pretending  not  to  notice 
the  motion,  rapidly  continued:  "You  know,  Fritz,  you  have  a  remark- 
ably good  opening  in  that  line.  My  brother  has  a  position  in  one  of  the 
big  music  stores,  and  he  has  a  collection  of  catchy  verses,  that  only  need 
a  good  tune  to  make  them  popular  hits.  With  your  talent  and  industry 
it  won't  take  you  any  time  to  make  yourself  financially  independent  and 
comfortable.  Then  everything  will  come  out  all  right;  you  can  write 
all  the  operas  and  symphonies  you  want  to;  and,  as  for  us,  will  there  be 
anything  lacking  to  complete  otcr  happiness?" 

"I  suppose  your  advice  is  for  the  best,  Kathleen,  and  yet — I  can't 
help  feeling — " 

"  Come,  Fritz,  follow  my  counsel  for  this  one  time,  and  we  will  have 
no  more  worry  or  unhappiness.  You  know,"  she  said,  with  a  charming 
smile,  "you  musicians  never  do  have  any  capacity  for  practical  things; 
you  have  to  leave  these  to  us  poor  beings  who  have  less  artistic  genius." 

"Dear  Kathleen,"  replied  Fritz,  carried  away  by  a  sudden  sensation 
of  love  and  tenderness,  "I  will  follow  you  in  everything,  even  in  this." 

"  I  knew  you  would  be  sensible,  Fritz,  when  you  saw  the  matter  in 
the  right  light.  But  now  I  am  afraid  we  will  have  to  part,  for  it  is  grow- 
ing dark  and  the  people  at  home  will  be  worried  about  me." 


Art  for  Art's  Sake  291 

The  two  parted  without  further  conversation,  Kathleen  feeling 
content  to  rest  on  her  victory,  while  Fritz  was  too  dazed  and  confused 
to  offer  any  observation.  Kathleen  took  the  elevated  at  a  nearby 
station  and  cheerfully  rode  home  to  tell  her  brother  and  parents  that  she 
had  finally  succeeded  in  overcoming  her  lover's  inexplicable  aversion  to 
a  practical  and  easy  means  of  getting  money.  Fritz  slowly  walked  to  his 
tiny  studio  in  a  crowded  East  Side  quarter,  thinking  many  indistinct 
and  confused  thoughts.  Finally  he  reached  his  room,  entered,  and, 
sitting  down  without  turning  on  any  light,  sank  into  deep  meditation. 

The  very  foundation  of  his  principles  of  life,  his  belief  in  art  as  the 
supreme  end,  had  been  cruelly  shaken  by  Kathleen's  arguments.  The 
belief  so  religiously  inculcated  in  the  Fatherland,  that  it  is  the  duty  of 
every  man  to  consecrate  his  existence,  as  far  as  possible,  to  some  higher 
cause,  such  as  State,  Art  or  Science,  seemed  to  have  no  meaning  in  this 
strange  new  country,  where  everyone's  first  care  was  for  himself. 
Gradually,  as  he  sat  in  the  dark,  his  whole  past  life  rose  up  and  passed  in 
review  before  him.  He  saw  himself  again  a  boy  playing  in  the  streets 
of  Leipzig.  He  remembered  his  rapturous  joy  upon  first  hearing  a  con- 
cert of  the  famous  Gewandhaus  orchestra,  of  which  his  father  had  been 
concertmeister.  Again  he  recalled  the  fond  pride  of  his  parents  at  his  own 
musical  precocity;  he  saw  himself  winning  a  prize  at  the  great  conserva- 
tory of  Berlin  and  pursuing  his  studies  under  the  celebrated  masters  of 
the  institution.  Then  came  the  crushing  blow,  which  ruined  his  prospects 
of  a  brilliant  career  as  a  pianist.  His  father  suddenly  died  of  heart  failure, 
leaving  him  as  the  sole  support  of  his  mother.  It  was  then  that  he  re- 
solved to  come  to  the  New  World,  where  opportunities  of  success,  as 
he  had  heard,  were  so  plentiful.  He  had  now  been  in  New  York  for  five 
years;  but  the  hoped-for  success  had  somehow  evaded  him.  He  had 
soon  learned  that  a  little-known  foreign  pianist,  who  had  not,  as  yet, 
achieved  a  Continental  success,  had  no  opening  in  America.  The  money 
which  he  earned  by  the  dreary  routine  of  teaching  was  barely  sufficient 
to  maintain  himself  and  to  enable  him  to  send  remittances  to  his  mother 
in  Germany.  He  had  tried  his  hand  at  composing;  but  music  dealers 
returned  his  carefully  constructed  sonatas  and  concertos  with  pitying 
smiles  and  the  information  that  the  public  wanted  something  with  more 
"snap"  in  it.  And  finally  Kathleen  Spencer  had  come  into  his  life  like 
a  burst  of  sunshine  on  a  day  of  clouds  and  gloom.  Her  never-failing  wit 
and  cheerfulness,  combined  with  the  wonderful  charm  of  her  physical 
beauty,  had  been  the  one  bright  spot  to  vary  the  dull  and  uniform  monot- 
ony of  his  life.  And  somehow  the  earnest,  plodding,  conscientious 
young  German  had  attracted  the  proud  and  wayward  Celtic  beauty, 


292  The  Haverfordian 

perhaps  by  the  very  contrast  between  his  character  and  hers.  So  for  a 
few  months  Fritz  had  put  added  zest  and  interest  into  his  work,  having 
the  prospect  of  a  happy  marriage  to  look  forward  to.  But  now  he  was 
confronted  by  the  problem  of  a  definite  conflict  between  his  love  for 
Kathleen  and  his  devotion  to  music.  Long  he  wrestled  with  himself, 
silently,  in  the  darkness;  finally  the  more  human  love  won  a  hard-fought 
victory.  Rising,  he  lit  his  lamp,  walked  to  his  desk,  and,  with  an  inward 
shudder,  took  out  a  packet  of  "popular"  songs  which  Kathleen  had  once 
given  him  to  look  over. 

Taking  up  the  first  one  that  came  to  his  hand,  he  looked  at  the 
title,  "Love  Me  While  the  Lovin's  Good."  Overcoming  a  strong  tempta- 
tion to  throw  the  paper  into  the  scrapbasket,  he  read  the  song  through. 
And  as  he  read,  a  cheap  and  tawdry  tune,  fit  to  match  the  vulgar  words, 
came  into  his  mind.  He  started  to  play  it  on  the  piano;  but  the  busts 
of  Beethoven  and  Wagner,  which  stood  on  the  top  of  the  instrument, 
looked  at  him  with  such  an  air  of  stern  accusation  that  he  hastily  got 
up  from  the  stool  and  walked  back  to  the  desk.  Here  he  took  out  some 
sheets  of  music  and  paper  and  commenced  to  write  down  his  tune. 
As  he  wrote  he  instinctively  felt  that  he  had  caught  the  swing  and 
spirit  which  characterize  the  songs  popular  with  the  American  public. 
The  discovery,  far  from  elating,  depressed  and  disgusted  him.  "Have  I, 
then,  fallen  so  low  in  such  a  short  time?"  he  muttered.  But  necessity 
was  upon  him,  and  he  rapidly  sketched  out  the  musical  backgrounds  for 
"Be  My  Little  Cooing  Turtle-Dove,"  and  "Daddy  Was  One  Grand  Old 
Man." 

Suddenly  he  heard  a  letter  strike  in  the  box  outside  his  door.  Step- 
ping out,  he  picked  up  the  missive,  and  instantly  recognized  the  hand- 
writing of  one  of  his  old  friends  at  the  Berlin  conservatory.  Fritz  had 
watched  with  great  interest  and  sympathy  the  development  of  the 
mighty  war  into  which  his  Fatherland  was  being  plunged,  and  he  tore 
open  his  friend's  letter  with  avidity.  A  good  long  letter  it  was,  describ- 
ing the  universal  enthusiasm  in  Germany,  outlining  the  position  of  the 
Fatherland  in  the  war,  and  also  giving  Fritz  news  about  his  mother  and 
his  other  friends,  from  whom  he  had  not  heard  for  some  time.  But  it 
was  the  closing  paragraph  that  seared  itself  upon  the  young  musician's 
mind  as  though  written  in  letters  of  fire. 

"When  this  mighty  conflict  broke  out  I  grieved  much,  my  dear 
friend,  that  you  were  not  here  to  take  part  in  it  like  a  true  German.  But, 
as  I  thought  more  about  the  aims  and  ideals  of  our  great  and  glorious 
Fatherland,  I  came  to  feel  that  you  were  doing  more  in  their  behalf  by 
your  musical  work  in  America  than  you  could  possibly  do  by  military 
service  here.  For  what  is  the  motive  power,  dear  Fritz,  that  is  driving 
us  all  here  in  Germany  to  go  into  the  war,  to  slay  our  fellow-beings  and 
to  risk  being  slain  ourselves?     It  is  our  feeUng  that  the  State,  which  has 


Art  for  Art's  Sake 


293 


a  just  claim  on  the  lives  of  all  of  us,  which  is  the  pledge  of  our  national 
existence,  is  in  danger  of  destruction.  And,  just  as  we  are  devoting  our 
lives  to  the  preservation  of  the  German  State,  so  you,  less  conspicuously, 
but  no  less  nobly  and  heroically,  are  devoting  your  life  to  the  preserva- 
tion of  the  high  ideals  and  traditions  which  characterize  our  glorious  Ger- 
man music  from  Bach  to  Wagner.  Let  no  obstacle  that  you  encounter 
deter  you  from  this  high  purpose;  we,  too,  are  fearfully  outnumbered; 
but  we  will  triumph  by  our  courage  and  patriotism. 
Yours  in  devotion  to  the  Fatherland, 

Herman." 
A  gathering  light  illuminated  Fritz's  countenance  as  he  read  his 
friend's  letter;  at  the  close  he  reverently  folded  it  and  thrust  it  into  the 
pocket  nearest  his  heart.  Then,  walking  with  a  firm  step  to  his  desk, 
he  picked  up  the  songs  and  music,  tore  them  to  pieces  and  threw  them 
into  the  open  grate.  After  he  had  carefully  destroyed  every  one  of  them, 
he  sat  down  at  the  piano  and  struck  a  succession  of  bold,  heroic  chords 
as  the  introduction  to  his  new  symphony.  And  Beethoven  and  Wagner 
seemed  to  look  kindly  upon  him,  as  if  to  encourage  a  new  comrade  to 
mount  with  them  to  the  serene  elevation  of  Art  for  Art's  sake. 


PallabE  of  0nt  Wav 

By  E.  R.  Dunn,  '15. 


The  town  where  Achilles  won  fame 

Was  burned  for  a  fair  woman's  face. 
And  cities  as  great,  without  name, 

Have  come  in  the  same  sorry  case. 
In  Babylon,  Sidon  and  Thrace, 

The  stories  of  tragedy  scan: 
The  cause  of  them  all  you  can  trace — 

The  way  of  a  maid  with  a  man. 

To  precedence  none  may  lay  claim; 

Before  the  beginnings  of  race. 
The  players  had  played  in  the  game, 

And  lost  and  had  slackened  their  pace. 
And  won  and  had  gone  to  disgrace. 

In  Egypt  and  Scythia's  clan. 
They  felt  and  endured  for  a  space 

The  way  of  a  maid  with  a  man. 

0  brothers,  not  ours  is  the  blame. 

The  gods  also  fell  to  disgrace. 
Since  Venus  from  white  water  came 

And  kindled  the  world  with  her  face. 
Now  ladies  in  velvet  and  lace 

Keep  up  the  original  plan, 
And  still  as  of  yore  they  embrace 

The  way  of  a  maid  with  a  man. 

L'Envoi 

0  queens  and  all  maids  of  fair  face, 
Come  disprove  my  words  if  you  can. 

Before  other  ways  I  would  place 
The  way  of  a  maid  with  a  man. 


Cugene   PrieUX:   An  Appreciation 
By  Jack  Le  Clercq,  '18. 

EUGENE  BRIEUX  has  come  and  gone  and  the  time  is  now  at 
hand  for  us  to  comment  upon  his  first  visit  to  Philadelphia. 
His  striking  personality,  his  presence  at  a  time  when  one  of  his 
dramas  was  being  played,  and  the  interest  attached  to  the  advent  of  a 
member  of  the  Institut  de  France  during  the  crisis  through  which  his 
country  is  passing — all  these  things  contributed  to  the  heartiness  of  his 
reception  here. 

Hailed  by  George  Bernard  Shaw  as  "the  most  important  dramatist 
west  of  Russia,"  the  disciple  of  Ibsen,  the  interpreter  of  the  vague  dreams 
which  Zola  and  Ibsen  had  not  the  power  to  transform  into  realities — is 
it  a  wonder  that  Philadelphia  received  the  great  dramatist  with  open 

arms? 

*  *  ***** 

Eugene  Brieux  was  born  in  the  "quartier  du  Temple"  at  Paris  on 
the  19th  of  January,  1858.  The  son  of  a  carpenter,  he  was  left  an  orphan 
at  the  age  of  fifteen.  Unable  to  continue  his  schooling,  he  was  left  to  his 
own  devices  and  obtained  a  small  clerkship,  which  sufficed  to  defray  his 
living  expenses. 

His  excellent  resolutions  to  continue  his  Greek  and  Latin  did  not 
last  long,  but  he  was  so  enthusiastic  over  modern  writers  that  it  was 
not  an  uncommon  thing  on  a  winter's  night  to  see  a  youth  with  a  25- 
centimes  book,  leaning  against  a  lamp-post  at  the  corner  of  one  of  the 
"grands  boulevards,"  reading  Goethe,  Ibsen  and  Zola  till  his  eyes  could 
read  no  longer. 

And  thus  it  was  that,  by  sheer  perseverance,  rigid  morality,  and 
uncommon  ability,  a  penniless  clerk  rose  to  be  one  of  the  greatest  drama- 
tists of  the  nineteenth  and  twentieth  centuries. 

His  ambition  was  then  as  elevated  as  it  is  still;  in  those  days  he 
dreamt  of  becoming  a  missionary  to  the  heathen,  but  when  he  saw  how 
great  was  the  number  of  heathens  among  his  own  fellow-countrymen  he 
abandoned  his  first  idea  and  determined  to  teach  a  lesson  to  his  own 
people. 

He  began  play-writing  by  the  production  of  a  play  called  "Bernard 
Palissy,"  which  was  acted  at  a  "  Matinee  des  Jeunes"  at  the  Theatre 
Cluny,  Boulevard  Saint  Michel,  Paris;  the  one  and  only  time  it  was 
put  before  the  public  was  on  December  21st,  1879. 

This  play  was  the  dramatization  of  the  old  story  in  which  Bernard, 


296  The  Haverfordian 

under  peculiar  circumstances,  discovers  the  secret  of  enamel,  and  in 
writing  it  Brieux  had  the  help  of  Gaston  Salandri. 

Next  came  "a  cheap  farce"  written  in  collaboration  with  Gaston 
Salandri  and  entitled,  "  Le  Bureau  des  Divorces  " ;  it  was  not  good  enough 
to  be  produced  and  was  pubHshed  in  book  form  in  1880. 

Poor  as  these  two  efforts  may  seem,  they  nevertheless  showed  the 
early  bent  which  the  dramatist's  mind  was  taking,  and  so  great  was  the 
encouragement  given  to  him,  that  he  decided  to  take  up  literature  as  a 
calling — we  especially  write  "calling"  because  Brieux's  sole  aim  is  to 
teach — and  as  a  livelihood  took  up  journalism. 

A  short  stay  at  Dieppe,  and  then  three  and  a  half  years  at  Rouen 
as  editor  of  "  La  Nouvelliste,"  made  him  a  full-fledged  journalist— "  some- 
what of  a  poet,  of  a  philosopher,  of  a  politician,  of  a  lawyer,  even 
of  a  priest" — "with  a  knowledge  of  practically  every  topic  under  the 
sun." 

In  1890  Andre  Antoine,  the  revelation  of  the  century  in  theatrical 
staging,  produced  Brieux's  "Menages  d'Artistes,"  which,  though  it 
failed,  nevertheless  showed  that  the  young  dramatist  had,  for  the  future, 
boundless  possibilities. 

Two  years  later  came  "Blanchette" ;  with  the  exception  of  "  Hernani," 
"Cyrano,"  "Les  Cloches  de  Corneville, "  and  " Chantecler, "  no  play 
since  "Le  Cid"  has  been  so  popular;  like  "Le  Cid"  and  "Cyrano"  it 
brought  a  practically  unknown  dramatist  before  the  public  as  rapidly  as 
surely.  That  same  year  he  was  appointed  associate  editor  of  the 
"Figaro,"  on  which  he  worked  uninterruptedly  for  the  next  twelve  years, 
except  in  1896,  when  he  failed  to  write  for  a  considerable  period  of 
time. 

Since  that  date  he  has  never  looked  back  and  has  successively  pub- 
lished: "L' Evasion,"  "Les  Bienfaiteurs,"  "Les  Trois  Filles  de  M.  Du- 
pont,"  "Resultat  des  Courses,"  "Le  Berceau,"  "La  Robe  Rouge,"  "Les 
Remplacantes,"  " Les  Avaries,"  "La  Petite  Amie,"  "Maternite,"  "La 
Deserteuse,"  in  collaboration  with  Jean  Sigaux,  "L'Armature,"  "Les 
Hannetons,"  "La  Francaise,"  "Simone,"  "Suzette,"  and  last  year, 
"La  Femme  Seule." 

Seventeen  plays  in  eighteen  years  is  really  a  great  record,  the  more 
so  when  we  remember  that  he  also  wrote  in  the  "Figaro"  and  in  all  the 
leading  reviews  or  magazines  at  least  once  a  year. 

"La  Robe  Rouge"  was  produced  by  Arthur  Bourchier  at  the  Garrick 
Theatre,  London,  as  "The  Arm  of  the  Law";  "Les  Hannetons,"  first 
produced  by  the  late  Lawrence  Irving  at  Hackett's  Theatre,  New  York, 
in  1909,  was  entitled,  "The  Incubus,"  but  afterwards,  when  played  at 


Eugene  Brieux  297 

the  Comedy  Theatre,  New  York,  was  rechristened  "Affinity,"  and  "Les 
Avaries, "  or  "Damaged  Goods,"  needs  no  introduction  or  criticism. 

No  better  idea  of  a  dramatist's  capability  can  be  had  than  by  quoting 
that  dramatist  himself;  we  therefore  translate  Eugene  Brieux's 
"  L'Armature,"  the  last  scene  of  the  play.  Baron  SafTre,  a  multi-million- 
aire, has  consented  to  help  Jacques  d'Exirueil  to  rebuild  his  fortune,  but 
SafTre,  abusing  of  the  love  that  Jacques'  wife  bears  for  her  husband,  vio- 
lates her  chastity.  Jacques  vows  to  kill  Saffre;  at  the  beginning  of 
Act  3,  SafTre  has  discovered  that  the  only  money  left  in  his  own  hands 
belongs  to  his  wife,  and  that  he,  the  great  millionaire,  is  near  to 
bankruptcy. 

SafTre  (aside) :  "Good  Lord! Bankruptcy! Who  is  there?" 

(enter  his  wife.) 

The  Baroness:  "It  is  I.     But  what  is  the  matter?" 

SafTre:  "I've  been  for  a  walk  in  the  forest.  But  enough!  (ner- 
vously). I  tell  you  I  do  not  wish  this  to  be  discussed.  Let  me  be! 
Let  me  be!  I've  ordered  this;  I  wish  to  be  obeyed.  (Suddenly  grows 
calm.)  But  since  you  are  here  I  have  to  discuss  my  business  with  you, 
and  it  will  need  a  signature  or  two  by  you." 

The  Baroness:  "  I  also  have  to  speak  about  business.  I  should  have 
been  shamefully  frivolous  had  I  not  been  moved  by  the  seriousness  of  our 
situation.     And  now  I  know  it." 

SafTre:   "What  do  you  know,  anyhow?" 

The  Baroness:  "  If  you  please,  let  us  talk  frankly.  . .  .  Besides,  I  have 
no  business  to  hurl  reproaches  at  you ;  I  wish  to  avoid  those  you  will 
make  to  me." 

SafTre:    "What  do  you  mean?" 

The  Baroness:  "I  am  talking  about  our  financial  situation.  I  was 
told  that  it  was  hopeless." 

Saffre:  "Never  has  my  position  in  every  respect  been  more  satis- 
factory than  now." 

The  Baroness:  "No.  You  are  done!  The  minute  I  was  warned,  I 
telegraphed  and  ordered." 

SafTre:    "You  ordered!" 

The  Baroness:  "I  have  children;  could  I  stand,  arms  akimbo,  and 
say  nothing?" 

SafTre:  "Do  not  worry  about  all  this!  If  you  wish  us  to  remain  good 
friends,  take  care  not  to  disturb  things,  do  not  hazard " 

The  Baroness:   "However,  I  have  to  obtain  a  judicial  separation." 

Saffre  (fiercely) :   "What!  you  would  not  dare  to  act  so  infamously." 

The  Baroness:    "Yes." 


298  The  Haverfordian 

Saffre:  "You  wretch!  judicial  separation  would  be  the  most  nefari- 
ous deed!  What  are  you  thinking  of!  What  financier  has  a  fortune 
capable  of  resisting  such  a  depression,  so  brutal  an  obstacle  to  his  designs! 
my  designs !  No,  never ! .  . .  .  You  will  not  commit  a  crime  against  me 
which  will  be  no  less  criminal  to  yourself ....  You  would  not  have  the 
courage  to  assume  so  great  a  responsibility,  adverse  to  your  children, 
whose  future  you  would  ruin,  under  the  pretext  that  you  are  safeguard- 
ing it." 

The  Baroness:  "As  far  as  the  future  is  concerned,  the  only  future 
left  to  us  is  what  I  personally  shall  be  able  to  touch  from  what  is  still 
mine." 

Saffre:  "God!  I  will  not  let  you  cripple  me  thus!  Why,  the  idea  is 
absurd!   Why,  Heavens!   What  advantages  would  you  gain?" 

The  Baroness:  "The  three  million  five  hundred  thousand  francs 
which  you  received  from  me  when  we  were  married,  and  the  other  sums 
of  money  which  were  bequeathed  to  me." 

Saffre:  "And  those  wretched  little  sums  are  what  you  are  worrying 
about  when  we  have  got  four  hundred  millions  between  us?" 

The  Baroness:   "But  since  this  is  all  lost. ..." 

Saffre:  "No  fear! ....  My  money  is  in  the  panic  in  order  to  come 
out  double!  Do  not  stop  me  in  the  middle  of  my  work;  let  me  put  all 
my  efforts  into  it.  Did  I  not  get  nine-tenths  of  that  huge  capital  off  my 
own  bat,  with  only  what  you  brought  me,  together  with  what  my  parents 
left  me?...." 

The  Baroness:   "  I  beg  to  inform  you  that  I  have  already  applied . . " 

Saffre  (thunderstruck):  "What?  Without  my  consent!....  You 
will  at  once  write  to  your  solicitor  and  inform  him  that  he  shall  disregard 
the  whim  of  a  senseless  woman.  ..." 

The  Baroness  (trembling):  "Well.  ...  by  law  the  application  must 
be  advertised ....  it  is  too  late.  (Saffre  gets  up  and  raises  his  arms  as  if  to 
crush  his  wife;  his  strength  gives  out  and  he  leans  against  a  table,  sup- 
porting himself  by  his  hands.) 

Saffre:  "You  do  not  realize  what  you  have  done!.  . . .  You  have 
brought  about  my  ruin ....     I  might  have  recovered ....  a  little  while . . . 

but  now failure   and   bankruptcy,   which    I    never   dreamt  of.... 

you've  struck  me!  (His  face  becomes  expressionless.)  But  why?  for 
what  reason  did  you  not  consult  me,  eh?  Tell  me  that,  you  prosti- 
tute!  " 

The  Baroness  (terrified,  in  a  whisper,  as  she  escapes):  "I  feared 
you  too  much."     (exit). 

Saffre  (alone):  "There  are  laws  against  you  when  you  have  sold 
out. . .  .when  you  are  down.  So  I'll  have  to  go  to  jail  (bursts  out  laugh- 
ing). Ha,  ha,  ha!  Baron  Saffre  in  prison!  That  is  humorous!  I  will 
not  end  thus,  not  I!  What  is  it?  The  bells  are  ringing?  No,  that  is 
buzzing. . . .     Come  on,  old  man,  think  up  something. . .  .(he  stumbles) 


Eugene  Brieux  299 

What!  dizzy? (in  hallucination).    Haspersheim !  Elioboth!    What 

do  you  want  here?     Why  did   you    let   them    come    in?     You're  here 

to  crumple  me  up!     Oh,  God!    I'm  smothering.  .  .  .(He  crosses 

the  stage  with  actions  and  yells  of  a  doomed  man.     He  pulls  off  his 
collar  and  breathes  loudly,  his  eyes  bulging  out  of  their  sockets.  . .  .etc., 

etc ) 

Jacques  (enters  and  sees  Saffre) :  "At  last!  (shuts  the  window  and 
walks  towards  the  Baron.)  You've  made  me  the  most  luckless  of  mortals ! 
By  the  corruption  of  your  filthy  money  you  have  degraded  my  wife! 
(Saffre  is  silent,  Jacques  approaches.)  Speak,  man,  speak!  (He  lays 
his  hand  on  his  shoulder.  Saffre  falls  fainting  in  an  arm-chair.  Jacques 
instinctively  steps  back  with  an  exclamation  of  terror.)  He  is  dying! 
He's  dead !  (He  seizes  him  by  the  throat.)  Not  before  you  hear  my  hatred, 
you  cur!  Not  before  I  have  made  you  feel  the  curse  you've  laid  on  me 
(He  shakes  him.)  Thief!  Hound!  (Saffre's  corpse  falls  to  the  ground. 
Jacques  looking  at  it) :  And  he  has  not  suffered ! 

This  sample  of  Eugene  Brieux's  work  brings  him  to  the  pitch  of  ex- 
cellence (or  not)  reached  by  Bernstein,  Sardou  and  Bataille,  where  the 
terrible  violence  seizes  the  audience  and  staggers  it  with  its  very  force. 

Nobody  more  than  we  can  appreciate  the  worth  of  Brieux's  work, 
but  we  must  admit  that  it  is  far  from  perfect.  Though  we  are  perfectly  in 
sympathy  with  some  of  his  doctrines,  yet  we  believe  that  better  methods 
might  be  found  for  popularizing  them  than  by  putting  them  on  the  stage. 

Brieux's  "Damaged  Goods"  had  a  purpose,  which  was  to  show  the 
curse  of  certain  maladies,  but  "Damaged  Goods,"  however  humanita- 
rian and  beneficial  its  ends  might  be,  nevertheless  inspired  a  score  or  more 
of  so-called  "problem  plays"  which  vied  with  each  other  in  obscenity 
and  whose  success  lay  in  the  fact  that  they  were  thoroughly  degrading. 
Surely  the  stage  is  not  a  good  means  of  spreading  certain  teachings  if 
these  are  gradually  forgotten  and  all  their  preaching  is  deliberately 
contradicted  by  the  presence  of  the  public  at  exaggerated  plays  inspired 
by  those  teachings! 

We  thoroughly  agree  with  M.  Rene  Doumic,  that  the  time  has  come 
when  we  must  abandon  "plays  reeking  of  the  hospital "  or  of  the  slaughter- 
house and  return  to  the  old  tradition.  Let  us  but  examine  the  French 
drama  of  today. 

Bataille  glories  in  treating  themes  such  as  consumption,  which 
justify  M.  Doumic's  criticism;  Bernstein  works  on  the  morbid  sense 
of  the  public  by  offering  it  violent  and  unhealthy  situations;  Lavedan, 
Donnay  and  Capus  bring  up  the  "eternal  triangle"  and  other  old-time 
plots,  as  adultery,  etc. ;  de  Porto-Riche  and  Hervieux  are  as  morbid  as 
Bataille  and  Bernstein;  Brieux  himself  exposes  his  ideas  in  such  a  way 
that  they  play  upon  our  emotions;  de  Flers  and  de  Caillavet,  Feydau, 


300  The  Haverfordian 

Tristan  Bernard,  representing  the  connedy  of  today,  keep  up  the  old 
tradition  as  handed  down  to  them  by  Scribe,  Meilhac,  Halevy,  Beau- 
marchais  and  Nivelle  de  la  Chaussee. 

Of  the  more  serious  playwrights,  Edmond  Rostand  alone,  as  a 
bright  star  in  a  nearly  starless  firmament,  shines;  even  if  he  does  not 
write  in  the  old,  traditional  manner,  nevertheless  he  has  written  following 
a  way  of  his  own,  wonderful  dramas  which  do  not  please  us  by  their 
brutality  and  tension  but  by  their  own  beauty  and  nobility  of  sentiment. 

How  far  from  the  gambler  or  the  adulterer  of  a  Bernstein  is  the 
heroism  of  a  Cyrano  or  a  Joffroy  de  Rudel ! 

However,  we  are  far  more  partial  to  the  work  of  Brieux  than  to  that 
of  Hervieux  or  Bataille;  for,  whereas  the  first  writes  with  the  sole  purpose 
of  educating  us,  the  two  other  writers  write  for  the  mere  pleasure  of 
stirring  up  our  sentiments  by  that  eternal  force  which  shows  but  weak- 
ness. 

These  old-time  themes  are  the  vestiges  of  the  ideas  of  Dumas  fils; 
with  all  his  revolts  against  the  classical  and  romantic  conventions,  all 
he  did  was  to  establish  yet  another  one.  He  preached  a  drama  of  ideas; 
Coppee,  Feuillet  and  Augier  transformed  it  to  the  drama  of  one  idea: 
Adultery,  and  even  Brieux  had  occasionally  to  depict  adulterers. 

And  then,  are  not  Brieux's  finales  disappointing?  He  does  not 
treat  us  at  the  end  of  his  plays  to  stirring  reconciliations  or  black  despair, 
but  brings  down  the  curtain  just  because  it  should  be  brought  down; 
though  his  dramatic  sense  invariably  remains  and  in  nearly  every  one 
of  his  plays  he  has  lively  scenes  which  even  a  Bernstein  or  a  Sardou 
might  envy. 

His  doctrines,  however,  are  very  sincere;  in  fact,  he  really  is  too 
sincere,  if  this  is  possible,  and  hurts  his  case  by  exaggeration.  Take 
"Blanchette,"  in  which  he  blames  her  schoolmaster's  degree  for  her 
being  chased  by  men  wherever  she  goes,  ending  in  nothing  else  than 
prostitution.* 

"  Likewise  in  the  'Escape,' "  says  a  well-known  critic,  "is  it  not  true 
that  Brieux's  attack  on  medical  fads  is  hindered ....  by  the  fact  that 
he  makes  his  Dr.  Bertry  less  a  faddist  than  a  downright  charlatan?  So, 
in  many  of  the  later  plays,  the  untypical  is  mistaken  for  the  typical,  the 
mark  is  overshot  and  the  argument  finds  its  answer  in  its  unsound 
premises." 

In  each  and  every  one  of  his  later  plays,  Brieux  puts  forward  a  case 
which  misrepresents  the  very  thing  he  is  attacking. 

Then,  we  pray  it  sound  not  snobbish,  Brieux  is  too  bourgeois;  he 


♦There  are  two  versions  of  "Blanchette";  we  are  now  dealing  with  the  first. 


Eugene  Brieux  301 

often  reveals  a  total  lack  of  grasp  on  his  butts  as  well  as  a  total  lack  of 
sympathy  with  them;  many  of  his  attacks  are  "quite  as  notable  for  their 
misconception  as  for  their  ferocity."  As  M.  de  Segur  says,  his  views 
are  for  "right-thinking  men,"  "for  decent  folk."  Brieux  is  not  the 
cynical  Parisian  at  all,  but  the  thrifty  brother  from  the  provinces,  whose 
stolidity  is  the  backbone  of  the  nation.  . .  . 

On  May  12,  1910,  Brieux  was  formally  admitted  to  the  Institut  de 
France,  the  literary  part  of  which  is  the  Academic  Francaise;  running 
against  him  were  Alfred  Capus,  author  of  " La  Veine,"  "Notre  Jeunesse," 
and  Georges  de  Porto-Riche,  author  of  "Le  Vieil  Homme,"  but  Brieux 
gained  a  majority  of  votes.  But  we  must  conclude;  we  could  well 
finish  by  quoting  the  speech  made  by  the  Marquis  de  Segur  for  Brieux's 
reception  to  the  Academy: 

"The  useful  play  was  your  end.  Accustomed  to  the  methods  of  the 
usual  playwrights,  the  manager  of  the  Theatre  Libre  was  filled  with 
astonishment  when  he  read  your  play.  For  this  maiden  effort  of  yours 
had  a  startling  freshness  and  showed  a  daring  that  verged  upon  extrav- 
agance. Would  you  believe  it? — the  author  championed  sound  morals 
as  against  folly,  and  the  family  as  against  chaos.  He  went  the  length 
of  depicting  a  prosperous  home  that  was  not  befouled  by  all  possible 
vices.  He  asserted  that  virtues  could  exist,  even  outside  the  purlieus  of 
want  and  starvation.  Alongside  these  audacities,  the  play  was  not 
lacking  in  dramatic  power.  It  comprised  several  delightful  scenes. 
The  spectators,  though  amazed  at  first,  decided  to  overlook  its  scanda- 
lous decency." 

One  word  more.  _  Brieux,  the  philosopher,  may  argue  confusedly; 
Brieux,  the  playwright,  may  have  but  little  dramatic  sense,  but  Brieux, 
the  man,  has  no  perceptible  flaw.  If  it  may  so  happen  that  some  day 
we  adopt  the  measures  advised  by  Brieux,  and  if  thereby  we  are  in  any 
way  instrumental  in  bettering  the  lot  of  the  human  race,  a  new  man, 
morally  and  physically  sound,  will  arise  and,  as  the  forerunner  of  those 
who  have  made  him  sound  and  perfect,  he  will  look  up  to  the  benefactor  of 
humanity,  Eugene  Brieux. 


By  F.  M.  MoRLEY,  '15. 

When  knights  were  bold,  long  years  ago. 

All  troubles  seemed  in  embryo; 

The  world  was  fairer,  greener,  then — 
King  Arthur's  knights  had  strength  of  ten. 

And  bravely  battled,  "comme  ilfaut." 

Yes,  life  moved  more  adagio 
Where  Scott  has  pictured  Ivanhoe 
And  Friar  Tuck,  in  mossy  glen, 
When  knights  were  bold. 

But  mould'ring  castle  and  chateau 

No  longer  shelter  damoiseaux, 

'Scutcheon  and  crest  have  sunk  from  ken. 
Old  faded  tomes  their  last  warden; 

A  fitting  subject  for  rondeau, — 
When  knights  were  boldl 


3s;  "iWabam  ^utterflp"  f  apanege? 

MADAM  BUTTERFLY  is  an  opera.  It  is  exquisite,  it  is  pathet- 
ic, it  is  altogether  lovely.  I  am  perfectly  willing  to  let  it 
stand,  and  I  wouldn't  undertake  to  improve  either  on  Signor 
Giacomo  Puccini  or  on  Geraldine  Farrar.  Singing,  acting  and  music 
are  their  business,  and  they  make  a  neat  job  out  of  it.  Incidentally, 
Madam  Butterfly  is  laid  in  Japan,  in  which  I  am  interested,  having  a 
partiality  for  that  country.  To  be  sure,  it  is  incongruous  in  spots  but, 
things  are  always  somewhat  incongruous  on  the  stage.  Incongruity  to 
me  may  mean  congruity  to  the  audience  and  allow  some  orientalism, 
which  otherwise  would  be  lost,  to  get  over  the  footlights.     To  be  sure, 

it  is  inaccurate  and  .     But  cease!    Pray,  do  you  go  to  "Lucia  di 

Lammermoor"  to  get  a  picture  af  Scottish  life.  Did  your  Sunday- 
school  teacher,  in  order  to  increase  your  knowledge  of  the  Old 
Testament,  ever  take  your  Bible  class  to  the  Metropolitan  to  hear  Dal- 
mores  plus  a  beard,  strut  around  in  the  guise  of  a  Biblical  house-breaker 
in  "Samson  et  Delila"? 

To  most  of  an  opera  audience,  grand  opera  is  a  fad,  a  social  oc- 
casion— amusement.  The  remainder,  "sincere  lovers  of  art"  get  some 
intellectual  pabulum  from  the  music.  But  for  all  other  forms  of 
knowledge  I  would  recommend  Witherspoon  Hall,  Burton  Holmes  and 
the  Mercantile  Library.  But  if  you  insist  on  taking  Madam  Butierjly 
seriously,  I  suppose  we  will  have  to  thrash  the  matter  out. 

Madam  Butterfly  is  the  story  of  a  Japanese,  written  by  a  Philadel- 
phian,  dramatized  by  a  Jew,  scored  by  an  Italian,  and  sung  by  an  Irish- 
American.  It  was  first  produced  in  Milan  in  1904,  and  appeared  in 
America  two  or  three  years  later.  Since  then  it  has  been  a  popular 
success,  appealing  to  women  and  to  the  tired  business  man  rather  than 
the  serious  music-lover — who,  I  suppose,  is  a  Wagnerite.  After  a  per- 
formance you  hear  such  expressions  as  "charming,"  "fascinating," 
"beautiful,"  "touching,"  "sad"  and  "tragic,"  though  the  tragedy  of 
the  opera  itself  is  exquisite  rather  than  terrible.  After  seeing  (for  this 
is  an  opera  that  is  as  much  to  be  seen  as  heard)  Madam  Butterfly  two 
or  three  times,  it  palls  upon  one.  This  is  not  extraordinary  when  one 
realizes  that  its  soul-appeal,  its  tragedy,  is  based  largely  on  the  dictates 
of  a  social  institution  and  conscience  peculiar  to  Japan.  Thus  it  is 
sentiment  rather  than  anything  absolute  or  inevitable  in  which  lies  its 
tragedy.     The  tragedy  is  man-made,  not  God-sent. 

The  scene  is  laid  in  Nagasaki,  which,  along  with  Yokohama  and 
Kobe,  is  one  of  the  three  great  ports  of  Japan.     Nagasaki  is  the  south- 


304  The  Haverfordian 

ernmost  one,  and  was  open  as  early  as  the  17th  century  for  Dutch  trade. 
These  open  ports  have  an  unsavory  reputation.  The  foreigners, 
merchants  and  seamen  are  of  the  "ship-me-somewhere-east-of-Suez- 
where-there-aren't-no-ten-commandments"  type;  while  the  Japanese  in 
these  ports  are  a  people  almost  distinct  from  the  rest  of  Japan,  in  morals, 
manners,  and  character,  since  only  such  will  live  side  by  side  with  these 
foreigners.  At  Port  Arthur,  regiment  after  regiment  went  unflinchingly 
to  face  death.  Only  one  company  balked:  that  was  in  a  Yokohama 
regiment.  The  tourist  going  through  Japan  too  often  judges  her  fifty- 
fiye  million  by  the  element  which  he  sees  in  the  treaty  ports.  Let  us 
remember  that  Madam  Butterfly  is  a  picture  of  treaty  port  life  and 
morals. 

The  time  is  the  present.  Here  the  chief  criticism  is  in  regard  to  the 
costumes.  Just  suppose  you  weie  looking  at  an  opera  on  present-day 
America  and  some  of  the  characters  were  dressed  like  George  Washington, 
some  like  your  ash-man,  others  like  Lord  Baltimore,  one  like  Daniel 
Boone,  with  a  couple  of  Abraham  Lincolns  thrown  in,  while  the  ladies, 
Mrs.  Ashman,  Lady  Baltimore  and  Mrs.  Boone  were  togged  out 
like  the  chorus  from  the  Winter  Garden  show !  Moreover,  the  Metropoli- 
tan Company  has  the  Japanese  men  wearing  the  top-knot — a  tonsorial 
vegetation  which  disappeared  with  feudalism.  Furthermore,  imagine 
all  the  gentlemen  with  their  shirt-tails  hanging  out  of  their  trousers  and 
you  get  somewhat  the  shock  that  a  Japanese  does  when  he  sees  women  on 
the  stage  with  their  kimonos  folded  with  the  right  side  over  the  left. 
In  Japan  we  wear  the  kimono  with  the  left  side  folded  on  top;  when  we 
dress  a  corpse  for  burial  the  kimono  is  carefully  reversed.  Here  I  might 
notice  that  a  very  strange  stage  tradition  has  been  built  up  in  regard  to 
the  Japanese  woman's  walk  and  her  use  of  the  fan.  Now,  suppose, 
in  this  opera  on  America  I  was  speaking  of,  the  ladies  all  affected 
the  debutante  slouch,  and  worked  it  so  earnestly  that  the  stage  almost 
took  on  the  appearance  of  a  gymn.  or  dancing  class.  You  would 
then  get  somewhat  the  effect  that  is  given  a  Japanese  when  he  sees  his 
womenfolk  go  trotting  around  in  Madam  Butterfly.  Next,  imagine 
every  one  of  the  women  holding  a  mirror  in  the  left  hand  and  a  powder 
puff  in  the  right,  with  which  she  daubs  her  nose  between  every  syllable, 
and  you  get  the  counterpart  of  a  Japanese  woman  working  her  fan  like 
a  minstrel  man  works  his  bones.  A  very  unpleasant  custom  which 
the  Japanese  acquire  in  Madam  Butterfly  is  the  way  the  servants  in  the 
first  act  go  running  in  and  out  of  the  house  without  stepping  out  of 
their  sandals.  In  Japan  we  always  put  on  sandals  upon  stepping  out  of 
the  house,  and  discard  them  upon  entering.      We  would  no  more  think 


Is  "Madam  Butterfly"  Japanese?  305 

of  walking  in  the  house  with  geta  than  you  would  of  getting  into  bed  with 
your  shoes  on.  But  it  is  not  to  be  wondered  at  that  a  people  who  allow 
dogs  to  roam  around  the  house,  have  no  scruples  in  allowing  Japanese 
to  keep  on  their  sandals  in  Madam  Butterfly. 

Lieutenant  Pinkerton  marries  a  geisha — Madam  Butterfly — and 
then  deserts  her.  Butterfly,  with  their  little  boy  and  Suzuki,  a  faithful 
maid,  faithfully  waits  for  his  return.  Pinkerton  returns,  but  with  him 
brings  an  American  wife,  Kate. 

Butterfly 

(looks  at  Kate  as  though  compelled) 
"Who  is  this  lady 
That  terrifies  me — terrifies  me?" 

Kate 

(simply) 
"Through  no  fault  of  my  own 
I'm  the  cause  of  your  trouble.     Forgive  me,  pray." 

(Is  about  to  approach  Butterfly,  who  imperiously  waves  her  off) 

Butterfly 
"No — do  not  touch  me." 

(A  long  and  painful  silence ;  then  Butterfly  resumes  in  a  calm  voice) 
"And  how  long  is  it  since  he  married — you?" 

Kate 
"A  year,  exactly." 

(Butterfly  is  silent) 
"And  will  you  let  me  do  nothing  for  the  child? 
I  will  tend  him  with  most  loving  care — " 
(Butterfly  does  not  leply;    Kate,  impressed  by  her  silence,  persists, 

deeply  moved) 
" 'Tis  hard  for  you,  very  hard! 
But  take  the  step  for  his  welfaie." 

Butterfly 

(after  a  long  silence) 
"Who  knows! 
All  is  over  now!" 


306  The  Haverfordian 

Kate 
(gently) 
"Can  you  not  forgive  me,  Butterfly?" 

Butterfly 

(solemnly) 
"'Neath  the  blue  vault  of  heaven 
There  is  no  happier  lady  than  you  are — 
May  you  remain  so 
Nor  e'er  be  saddened  through  me — 
Yet  it  would  please  me  greatly 
That  you  should  tell  him 
That  peace  will  come  to  me — " 

Kate 
(holding  out  her  hand) 
"Your  hand — your  hand,  may  I  not  take  it?" 

Butterfly 
(drawing  back,  but  replying  kindly) 
"I  pray  you — no — not  that! 
Now  go  and  leave  me." 

Kate 
(going  away,  says  to  Sharpless,  the  American  consul) 
"Poor  little  lady!" 

Sharpless 
(deeply  moved) 
"Oh,  the  pity  of  it  all!" 

Kate 
(whispers  to  Sharpless) 
"And  can  he  have  his  son?" 

Butterfly 
(who  has  heard) 
"His  son  I  will  give  him 
If  he  will  come  and  fetch  him. 
Climb  this  hill  in  half  an  hour  from  now." 


Is  "Madam  Butterfly"  Japanese?  307 

Kate  and  the  American  consul,  who  has  accompanied  her,  leave, 
deeply  moved.     Suzuki  tries  to  comfort  her  mistress,  but  is  gently  put 
off  by  Butterfly,  who  says,  indicating  the  curtains: 
"Too  much  light  shines  outside. 
And  too  much  smiling  spring. 
Close  them." 

Then,  dismissing  Suzuki,  Butterfly  prays  before  the  household 
shrine,  and,  taking  an  ancient  heirloom — a  dagger,  upon  which  is  in- 
scribed, "To  die  with  honor  when  one  can  no  longer  live  with  honor" — 
she  prepares  for  death.  Just  then  her  little  boy  bursts  into  the  room  and 
Madam  Butterfly,  in  that  torturous  yet  pathetic ^wa/e  ultimo,  sings: 

"Tis  for  you  I'm  dying, 

I,  poor  Butterfly, 

That  you  may  go  away 

Beyond  the  ocean. 

Never  to  feel  the  torment  when  you  are  older 

That  your  mother  forsook  you! 

O  my  son,  sent  to  me  from  Heaven, 
Straight  from  the  throne  of  glory! 
Take  one  last  careful  look 
At  your  poor  mother's  face! 
That  its  memory  may  linger, 
Even  though  it  be  dim  and  faint. 
Let  not  my  beauty's  ling'ring  bloom 
Be  faded  quite! 
Farewell,  beloved! 
Go — play — play. ' ' 

Then  with  a  veil  she  binds  his  eyes  and,  holding  the  dagger,  goes  be- 
hind the  screen. 

A  few  moments  later  Pinkerton's  voice  is  heard  calling  repeatedly: 

"Butterfly!     Butterfly!" 

He  rushes  violently  into  the  room.  His  little  son  greets  him, 
beside  whom  lies  Madam  Butterfly — dead. 

An  authority  on  things  Japanese  writes  in  a  chapter  entitled,  "The 
Training  and  Position  of  Women,"  as  follows: 

"Girls,  when  they  reached  womanhood,  were  presented  with  dirks 
(kai-ken,  pocket  poniards),  which  might  be  directed  to  the  bosom  of 
their  assailants,  or,  if  advisable,  to  their  own.    The  latter  was  very 


308  The  Haverfordian 

often  the  case:  and  yet  I  will  not  judge  them  severely.  Even  the 
Christian  conscience,  with  its  horror  of  self-immolation,  will  not  be  harsh 
with  them,  seeing  Pelagia  and  Domnina,  two  suicides,  were  canonized 
for  their  purity  and  piety.  When  a  Japanese  Virginia  saw  her  chastity 
menaced,  she  did  not  wait  for  her  father's  dagger.  Her  own  weapon  lay 
always  in  her  bosom.  It  was  a  disgrace  to  her  not  to  know  the  proper 
way  in  which  she  had  to  perpetrate  self-destruction.  For  example,  little 
as  she  was  taught  in  anatomy,  she  must  know  the  exact  spot  to  cut  in  her 
throat:  she  must  know  how  to  tie  her  lower  limbs  together  with  a  belt, 
so  that,  whatever  the  agonies  of  death  might  be,  her  corpse  be  found  in 
utmost  modesty,  with  the  limbs  properly  composed." 

These,  to  be  sure,  are  the  precepts  of  a  Samurai  woman,  not  for  a 
geisha,  but  I  believe  that  Butterfly  claims  in  Act  I  that  poverty  forced 
her  to  leave  a  higher  rank  for  the  profession  of  a  geisha.  Thus  the 
suicide  which  constitutes  the  major  act  in  Madam  Butterfly  is  in  accord- 
ance with  ancient  Japanese  teaching,  and  has  happened  more  than  once. 
It  is  to  be  doubted,  however,  that  such  a  mores  is  approved  of  in  the  new 
Japan,  which  even  condemned  the  suicide  of  General  Nogi,  the  con- 
queror of  Port  Arthur,  as  altogether  useless,  though  beautiful. 

To  offset,  however,  the  correctness  of  the  main  theme,  there  are 
innumerable  errors  which  grate  on  a  Japanese.  For  instance,  the 
Japanese  name  of  Madam  Butterfly  should  be  "Ocho,"  not"  Cho-cho" — 
the  name  of  the  insect,  to  be  sure,  but  always  abbreviated  for  a  girl's 
name.  In  another  place  Butterfly  throws  away  the  "otlhoki" — the 
images  of  her  ancestors.  There  is  no  such  word,  unless  "hotoke" — a 
buddha  is  meant.  "Ihai,"  or  ancestral  tablet  (not  image),  was  the 
right  expression  to  use.  A  Japanese  philosopher  or  poet  is  referred  to 
by  Suzuki  when  she  says: 

"Thus  spake  the  wise  Ocunama: 
A  smile  conquers  all,  and  defies 
Every  trouble." 

Ocunama  is  a  name  exotic  to  Japanese  ears:  it  does  not  exist. 
Madam  Butterfly  kisses  the  blade  in  the  last  act.  Japan  is  a  kissless  coun- 
try. Perhaps  Butterfly  was  civilized  to  that  extent  by  her  American  hus- 
band— but  it  is  an  utter  abomination  that  she  should  have  kissed  the 
blade,which  is  the  soul  of  the  Samurai.  She  would  have  raised  it  reverent- 
ly to  her  forehead,  taking  care  that  it  be  not  defiled  even  by  her  breath. 
The  marriage  ceremony  in  Japan  consists  of  the  quaffing  of  a  single  cup 
of  wine,  symbolizing  that  as  man  and  wife  they  shall  drink  of  the  wine 


Is  "Madam  Butterfly"  Japanese?  309 

of  life  together — it  is  a  most  dignified  ceremony.     The  marriage  in 
Madam  Butterfly  is  utterly  fantastic. 

The  acting  of  Geraldine  Farrar  is  most  effective,  and  altogether 
Japanese,  excepting  that  she  has  not  mastered  the  art  of  handling  the 
long  sleeves  of  her  kimono.     Every  emotion — love,  restraint  or  sorrow — 
may  be  interpreted  in  the  graceful  handling  of  these  sleeves. 
****** 

It  was  in  the  38th  year  of  Meiji,  in  the  7th  month,  that  I  made  my 
way  to  a  spa  on  the  western  coast  of  Japan  near  Ama-no-Hashidate — 
the  Bridgeway  of  the  Gods. 

The  town  was  called  Kino-saki,  and  nestled  beneath  the  shelter  of  a 
pine-clad  hill;  before  it  a  river  ran  to  the  sea.  And  on  still  evenings, 
we  were  refreshed  by  the  sound  of  breakers,  far  away. 

And  once  every  day  a  dusty  line  of  jinrickshaws  came  rattling  in 
from  the  railroad  station,  which  was  several  miles  distant.  Then  the 
balconies  of  the  inns  and  tea-houses  would  be  lined  with  idle,  curious 
faces,  watching  the  new  arrivals. 

One  day  there  was  a  slight  sensation,  for  a  middle-aged  lady  of 
respectable  appearance  arrived  with  a  little  boy  whose  hair  was  blond 
and  whose  eyes  were  blue. 

"Arra,"  said  a  woman  near  me,  "she  must  be  the  wife  of  some 
Kobe  foreigner — how  strange!" 

She  stopped  with  her  son  at  our  inn.  At  first  she  was  the  object 
of  some  curiosity  and  suspicion.  But  little  by  little  her  quiet,  tactful 
ways  prevailed  and  she  won  the  hearts  of  her  fellow  guests.  She  was 
evidently  a  woman  of  poise  and  character. 

To  her  son  she  was  gentle,  but  always  firm,  and  though  she  never 
spoke  of  her  little  boy  to  others,  I  noticed  that  she  watched  him  like  a 
hawk.  One  day,  while  bathing  (contrary  to  his  mother's  orders),  he 
went  out  of  his  depth.  The  current  carried  him  away.  Someone  pulled 
the  little  boy  out,  but  for  a  moment  there  was  the  utmost  excitement. 
During  the  excitement,  his  mother,  who  had  seen  it  all,  spoke  not  a  word. 
To  the  rescuer  she  said:  "I  very  much  regret  that  my  son  has  caused 
you  so  much  trouble — ."  Then,  turning  to  her  child,  she  said,  "Taro, 
you  may  go  to  your  room  now." 

Later  in  the  day  some  small  boys  came  to  the  inn  and  said,  "We 
want  Taro  San  to  play  tag  with  us."  But  his  mother  answered :  "Taro 
cannot  play  with  you  today — he  has  been  very  naughty."  And  I  saw 
that  she  had  been  weeping. 

I  took  several  walks  with  little  Taro,  and  got  to  know  him  well. 


310  The  Haverfordian 

He  was  a  bright  little  fellow  and  manly,  but  there  was  something  very 
old  about  him.     One  day  I  said: 

"  Taro  San,  do  you  see  your  father  often?  " 

And  Taro  San  answered,  "  No. " 

"When  did  you  see  him  last?" 

"Many  years  ago.  One  day  he  said  something  to  mother  and  she 
cried.  Then  he  looked  at  me:  I  was  so  frightened,  for  he  never  spoke  to 
me  before.     Then  he  went  away —     But  mother  says  he  will  return." 

"How  long  ago  was  that?" 

"Oh,  I  am  twelve  now:   that  was  six  years  ago." 

That  evening  the  Kobe  foreigner's  wife  was  on  the  balcony.  And  she 
was  looking  far  away — 


This  is  the  story  of  a  real  Madam  Butterfly. 


By  E.  M.  Pharo,  '15. 


A  mist  was  in  a  fairy  wood, 

Through  which  there  glanced  a  trembling  blue. 
Bell-like  laughter  broke  my  mood, 

As  Beauty,  startling,  bade  me  sue. 

She  fled  as  flies  the  scented  breeze 

Of  Hope  through  Fancy's  slight  domain. 

She  paused,  but  when  I  thought  to  seize, 
She  mocked,  and,  taunting,  fled  again. 

Despite  her  taunts,  a  witching  smile 

Compelled  me,  stumbling,  still  to  yearn. — 

I  knew  not  that  she  but  beguiled — 
/  did  not  know,  nor  wish  to  learn. 


Jfrit^  Ikvtisiitfsi  ^ttitai 

By  W.  H.  Chamberlin,  '17. 

JOHANN  WOLFGANG  GOETHE,  in  his  celebrated  play,  "Torquato 
Tasso,"  describes  the  yearning  of  the  Italian  poet  for  a  career  of 
activity  and  heroism  to  supplement  his  life  of  poetic  revery  and 
contemplation.  This  ambition,  which  the  ill-fated  Tasso  was  never  able 
to  realize,  has  recently  been  achieved  in  fullest  measure  by  Fritz  Kreisler, 
who,  formerly  known  as  one  of  the  greatest  masters  of  the  violin  the 
world  has  ever  seen,  has  more  recently  acquired  a  very  different  sort 
of  fame  as  an  officer  in  the  Austrian  army. 

An  extended  chronicle  of  Kreisler's  artistic  triumphs  would  be  super- 
fluous and  out  of  place.  It  may  suffice  to  say  that,  within  the  last  few 
years,  Kreisler  and  the  Belgian  Ysaye  have  been  universally  recognized 
as  the  two  foremost  violinists  of  the  age.  His  military  exploits  can  be 
stated  with  equal  conciseness.  Sent  to  the  firing-line  at  the  beginning 
of  the  war,  his  regiment  was  engaged  in  the  battle  with  the  Russians 
around  Lemberg.  In  a  hand-to-hand  conflict  with  the  Cossacks,  Kreisler 
was  knocked  from  his  horse  and  lay  unconscious  on  the  ground  for  several 
hours.  His  life  was  saved  only  by  the  courage  and  fidelity  of  his  orderly. 
As  the  wound  that  he  had  sustained  in  the  leg  rendered  him  unfit  for 
further  active  duty,  the  Austrian  government  released  him  from  his  mili- 
tary obligations  and  permitted  him  to  come  to  America  to  fulfil  the 
orchestra  and  concert  engagements  which  he  had  made  before  the  out- 
break of  the  war. 

It  was  an  audience  well  cognizant  of  the  violinist's  participation  in 
the  mighty  struggle  of  the  nations,  that  assembled  in  the  Academy  of 
Music  on  the  afternoon  of  December  16th  to  hear  his  first  Philadelphia 
performance.  And,  when  the  stage  curtains  were  v/ithdrawn  and  Kreisler 
slowly  walked  forth,  betraying  his  recent  wound  by  his  slight  limp  and 
the  pallor  of  his  face,  the  audience  voiced  its  admiration  of  the  soldier- 
musician  by  an  ovation  which,  in  sincerity  and  heartiness,  has  seldom 
been  equalled  within  the  walls  of  the  Academy.  Nor  did  Kreisler's 
outward  appearance  seem  inconsistent  with  the  popular  conception  of 
a  warrior.  Standing  fully  six  feet  in  height,  and  possessing  a  powerful  and 
splendidly  proportioned  physique,  one  could  well  imagine  the  Austrian 
violinist  leading  a  furious  charge  or  cheering  on  his  men  in  the  defense 
of  a  forlorn  hope. 

But  the  glamor  and  interest  excited  by  his  deeds  of  war  soon  yielded 
to  curiosity  about  the  possible  effect  of  those  deeds  on  his  violin  playing. 


312  The  Haverfordian 

Would  his  sojourn  in  camps  and  trenches  impair  his  marvellous  tech- 
nique? .  Would  the  passions  kindled  by  active  participation  in  war,  which, 
according  to  some  peace  agitators,  aie  wholly  base  and  evil,  would  these 
passions  dim  the  pure  artistic  fire  in  Kreisler's  soul  and  render  him 
incapable  of  giving  an  adequate  interpretation  to  the  noble  works  of  the 
classic  masters?  All  such  fears  and  doubts  were  elTectually  dissipated 
by  the  first  five  minutes  of  his  playing.  His  opening  number  was  a 
Sonata  by  Handel,  in  A  Major,  a  typical  work  of  the  old  school,  which 
requires,  on  the  part  of  the  interpreter,  not  only  technical  skill,  but  also 
a  dignity  and  serenity  wholly  removed  from  the  pettiness  of  mundane 
care  and  strife.  While  it  is  neither  wise,  nor  discreet,  as  a  rule,  to  make 
comparisons  or  sweeping  statements  in  reviewing  the  work  of  an  artist, 
it  may  safely  be  said  that  no  living  violinist  could  have  surpassed  Kreis- 
ler's perfect  interpretation  of  the  noble  spirit  of  the  classical  music. 

Nor  was  the  Handel  Sonata  his  only  test.  In  Tartini's  "Devil's 
Trill"  Sonata  he  gave  an  exhibition  of  virtuosity  which  left  his  audience 
gasping  in  sheer  amazement.  The  Bach  Chaconne  presented  another 
proof  of  his  mastery  of  the  most  formidable  technical  difficulties.  But 
it  was  in  the  second  part  of  the  programme  that  Kreisler  made  his  most 
direct  appeal  to  the  hearts  of  his  listeners.  The  programme  was  still, 
for  the  most  part,  sober  to  the  point  of  sadness  in  its  character;  but  the 
compositions  had  more  obvious  melody  and  beauty  than  the  grave  and 
austere  productions  of  the  classic  school.  As  might  have  been  expected, 
the  audience  was  unusually  insistent  for  encores,  and  the  violinist  en- 
riched his  already  liberal  programme  with  three  additional  numbers,  a 
Viennese  dance  of  his  own,  a  Slavic  dance  by  Dvorak,  and  an  exquisite 
"Moment  Musicale"  by  Schubert. 

I  had  the  honor  of  meeting  and  shaking  hands  with  Kreisler  imme- 
diately after  his  recital;  and,  in  the  exaltation  of  the  moment,  this  simple 
occurrence  produced  in  me  a  thrill  that  I  shall  not  soon  forget. 

But,  when  all  the  charm  and  excitement  of  that  glorious  afternoon 
had  passed,  one  deep  and  ineffaceable  impression  was  left  upon  my  mind. 
This  impression  was  not  created  by  his  feats  of  technical  achievement, 
wonderful  though  these  undoubtedly  were.  Nor  was  it  created  by  any 
particularly  well-rendered  number.  It  was  rather  the  impression  that 
was  due  to  the  peculiar  earnestness,  depth  and  solemnity  that  pervaded 
his  whole  recital.  One  could  not  but  feel  that  these  qualities  were  char- 
acteristic of  the  spirit  prevailing  in  those  Teutonic  countries  of  which 
Kreisler  is,  in  a  certain  sense,  the  unofficial  ambassador.  And  from  these 
qualities  in  themselves,  however  much  we  may  deplore  their  present 
application,  we  cannot  withhold  our  highest  respect. 


iWusiic 

By  Robert  Gibson,  '17. 


In  the  soft,  peaceful  hush  of  the  evening, 
In  the  moonlit  effulgence  of  night, 

I  was  sitting  alone  in  the  open. 
Imbibing  the  glory  of  light. 

Long  patines  of  gold  streaked  the  heavens, 

A  lone  cloud  with  silver  bedight 
Lent  grace  to  Her  Majesty  Beauty, 

Made  satiate  the  hunger  of  sight. 

But  what  is  that  stir  in  the  silence. 

Transcending  aerial  height, 
Compelling  with  gentle  persuasion 

The  ear,  and  defying  the  sight? 

Oh!  gentle  and  ravishing  sweetness. 
Enchanting,  delightful,  and  clear; 

Enticing  to  realms  of  the  fancy. 
Inviting  the  sense  of  the  ear. 

What  source  hast  thou,  Music  of  Heaven? 

Thou  art  heard  by  all  who  will  hear. 
Dost  thou  come  from  the  heavenly  choir — 

So  beauteous,  entrancing,  and  clear? 

Or  art  thou  the  hum  of  the  planets 

As  they  whirl  through  the  eons  of  space. 

Proclaiming  the  omniscient  Spirit, 
Which  moulded  our  human  race? 

Whatever  thou  art,  or  wherever, 
We  pray  and  entreat  and  implore 

That  thou  breathe  of  thy  charm  on  one  planet. 
Absolving  its  nations  from  warl 


Alumni  department 


Doubleday,  Page  and  Company 
are  bringing  out  a  series  of  nine 
volumes  called  the  "American 
Books,"  dealing  with  current  Amer- 
ican problems.  President  Sharp- 
-less  is  the  author  of  one  volume 
entitled,  "The  American  College." 
Walter  S.  Hinchman,  1910,  at 
present  a  master  at  Groton  School, 
is  the  author  of  another  volume; 
"The  American  School."  The 
books  are  pocket  size,  attractively 
bound,  and  may  be  secured  for 
$.60  a  volume  from  Doubleday, 
Page  and  Company,  Garden  City, 
N.  Y. 

Prof.  Leonard  Charles  van  Nop- 
pen,  who  received  an  A.  M.  from 
Haverford  in  1893,  was  lately  ap- 
pointed lecturer  for  Dutch  litera- 
ture and  history  in  the  Queen 
Wilhelmina  lectureship  established 
at  Columbia  University.  He  will 
further  speak  at  Michigan,  Wiscon- 
sin, Oberlin,  Minnesota  and  Rut- 
gers this  March.  Efforts  are  being 
made  to  get  him  to  Haverford. 

Mr.  Samuel  E.  Hilles,  1874, 
President  of  the  Samuel  C.  Tatum 
Company,  has  recently  contributed 
the  following  letter  to  the  Christ- 
mas issue  of  the  Optimist,  a  com- 
mercial magazine  edited  under  the 
auspices  of  the  Business  Men's 
Club  of  Cincinnati: 

A  Jaunt  to  the  Far  East 

To  anyone  of  observant  mind,  a 


trip  to  the  Orient  gives  so  many  and 
such  interesting  impressions,  it  is 
more  than  usually  difficult  in  the 
telling  of  it,  to  keep  within  reason- 
able bounds. 

Just  before  embarking  at  San 
Francisco  in  May,  on  the  Mongolia 
of  the  Pacific  Mail  Line,  I  much 
enjoyed  an  hour  in  the  beautiful 
grounds  of  the  University  of  Cali- 
fornia, at  Berkeley,  where  were 
fine  eucalyptus  trees,  and  particu- 
larly large  groups  of  the  "feathery 
bamboo,"  growing  to  a  greater 
height  and  beauty  than  I  later  saw 
in  the  Far  East. 

Passing  near  the  Exposition 
Grounds,  and  through  the  wonder- 
ful Golden  Gate,  and  last  by  the 
distinctive  Farallon  Islands,  side 
by  side  with  a  boat  of  a  competing 
Japanese  line,  on  the  first  Sunday 
out,  if  not  before,  we  realized  we 
were  indeed  bound  for  new  climes — 
for  the  church  services  were  con- 
ducted by  a  Korean,  assisted  by  a 
Chinaman,  and  rather  incidentally, 
an  American. 

Six  delightful  days,  over  quiet 
seas,  brought  us  to  the  beautiful 
harbor  ot  ilonolulu,  which  has 
many  charms  for  the  tourist,  and 
it  would  take  weeks,  where  we  had 
only  hours,  adequately  to  see  the 
beauties  of  these  islands. 

I  was  especially  interested  in 
the  surf-riding  at  Waikiki  Beach, 
and  a  half-dozen  times  we  rode  in, 


Alumni  Department 


315 


a  merry  party,  on  the  crest  of  the 
wave  in  one  of  the  native  canoes. 
These  have  an  outrigger  on  one 
side,  but  while  I  saw  one  upset,  to 
the  great  surprise  of  its  occupants, 
we  were  more  fortunate,  and  were 
saved  a  long  swim.  The  use  ot 
the  surf-boards  requires  consider- 
able skill.  These  are  shaped  like 
a  huge  ironing-board,  and  it  is  not 
an  easy  matter  to  get  started  on 
the  wave,  or  to  keep  one's  balance, 
while  being  carried  at  perhaps 
twelve  miles  per  hour,  towards 
shore. 

As  our  steamer  turned  again  to 
the  west  we  settled  comfortabh- 
into  our  steamer  chairs,  played 
shuffle-board  or  watched  the  other 
sports,  such  as  a  very  amusing 
pillow  fight  over  the  swimming 
tank  on  the  forward  deck. 

On  crossing  the  line  of  180  de- 
grees of  longitude  west  of  Green- 
wich, it  seemed  as. if  some  of  our 
passengers  never  quite  understood 
what  had  become  of  the  day  we 
dropped — for  Tuesday  came  next 
to  Sunday.  There  is  a  suggestion 
for  the  tired  housekeeper! 

On  arrival  at  Yokohama,  Japan, 
our  party  left  the  steamer  for  the 
time,  going  through  by  rail,  in 
three  nights  of  travel,  to  Nagasaki, 
our  last  port  before  reaching 
Manila.  One  night,  however,  we 
spent  in  a  Japanese  inn  at  Kyoto, 
the  former  capital  of  Japan. 

Upon  reaching  the  inn  we  were 
politely  handed  house-slippers  at 
the  door,  for  no  one  is  expected  to 


wear  street  shoes  in  the  house,  and 
at  the  door  of  the  bedroom,  even 
these  are  to  be  removed,  to  save 
the  immaculate  mattings. 

The  hotel  legister  was  duly 
signed — with  a  brush!  Of  furni- 
ture in  the  bedroom,  there  was 
none,  antl  the  walls  were  usually 
of  movable  screens,  which  might 
be  and  were  moved  away  at  very 
unexpected  moments.  A  comfor- 
table mattress  on  the  floor  would 
have  made  sleep  easy  for  us,  but 
for  a  quilted  cover  which  was 
c|uite  too  heavy  when  on,  and  quite 
missed  when  ofT.  At  dawn  we 
heard  the  noise  of  sliding  window 
sash,  and  we  soon  felt  stifled  in 
deference  to  their  fear  of  the  early 
morning  air. 

Of  course,  we  ate,  ot  tried  to  eat, 
in  regular  Japanese  fashion.  Meals 
were  brought  to  one's  room,  and  so 
we  sat  on  the  floor,  a  little  puzzled 
to  know  what  to  do  with  our  feet 
(I  never  learned  the  tailor  trade), 
while  the  "nesan,"  or  demure  little 
maid,  brought  us  a  tray  of  various 
Japanese  foods,  of  which  rice  was 
the  principal.  The  sum  total  left 
us  hungry,  but  delicately  cooked 
eggs,  in  my  case,  finally  saved  the 
day,  and  left  the  account  more 
nearly  square. 

There  could  be  no  finer  courtesy 
than  that  of  the  little  "nesan" 
as  she  waited,  kneeling  on  the  flooi 
near  us,  not  even  a  smile  crossing 
her  face  at  our  struggles  with  the 
chop-sticks,  except  when  we  our- 
selves   showed    amusement;     and 


316 


The  Haverfordian 


in  it  all,  the  contrast  with  the 
average  hotel  meal,  and  hotel 
waiters  here,  was  delightfully  novel. 

Kyoto  was  fascinating,  not  alone 
for  the  rare  beauty  of  its  temples, 
lavishly  adorned  with  gold  leaf  and 
lacquer,  but  for  the  many  small 
workshops,  in  damascene,  cloisonne 
and  other  metal  work,  including 
one  jewelry  shop  making  beauti- 
fully designed  pieces  in  which  the 
colored  portions  were  of  small 
feathers.  We  visited  also  a  pot- 
tery making  satsuma  and  other 
distinctive  wares.  The  shops  often 
had  exquisite  little  gardens  with 
running  water. 

They  are  certainly  ambitious, 
and  some  of  the  street  signs  are 
curious.  In  Tokyo  I  saw  a  busi- 
ness sign  of  a  "High  Shoemaker." 
In  Kobe,  I  found  a  doctor  whose 
sign  read,  "Medicus  Fractious." 

On  the  railways,  which  aie  the 
property  of  the  Empire,  the  ser- 
vice was  generally  excellent,  trains 
usually  on  time,  and  meals  in  the 
dining  cars  less  than  half  our  usual 
rates — ham  and  eggs,  for  instance, 
cost  25  sen  Japanese  (12K  cents 
our  money),  coffee,  10  sen,  etc. 
The  gauge  of  the  track  is  narrower 
than  with  us  (42  inches),  and 
therefore  passengers  are  more 
crowded,  and  in  the  sleepers  the 
Japanese  average  of  height  is  better 
accommodated  than  the  Anglo- 
Saxon.  The  beds  are  across  the 
car,  as  often  on  the  Continent  of 
Europe. 

It  was  a  strange  experience,  and 


rather  humbling  to  one's  geograph- 
ical education,  to  travel  all  night 
on  a  fast  train  towards  Nagasaki, 
from  the  straits  of  Shimonoseki, 
southward  on  the  Island  of  Kyushu, 
a  name  quite  unknown  to  me 
previously. 

The  rice  fields  and  terraces  were 
interesting,  and  occasionally  one 
might  see  the  most  primitive  tread- 
mill pumps  for  irrigation,  with 
two  to  three  men  laboriously  at 
work!  I  was  told  more  than  once 
that  the  finer  Japanese  rice  is  ex- 
ported, and  a  cheaper  grade  from 
China  generally  used. 

The  clack,  clack  of  the  Japanese 
clogs  at  the  principal  stations 
grows  somewhat  monotonous,  but 
they  do  not  usually  wear  leather 
shoes,  and  the  clogs  are  very  simple 
affairs,  and  easily  cast  off  at  the 
door — my  own  shoe  laces  soon  wore 
out  with  the  frequent  untying. 
"Where  the  shoe  pinches"  is  inap- 
propriate in  this  land  of  contrasts. 

In  wet  weather  they  vary  the 
clogs  by  using  deeper  battens,  for 
it  is  the  battens  on  the  under  side 
which  keep  them  out  of  the  mud, 
and  even  ladies  beautifully  attired 
go  hobbling  along  with  bare  feet 
encased  in  what  seemed  to  us  this 
awkward  footgear. 

En  route  to  Nagasaki  we  spent 
a  few  hours  upon  Miyajima,  the 
Sacred  Island  of  the  Inland  Sea. 
From  this  beautiful  place  of  wor- 
ship, births  and  deaths  were  for- 
merly debarred,  and  even  yet  dogs 
are  forbidden.     It  was  novel  to  see 


Alumni  Department 


317 


the  Shinto  priests,  at  the  shore,  dip 
up  the  clear  water  in  their  Httle 
buckets,  holcHng  a  Httle  more  than 
a  mouthful  for  the  temple  use. 

The  cheapness  of  common  labor 
in  Japan  makes  possible  many 
curious  things,  such  as  the  coaling 
protess  at  Nagasaki.  I  roughly 
counted  a  thousand  men,  women 
anti  children  in  this  no\"el  work  for 
our  steamer,  including  a  mother 
with  her  poor  baby  slung  on  her 
back,  in  the  hot  sun — the  women, 
in  fact,  did  any  of  the  work  that 
the  men  did,  except  sho\'eling  the 
coal  into  the  baskets. 

All  of  one  da>-  we  passed  along 
the  fertile  cast  coast  of  Formosa,  the 
mountains  often  partially  screened 
b\-  beautiful  clouds,  and  we  strain- 
ed our  eyes  looking  for  at  least 
a  few  of  the  cannibals,  80,000  of 
whom  are  said  to  inhabit  much  of 
the  southern  end. 

The  Japanese,  now  in  possession, 
have  a  scheme  of  charging  barbed- 
wire  fences  with  electricity,  which 
helps  to  keep  the  natives  from 
raiding  the  settlements  in  the 
north.  Formosa  is  the  headquar- 
ters for  camphor  and  for  tea — we 
brought  away  with  us,  on  our  re- 
turn, 620  tons  of  tea. 

Four  days  from  Japan  brought 
us  to  Coiregidor,  at  the  entrance  to 
Manila  Bay,  and  a  few  hours  later 
we  were  landed  at  Manila  itself,  and 
drove  under  the  Stars  and  Stripes 
floating  high  over  the  Luneta  to 
our  quarters  on  Pasay  Beach,  just 
beyond  the  city  limits.  Later,  a 
night  spent  on  Corregidor  as  the 
guest  of  the  commandant,  was  most 


interesting,  and  the  pri\-ilege  fully 
appreciated.  It  did  not  look, 
around  there,  on  this  great  fortress 
400  feet  above  the  sea,  as  if  Uncle 
Sam  was  going  away  very  soon! 

It  was  with  a  pang  of  sympathy 
that  I  heard  a  lady  of  the  garrison 
say,  in  the  midst  of  such  marvelous 
^•iews,  "  I  wish  I  could  have  a 
camera! " 

In  common  with  most  other 
countries,  and  especially  in  Japan, 
as  I  had  already  found  personally, 
photography  in  the  vicinity  of  for- 
tifications is  strictly  forbidden,  and 
in  Formosa  I  was  refused  permission 
to  photograph  even  a  rowboat  full 
of  natives  alongside;  a  fellow  pas- 
senger, in  fact,  had  to  give  up  his 
films   there. 

Manila  is  full  of  interest — the 
old  churches  and  city  wall,  the 
markets  and  acjuarium — the  boats 
on  the  crowded  Pasig  River — and 
the  people  themselves! 

Thanks  to  the  Americans,  they 
are  blessed  with  many  improve- 
ments— good  water,  light  and  car 
seivice,  sanitation,  streets  and 
parks,  and  perhaps  best  of  all,  an 
admirable  school  system. 

The  low  position  of  the  city — 
but  a  few  feet  above  tidewater — 
and  the  climate  itself  make  desir- 
able some  resort  in  the  mountains, 
and  this  found  at  Baguio,  about 
170  miles  to  the  north,  going  up  the 
mountain  by  auto  on  the  famous 
Benguet  road  for  about  twenty- 
seven  miles  to  an  altitude  of  5,000 
feet. 

Here  upon  occasion,  the  govern- 
ment offices  have  been  removed 


318 


The  Haverfordian 


for  the  hot  months,  and  here  among 
the  clouds  one  may  be  braced  up 
in  a  delightful  way. 

Baguio  is  in  the  Igorrotte  coun- 
try— and  of  course  we  went  to  the 
dog  market.  A  lean  dog  is  a  great 
delicacy,  the  leaner  the  dog  the 
better  they  like  it — but  the  poor 
dog! 

The  Igorrotte  dandy,  in  fact, 
almost  any  of  them,  is  particular 
to  wear  a  good  hat,  a  coat,  white 
shirt,  collar  and  tie,  but  there  the 
costume  ends,  as  my  picture  shows, 
and  they  lost  no  self-respect  if 
attending  church  service  in  such 
garb.  The  young  men  are  generally 
active,  fine-stepping  and  fine-look- 
ing fellows,  though  not  far  removed 
from  "head-hunting"  days. 

The  Benguet  road  up  the  moun- 
tain is  so  extremely  expensive  to 
maintain,  on  account  of  the  heavy 
rains — once,  recently,  50  inches 
in  24  hours,  or  72  inches  in  as  many 
hours — that  a  new  approach  is 
under  construction.  Probably  it  will 
have  fewer  thrills  in  its  course,  for 
on  the  present  road  one  certainly 
takes  some  chances  at  the  speed 
we  turned  the  corneis. 

I  saw  remains  of  several  bridges 
ill  ihe  bed  of  the  river.  One  might 
see,  also,  a  string  of  half  a  dozen 
native  carts  pulled  up  the  mountain 
by  a  tractor  engine  and  passing- 
places  must  be  carefully  looked  out 
for,  with  guards  at  every  few  miles 
to  telephone  whether  the  road  was 
clear. 

There  is  some  gold  mining  there 
on  the  mountain. 


South  of  Manila  the  copra  (co- 
coanut)  industry  has  brought 
wealth  to  those  engaged  in  it,  and 
a  piece  of  cocoanut  land  is  sold,  not 
by  its  measurement,  but  by  the 
number  of  trees  upon  it.  It  seems, 
in  fact,  quite  a  sure  crop,  but  the 
average  way  of  handling  it  seems 
most  crude,  really  ludicrous,  in  the 
mill  I  visited. 

As  an  instance  of  what  incon- 
veniences were  suffered  under 
Spanish  rule  (and  not  yet  rectified), 
a  ride  in  a  native  cart  or  "  caratella" 
from  the  station  to  Binan,  only  a 
few  miles  from  Manila,  down  to  the 
shore,  is  recalled  with  interest  and 
thankfulness,  now  that  it  is  over. 
"  It  is  a  bad  road,"  the  driver  said, 
and  so  we  found  it,  for  it  led  us 
through  a  series  of  caribao  (water 
buffalo)  wallows,  and  at  the  shore, 
the  only  way  to  catch  the  market 
boat  was  to  go  out  in  a  "banca" 
or  native  canoe  and  be  hauled  up 
on  deck  of  the  small  steamer.  A 
woman  passenger  just  ahead  of  us, 
in  another  "banca,"  fell  between 
"banca"  and  steamer,  and  was 
fished  out,  though  it  did  not  seem 
to  matter  particularly.  Their  hos- 
pitality, in  the  three  hours  we  sat 
under  a  blazing  sun  in  the  "banca," 
was  creditable,  a  native  woman  of- 
fering to  share  with  us  her  betelnut 
and  lime-paste,  but  we  gratefully 
declined,  and  our  lips  are  still  of 
natural  color. 

In  Manila  itself  I  was  interested 
in  the  government  printing  office, 
where  the  Filipinos  are  given  a 
systematic  apprenticeship  in  the 
various  trades  involved,  with  all  the 


Alumni  Department 


319 


adv'antages  of  a  \ery  complete 
plant. 

The  printing  and  stationery  es- 
tablishment of  E.  C.  McCullough 
&  Co.,  fronting  on  one  of  the  prin- 
cipal business  streets  and  running 
clear  back  to  the  Pasig  Ri\er,  was 
most    creditable. 

A  novel  feature  of  the  McCul- 
lough store  was  the  forced  ventila- 
tion through  small  air-ducts  set 
flush  in  the  floor,  making  a  pleasant 
temperature,  where  otherwise  the 
average  climate  and  the  shutting 
off  of  air  from  the  river  might 
hasten  the  departure  of  profitable 
callers. 

Another  feature  almost  universal 
in  Manila  was  the  tight  closing  of 
stores  and  offices  from  12  noon  to 
2  o'clock,  the  heat  or  direct  force 
of  the  sun  at  that  time  being 
particularly  trying. 

My  experience  in  the  Philippine 
Islands,  and  it  seems  to  be  the  ex- 
perience of  practically  all  Caucasian 
visitors,  leads  me  to  doubt  the  wis- 
dom of  the  movement  for  early 
independence;  scarcely  any  of  the 
natives,  in  political  power  there 
today,  have  had  schooling  under 
American  auspices,  and  even  around 
Manila  they  seem  but  children,  as 
yet,  in  the  science  of  government 
and  self-control.  It  were  better 
for  them  and  for  us,  their  guardians, 
to  wait  some  years  for  those  now 
growing  up  into  positions  of  respon- 
sibility, and  until  they  have  had 
the  full  benefit  of  American  ideals. 

Even  Aguinaldo,  since  his  retire- 
ment to  his  farm  near  Cavite, 
seems  to  have  learned  some  wisdom 


in  this  regard,  for  he  was  quoted  to 
me  as  saying,  just  before  I  left 
Manila,  "I  think  of  the  United 
States  as  an  elder  brother,  and  we 
should  take  his  advice." 

The  present  agitation  for  inde- 
pendence and  the  wholesale  changes 
in  officials  there  have  naturally- 
brought  about  a  lack  of  confidence 
in  the  future,  very  mischievous, 
it  seems  to  me,  to  the  present  and 
future  prosperity  of  the  islands. 

The  Creator  has  been  most  boun- 
tiful in  the  natural  resources  of  the 
country,  and  under  wise  guidance 
and  a  patient  apprenticeship,  the 
future  has  great  things  in  store  for 
these  new  wards  of  Uncle  Sam. 


Henry  Stuccator  Bernard,  '11, 
has  sent  us  a  contribution  to  our 
knowledge  of  the  Far  East.  This 
article  will  be  of  further  interest 
when  one  realizes  that  it  is  from 
Canton,  whose  inhabitants  have 
a  reputation  for  alertness  and 
progressiveness,  whence  ninety  per 
cent  of  the  Chinese  in  America 
come.  This  is  the  stronghold  of 
the  radical  republicans,  who  are 
naturally  enough  opposed  to  the 
seemingly  selfish  policy  of  Yuan 
Shi-kai.  Canton  has  a  population 
of  over  two  millions,  and  is  on  the 
same  latitude  as  Havana,  Cuba. 

A  Glimpse  of  Canton  and  the 
Cantonese 

As  typical  of  ancient  China,  one 
could  scarcely  select  a  city  more 
instructive  and  interesting  than 
Canton.  Our  guide  was  an  old 
Chinaman  who  had  learned  what 
little  English  he  knew  from  tour- 


320 


The  Haverfordian 


ists.  He  made  up  in  gestures 
what  he  could  not  put  into  words, 
and  all  but  turned  somersault  to 
make  his  "explicashuns."  Gaug- 
ing by  the  rule  of  subject  and 
predicate,  he  did  not  make  a  single 
English  sentence  all  the  time  he 
was  with  us,  but  like  the  Chinese 
Hong  Kong  merchant  who  pro- 
fessed to  speak  English  and  under- 
stand American  too,  Americans 
accustomed  to  the  Philippine 
Chinese  can  sometimes  make  out 
what  a  Cantonese  has  to  say. 
However,  our  guide  spoke  "many 
Englishes"  and  we  enjoyed  his 
acting. 

Canton  is  typical  of  ancient 
China.  The  immediate  approach 
is  almost  forbidding,  but  directly 
as  one  gets  into  a  real  native  busi- 
ness quarter  his  interest  becomes 
intense.  The  streets,  or  what  cor- 
respond to  streets,  look  more  like 
gorgeously  decorated  alleys  than 
public  thoroughfares.  They  are 
very  narrow — so  narrow  that  a 
sedan  chair  makes  a  very  inelegant 
turn  at  the  crossings,  and  usually 
brings  forth  an  after  call  of  Chinese 
blessings  from  those  whose  crani- 
ums  it  has  bruised.  The  stores 
and  buildings  are  closely  huddled 
together,  and  no  one  unfamiliar 
with  Canton  or  Cantonese  would 
attempt  to  wind  his  way  to  any 
particular  place  without  a  guide. 

A  feature  of  extreme  interest  in 
Canton  is  the  Water  Clock.  It 
consists  of  four  small  tanks  so  ar- 
ranged that  the  water  drops  from 
one  tank  into  another  below  and 
in  front  of  it.     A  graduated  meas- 


ure protrudes  from  a  slit  in  the 
lowest  tank,  and  as  the  water 
rises  in  this  tank,  the  measure 
is  buoyed  up  and  the  time  is 
gauged  accordingly.  The  device 
is  said  to  be  more  than  1,300  years 
old,  and  to  have  been  used  by  the 
Chinese  before  they  had  other 
clocks. 

Among  other  features  of  great 
interest  are  the  Medicine  or  Doctor 
Temple,  and  the  City  of  the  Dead. 

The  Cantonese  are  very  supersti- 
tious and  the  Doctor  Temple  is  an 
expression  of  this  influence.  In 
this  Temple,  the  patient  is  brought 
to  see  the  Doctor,  a  hideous  looking 
wooden  image,  which  is  given  an 
air  of  solemnity  through  being 
shaded  by  numerous  screens.  Pro- 
cessions are  held  to  honor  the 
Doctor  when  epidemics  prevail  in 
the  community.  Moreover,  he  is 
consulted  by  the  sick  at  all  times. 
The  patient  visits  the  Temple 
and  pays  his  respects  to  the  Doctor. 
He  is  then  handed  the  Doctor's 
tube — a  bamboo  vase  nearly  full 
of  flat  sticks,  which  have  numbers 
written  upon  them.  He  shakes 
the  tube  until  one  stick  drops  out — 
its  number  is  observed  and  the 
medicine  book  is  consulted  for  the 
prescription  corresponding  to  that 
number. 

The  City  of  the  Dead  is  also  very 
interesting.  It  consists  of  numer- 
ous small  compartments,  so  many 
resting-places  where  the  rich  in 
death  are  lodged  and  entertained 
for  a  year  or  two  prior  to  their 
final  interment.  The  price  per 
berth  is  $5  a  month  for  the  up-to- 


Alumni  Departmext 


321 


date  quarters.  That  includes 
"chow  chow"  for  the  dead:  man- 
goes, apples,  oranges,  etc.  The 
less  opulent,  for  whom  only  $3  a 
month  is  paid,  must  subsist  on 
"cha"  (tea)  alone.  The  cup  of 
tea  is  in  evidence,  as  also  the  fruit 
in  the  compartments  of  the  more 
opulent. 

There  are  numerous  temples  in 
Canton,  gorgeously  adorned  with 
wonderfully  carved  and  richly 
gilded  woodwork,  the  more  im- 
portant of  which  are,  perhaps,  the 
Ancestral  Temple  and  the  Temple 
of  the  Five  Hundred  Genii;  but 
the  real,  live  interest  lags  as  one 
begins  to  see  in  each  idol  a  tyrant, 
and  in  the  Five  Hundred  Genii  so 
many  oppressors  of  a  poor,  honest 
and  hard-working  people. 

The  Cantonese  are  ceaseless 
workers.  Everybody  works:  father, 
mother,  and  "pickaninnies" — all 
work  hard  and  are  content.  In 
a  number  of  large  manufactories 
visited,  not  a  power  machine  was 
to  be  seen.  Human  labor  is  even 
cheaper  than  horsepower:  women 
and  children  propel  big  junks  and 
sampans.  It  is  very  common  to 
see  two  or  three  women  harnessed 
to  a  cart  and  pulling  at  a  load  which 
in  our  country  might  attract  the 
attention  of  the  Band  of  Mercy  if 
it  were  drawn  by  only  one  horse. 

Superstitions,  however,  still  hold 
the  big  majority  in  bondage,  and 
the  more  enlightened,  writhing 
under  the  yoke  of  the  ages,  are 
fighting  desperately  against  the 
ancient  civilization  which  for  cen- 
turies has  been  allowed  to  grow 
in  upon  them. 


We  regret  to  announce  the 
deaths  of  three  Haverfordians: 
William  R.  Bullock,  Ex-'43;  Ellis- 
ton  P.  Morris,  '48;  Lewis  P. 
Le\ick,  '67. 

William  R.  Bullock  was  born  at 
Wilmington,  Delaware,  October  4, 
1824.  He  entered  Haverford  Col- 
lege in  1839  and  left  in  1842.  He 
became  a  physician,  and  later 
was  married  to  Miss  Elizabeth  A. 
Emlen.  Dr.  Bullock  was  engaged 
in  the  practice  of  medicine  at  Wil- 
mington, and  at  the  time  of  his 
death  on  November  18th,  1914, 
was  one  of  Haverford 's  oldest 
Alumni. 

Elliston  P.  Morris  was  born  in 
Philadelphia  on  the  22nd  of  May, 
1831.  He  entered  Haverford  as 
a  Freshman  in  1844,  but  left  the 
following  year  on  account  of  the 
temporary  closing  of  the  institu- 
tion. 

Mr.  Morris  was  manager  ot 
Haverford  College  in  the  years 
1884-91,  and  was  secretary  of  the 
Corporation  from  1886  to  1891. 
He  was  Trustee  of  Estates,  b?sides 
holding  various  other  offices.  He 
was  married  on  March  21st,  1861, 
to  Miss  Martha  Canby,  in  Wil- 
mington,  Delaware. 

He  was  living  in  Germantown, 
Philadelphia,  at  the  time  of  his 
death  on  December  3rd,   1914. 

Lewis  J.  Levick  died  on  Novem- 
ber 27th.  1914.  He  was  born  in 
Richland,  Bucks  County,  Penn- 
sylvania, on  October  15th,  1845. 
He  entered  Haverford  in  1863,  and 
left  at  the  close  of  his  Sophomore 


322 


The  Maverfordian 


year.  Mr.  Levick  was  class 
"prophet,"  and  secietary  of  the 
Athenaeum.  From  1892  to  1894 
he  was  vice-president  of  the  Alumni. 
On  September  6th,  1876,  he  was 
married  to  Miss  Mary  A.  d'lnvil- 
liers.  Mr.  Levick  was  engaged  in 
the  oil  and  petroleum  refining 
business. 

Walter  Wood,  '69,  and  Joseph 
H.  Haines,  '98,  have  been  elected 
to  the  board  of  directors  of  the 
University  Club,  Philadelphia. 

F.  H.  Strawbridge,  '87,  and  P. 
S.  Williams,  '94,  have  been  re- 
cently elected  directors  to  the  New 
England  Society  of  Pennsylvania. 

1858 

William  Weaver  Potts,  of  Norris- 
town,  who  was  at  Haverford  from 
1851  to  1854,  and  who  enjoyed  his 
76th  birthday  last  December  1st, 
has  answered  our  postcard  as 
follows : 

"If  I  should  write  reminiscences 
of  my  schooldays  at  Haverford, 
you  would  think  you  were  reading 
about  Peck's  bad  boy.  I  was 
twelve  years  old  when  I  went  to 
Haverford,  and  full  of  mischief. 
My  room  was  3rd  story  south. 
Had  a  clothesline  doubled  and 
knotted  a  foot  apart,  tied  it  to  bed- 
post, and  put  it  out  of  the  window. 
Go  down  to  porch  roof,  then  down 
post  to  ground.  With  old  pair 
of  pants  tied  at  bottom, would  go  to 
orchard,  fill  pants  with  apples,  put 
legs  around  my  neck,  fill  hoard 
down  in  lawn,  in  short  time  would 
be  good  and  mellow.  Five  boys 
down  at  dam,  four  playing  cards. 
I  was  looking  on.  Professor  came 
out   of  woods,   caught   boys,   held 


out  his  hand  for  cards,  counted 
them,  asked  for  the  rest  of  them. 
I  asked  him  how  many  there  ought 
to  be.  He  said,  "  Fifty-two.  "  I  told 
him  he  knew  more  about  a  pack  of 
cards  than  I  gave  him  credit  for. 
He  smiled.  A  few  days  after,  I 
went  to  his  classroom.  He  told 
me  I  rather  got  the  better  of  him 
the  other  day.  We  had  a  good 
laugh  over  it.  "  Peck." 

1865 
C.  Cresson  Wistar  has  changed 
his    address    from    422    Bourse    to 
5355    Knox   Street,    Germantown, 
Philadelphia. 

1876 
R.  Henry  Holme  was  a  candi- 
date of  the  Prohibition  Party  for 
the  long  term  senatorship  in  Mary- 
land. Mr.  Holme  has  been  made  a 
director  in  the  recently  organized 
City  Dairy  Co.,  which  is  a  merger 
of  all  the  large  dairy  products 
companies  of  Baltimore.  Mr. 
Holmes  was  formerly  a  member 
of  the  firm  of  Holme,  Waddington 
and  Company,  which  was  merged 
in  the  new  concern.  Mr.  Holmes 
was  president  of  the  Haverford 
Society  of  Maryland  in  1912-13. 

1882 
Wilmot   R.  Jones  has  opened  a 
boys'  school  on    his  farm  at  Con- 
cord, Mass. 

1890 
Robert  R.  Tatnall  has  changed 
his    address    from    Evanston,    111., 
to  Syracuse  University,  Syracuse, 
N.  Y. 

1892 
Stanley  R.  Yarnall  is  a  member 
of  the  committee  of  the  Philadel- 


Alumni  Department 


323 


phia  Boy  Scout  Mo\'einenl,  whose 
purpose  is  to  raise  fuiuls  to  enlist 
an    additional    number   of    hoys. 

189.5 
Charles  J.   Rhoads  has  rlianged 
his  address  to  Villa  No\a,  Pa. 

1896 
Prof.  H.  J.  Webster,  of  the  Uni- 
versity of  Pittsburgh,  read  a  paper 
on  "Bouquet's  Campaigns"  at 
the  Bouquet  Sesqui-Centennial  of 
the  Historical  Society  of  Western 
Pennsylvania  at  Pittsburgh,  Pa., 
November  24. 

1899 
Mr.  A.  C.  Wild  is  now  associated 
with  former  Judge  Jesse  Holdoni 
in  the  general  practice  of  law,  with 
ofifices  at  2072  Continental  and 
Commercial  Bank  Building,  Chi- 
cago, 111. 

On  October  6th,  1914,  a  daugh- 
ter, Nancy  Wain  Maule,  was  born 
to  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Alfred  Collins 
Maule,  at  Haverford,  Pa. 

1900 
Walter  S.  Hinchman,  master  in 
Groton  School,  Groton,  Mass., 
has  a  volume  on  "The  American 
School"  published  by  Doubleday, 
Page  and  Co.  It  is  one  of  a  series 
of  books  on  current  problems  in 
America. 

1901 
The  1901  Class  dinner  was  held 
on  Friday,  November  20th,  at  the 
Merion  Cricket  Club.  Those  pres- 
ent were:  Harold  F.  Babl)itt, 
Ellis  Y.  Brown,  John  W.  Cadbury, 
Jr.,  Wm.  E.  Cadbury,  A.  Lovitt 
Dewees,  Theodore  J.  Grayson, 
Wm.  H.  Kirkbride,  Geo.  B.  Mel- 
lor,    Jr.,     Walter    Mellor,    E.    C. 


Rossmassler,  E.  Marshall  Scull, 
J.  Herbert  Webster,  and  Arthur 
R.  Yeansley.  After  the  dinner 
the  class  adjourned  to  the  Haver- 
ford Smoker. 

1902 
The  annual  dinner  of  the  Class 
of  1902  was  held  at  the  College  on 
Saturday,    December    19th. 


''A  Live  Store'' 


^^^^^^— _^^__^ 

Pyle,  Ikne5 
&  Basbieri 

TAILORS 

<*/      FOR.     <*> 

MEN  AND  BOYS 

^ 

tlJS  WALNUT  ST., 
PHILADELPHIA. 

1 

ing  your  inspection  and  opin 


is  the  only 
kind  to  which 
a  young  man 
should  tie — 
where  the 
stock  is  always 
new;  where 
good  taste 
prevails  and 
courtesy  rules. 
Such  a  store  is 
right  here  and 
it  is  becoming 
more  popular 
every  season. 

The'  largest 
gat  hering  of 
Foreign  and 
Domestic 
woollens  in  the 
city  is  await- 
lon. 


Suits  and  Overcoats 
Full  Dress  Suits 


-  $25  to  $50 

-  $40  to  $70 


Pyle,  Innes  &  Barbieri 

College   Tailors 
1115  Walnut  Street 

PHILADELPHIA 


324 


The  Haverfordian 


C.  Linn  Seller  has  changed  his 
address  to  Bronville,  N.  Y. 

W.  C.  Longstreth  is  with  Brooke, 
Stokes  and  Co.,  Philadelphia,  Pa. 

J.  W.  Reeder  is  with  the  Pasa- 
dena Ice  Company,  Pasadena,  Cali- 
fornia. 

Herman  Newman  is  located  with 
the  Illinois  Children's  Home  and 
Aid  Society,  an  organization  tor 
the  care  of  dependent  and  home- 
less children,  at  Chicago. 

On  June  12th,  1914,  a  daughter, 
Barbara  Lloyd  Cary,  was  born  to 
Mr.  and  Mrs.  C.  R.  Cary. 

1904 
Mr.  and  Mrs.  Chester  R.  Haig 
have  recently  sailed  to  the  Philip- 
pines, where  Mr.  Haig,  who  is 
lieutenant  in  the  Medical  Corps  of 
the  United  States  Army,  will  be 
stationed  for  two  years. 

On  Saturday,  December  26, 
1914,  the  Class  of  1904  held  their 
annual  winter  meeting  and  dinner 
in  the  dining  hall  of  the  College. 
The  following  members  were  pres- 
ent: E.  J.  Bevan,  H.  H.  Brinton, 
D.  L.  Burgess,  J.  W.  Clark,  A. 
Crowell,  P.  D.  Folwell,  W.  M.  C. 
Kimber,  R.  P.  Lowry,  C.  C.  Morris, 
and  J.  M.  Stokes,  Jr. 

Officers  elected  for  the  ensuing 
two  years  were  as  follows:  Presi- 
dent, D.  L.  Burgess;  Vice-presi- 
dent, C.  C.  Morris,  and  Secretary 
and  Treasurer,  P.  D.  Folwell.  At 
present  the  class  is  widely  scat- 
tered. We  have  representatives  at 
the  front  in  the  English  Army,  in 
Brazil,  in  China,  in  the  Philippines, 
in  Canada,  in  Colorado,  in  Kansas, 
in  Michigan,  in  Massachusetts,  in 
North  Carolina,  in  Connecticut,  in 
Indiana,  in  New  Jersey,  in  New 
York,  as  well  as  in   Pennsylvania. 


1908 

Morris  Albert  Linton  and  Miss 
Margaret  Stokes  Roberts  were 
married  at  the  Friends'  Meeting 
House,  Moorestown,  on  Tuesday, 
December  8th,  1914.  Among 
those  attending  the  groom  were 
Henry  J.  Cadbury,  '03;  T.  M. 
Longstreth  and  Howard  Burtt, 
'08. 

1910 

C.  Mitchell  Froelicher,  master 
in  French  at  the  Oilman  Country 
School,  has  been  appointed  head 
of  the  Department  of  Modern 
Languages.  Mr.  Froelicher  is  sec- 
retary of  the  Haverford  Society 
of  Maryland. 

On  December  11th,  1914,  a  son 
was  born  to  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Reginald 
Morris,  of  Villa  Nova,  Pa. 


OVER  360  SAMPLES  OF 
GOOD  LETTERHEADS 


\^*^U  will  find  here  an  unique  display  so 
arranged  that  you  can  see  the  entire 
number  in  5  minutes,  or  you  can  profita- 
bly spend  half  an  hour:  a  wide  range  of 
prices,  plenty  of  good  colors  in  both  paper 
and  ink,  and  a  type  display  suitable  for  all 
kinds  of  business,  from  the  professional 
ones  for  the  lawyer  and  doctor  on  up  to 
the  elaborate  ones  for  the  business  that  re- 
quires that  kind. 

You  are  invited    to  see    the   display  any 
day  from  8  to  5-30.      Send  for  booklet, 

"Where  To  Buy  Letterheads." 

ACTON  mk'S^E 

29  SOUTH  SEVENTH  STREET 
PHILADELPHIA 


Ai  uMNi  Department 


325 


1912 

There  were  twenty-nine  mem- 
bers of  the  Class  of  1912  at  the 
Smoker  and  Swarthmore  game. 
This  was  the  largest  attendance  of 
any  class  reunion. 

Mark  Balderston  is  with  the 
Physics  Department  at  Lafayette. 

The  engagement  of  Lloyd  Mel- 
lor  Smith,  of  Germantown,  to  Miss 
Margaret  Hall,  of  Mt.  Airy,  has 
been   annoimced. 

William  E.  Lewis  is  an  instructor 
in  Chemistry  at  Lehigh  Univer- 
sity. 

1914 

Douglas  L.  Parker  is  draughts- 
man at  the  Farquhar  Furnace 
Company,   Wilmington,  Ohio. 

Edward  Rice  and  Leonard  B. 
Lippmann  are  living  at  the  Mary- 
land Apartments,  315  Hicks-Dugan 
Street  (near  Spruce  and  15th), 
Philadelphia. 


H.  H.  Kelsey  is  principal  of 
Hesper  Academy,  Eudora,  Kansas. 
He  teaches  Mathematics,  Latin, 
and   History. 

C.  W.  Edgerton  is  at  present 
with  the  Sales  Department  of  the 
Coatesville  Boiler  Works,  30 
Church  Street,  New  York  City. 

The  engagement  has  been  re- 
cently announced  of  Alfred  W. 
Elkinton  to  Miss  Anna  Trimble, 
of  Chester,  Pa. 

Charles  Rhodes  Williams  is  on 
the  staff  of  the  Inquirer,  Philadel- 
phia. His  address  is  634  N.  11th 
Street,    Philadelphia. 

Ex-' 14 
Lewis  J.  Finestone  announces 
that  he  has  opened  his  law  offices 
at  827  Lafayette  Building,  and 
also  a  branch  at  his  residence,  N. 
E.  Corner  of  Fifth  and  Fairmount 
Avenues,  Philadelphia. 


JOB  PRINTING 

OF    EVERY    DESCRIPTION 
PROMPT  AND  REASONABLE 

MAIN  LINE  PRINTING  GO. 

10  ANDERSON  AVENUE 
ARDMORE,  PA. 


Aubrey  Howell 


Richard  S.  Dewees 


COLLEGE  WORK 
A  SPECIALTY 


ESTIMATES  GIVEN 
PHONE  1087 


Insurance 

HOWELL   &  DEWEES 

SPECIAL   AGENTS 

Provident    Life  and   Trust   Co. 

Fourth  and  Chestnut  Streets 
Philadelphia 

For    the   gentlemen    who    appreciate 

the  refinement  of  good  grooming. 

Our    Barber   Shop   was   inaugurated 

50  years  ago.      No  Tipping. 


OPEN  EVENINGS 


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PhiU 


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INSURANCE 

Fire  or  Burglary  Insurance  on  Students'  per- 
sonal effects  while  at  College  or  elsewhere. 

Tourists'  Floating  Insurance  on  personal  ef- 
fects against  all  risks  in  transit,  in  hotels, 
etc.,  both  in  this  country  and  abroad. 

Automobile  Insurance  covering  damage  to  car 
and  liability  for  damage  to  property  or  for 
injuries  to  persons. 

Longacre  &  Ewing 

Bullitt  Building       HIS.    Fourth  St. 
Philadelphia 

Repairing   of   Hall,    Chimes  and  French 
Clocks  a  Specialty 

•       A.  A.   FRANCIS,  Jeweler 

lis  W.  Lancaster  Ave.  phone  144D 

Ardmore,  Pa. 


C.  W.  Scott  Company 

Bryn  Mawr,  Pa. 
Carriages,  Wagons  and  Automobiles 

"Careful  Handling  and  Quality" 

Send  us  Your  Suitings  to  be 

Dry-Cleaned,   Scoured 
and    Pressed 

At   Reasonable  Rates 


Our  College  Agent 

Mr.  I.  Thomas  Steere 


S.  p.  Frankenfield  Sons 

Undertakers 
ARDMORE,  PA. 

Successors  to 
JOSIAH  S.  PEARCE 

33  E.  Lancaster  Avenue 

Phone,    Ardmore    9 

J.  OWEN  YETTER 
General  Shoe  Repairing 

ARDMORE,  PA. 

Will  Collect  Shoes  Monday  Evening  and  Deliver 
Thursday  Morning 
T.   B.  Whitson,   College  Agent 


Attractive 

Wall   Paper 

At  Popular  Prices 

A. 

L. 

Diament  & 

Co. 

1515  Wa 

Inut 

Street                Philade 

Iphia, 

Pa. 

WILLIAM  S. 
YARNALL 

Manufacturing  Optician 

118  S.  15th  Street.  PhUadelphia 

Phone   258 

C.  E.  Edwards 

Confectioner 

ICE  CREAM   AND   FANCY  ICES, 

FANCY  CAKES 


Ramsey   Euilding 


Bryn  Mawr,  Pa. 


Bell,  Market  1632,  1633  Keystone,  Main  109,  110.  Ill 

A.  N.  RISSER  CO.,  Inc. 

PURVEYORS  OF 

MEATS,    PROVISIONS 

BUTTER,  EGGS  AND  POULTRY 

215  Callowhill  Street,  Philadelphia 


M'HEN     Patronizing    Advertisers     Kindly  Mention  The  Haverfordian 


THE    HAVERFORDIAN 


Yoshio  Nitobe,  Editor-in-Chief 

ASSOCIATE  EDITORS 
F.  M.  Morley,  1915  K.    P.    A.    Taylor,    1915 

E.  M.  Pharo,  1915  E.  C.  Bye,  1916 

D.  B.  VanHoUen,  1915  Robert  Gibson,  1917 

Jaclt  G.  C.  LeClercq,  1918  William  H.  Chamberlin,  1917 

BUSINESS  MANAGER  ASS'T.  BUSINESS  MANAGER 

Albert  G.  Garrigues,  1916  Edward  R.  Moon,  1916 

SUBSCRIPTION  MANAGER 
Arthur  E.  Spellisy,  1917 

Price,  per  year $1.00  Single  Copies SO.  IS 

The  Haterfordi.\n  is  published  on  the  tenth  of  each  month  during  College  year.  Its  purpose 
is  to  foster  the  literary  spirit  among  the  undergraduates  and  to  provide  an  organ  for  the  discussion  of 
questions  relative  to  college  life  and  policy.  To  these  ends  contributions  are  invited,  and  ?.-ill  be  con- 
sidered solely  on  their  merits.  Matter  intended  for  insertion  should  reach  the  Editor  not  later  than  the 
twenty-first  of  the  month  preceding  the  date  of  issue. 

Entered  at  the  Haverford  Post-Office,  for  transmission  through  the  mails  as  second-class  matter. 

Vol.  XJCJtVW  ''■^.  HAVERFORD,  PA.  FEBRUARY.   191S  No.  9 


Cbitorial  Comment 

FINIS 

IN  the  first  editorial  of  the  Haverfordian  of  1914^5  the  sentiment 
was  expressed  that  this  magazine  was  not  for  college  "highbrows" 
or  literati,  but  for  all  Haverfordians.  It  was  further  expressed 
that  our  subscribers  "prefer  to  read  thoughts  and  facts  though  amateur- 
ishly written  rather  than  efforts  of  imagination  which  are  only  too  often 
crudely  expressed."  This  idea  has  been  steadily  adhered  to,  and  we 
believe  successfully  enough  to  warrant  its  continuation. 

In  the  nine  issues  of  the  Haverfordian,  there  have  been  19  articles, 


328  The  Haverfordian 

7  essays,  5  dramatic,  5  literary,  3  musical  criticisms,  and  73  pages  of 
Alumni  notes.  In  imaginative  writing,  there  have  been  12  stories,  4 
sketches,  and  34  pieces  of  verse.  The  contributions  have  been  by  the 
following  types  of  Haverfordians: 

Outsider 2 

Faculty 2 

Alumni 7 

1914 11 

1915 52 

1916 6 

1917 13 

1918 4 


AN  ANNOUNCEMENT  OF  IMPORTANCE 

Edgar  Chalfant  Bye,  who  has  won  the  respect  of  his  associates  by  his 
work  for  the  Haverfordian,  and  by  the  soundness  of  his  judgment  in 
council,  has  been  elected  Editor-in-chief  for  the  ensuing  year.  Edward 
Randolph  Moon  was  unanimously  chosen  as  Business  Manager.  The 
senior  members,  who  retire  with  this  issue,  wish  them  the  most  heartfelt 
of  successes. 


We  announce  with  pleasure  the  election  of  Jack  G.  C.  Le  Clercq,  '18, 
to  the  editorial  staff  of  the  Haverforaian. 


JUST  BETWEEN  YOU  AND  ME  (FOR  NOBODY  ELSE'S 

BENEFIT) 

And  now  it  is  all  over.  Gene,  Felix,  Kemp,  Don  and  Tobe — how 
we  toiled,  caressed  and  loved  thee.  Over  the  cups  at  L —  we  three,  you 
and  I  and  the  Book — scheming,  scolding  and  loving.  Or  perhaps  in  old 
Union,  the  lights  turned  low,  and  Tobe  droning  over  a  manuscript  while 
the  others  on  windowsill  or  lounge  contemplate  the  smoke-dimmed 
walls.  . .  .In  the  center  the  board  heaped  high  with  "eats". . .  .the  faint 
incense  of  tobacco  and  the  beat  of  some  cryptic  verse 


Culture  a  la  iHobe 

By  W.   H.    Chamberlin,  '17. 

Persons:  The  Spirit  of  Culture  {A  noble  feminine  figure  in 
white  robes.) 

An  American  Educator  (Noted  for  his  championship  of  practical 
and  efficient  schemes  of  education.  He  is  conventionally  dressed  in  a 
plain  brown  suit.) 

Time:  The  present. 

Scene:  The  Educator's  study.  The  Educator  is  sitting  at  his  desk. 
The  Spirit  of  Culture  appears  before  him,  seeming  to  form  herself  out  of  the 
air.  The  Educator  rises  and  bows;  the  Spirit  of  Culture  gracefully  sinks 
into  a  chair.     The  Educator  seals  himself  again  at  his  desk. 

***** 

The  Educator.     May  I  inquire  your  name? 

The  Spirit  of  Culture.     My  name  is  The  Spirit  of  Culture. 

The  Educator  (somewhat  at  a  loss).  I'm  afraid  I  cannot  claim 
a  very  close  acquaintance  with  you.  Perhaps  you  will  favor  me  by  telling 
the  object  of  your  visit. 

The  Spirit  of  Culture.  Since  the  nations  of  Europe  have 
so  rudely  cast  me  out,  I  have  come  to  this  New  World  of  yours  in  the  hope 
of  finding  here  a  permanent  home.  I  have  come  to  you,  as  one  of  Amer- 
ica's most  noted  educational  leaders,  in  the  hope  of  gaining  some  insight 
into  the  character  and  taste  of  your  nation. 

The  Educator.  I  shall  be  glad  to  give  you  any  information  in 
my  power. 

The  Spirit  of  Culture.  First,  let  me  ask  you  about  music. 
Although  this  is  not  your  particular  field  of  endeavor,  I  imagine  that  you 
are  well  enough  qualified  to  give  me  an  idea  of  the  best  taste  of  the  country 
in  that  respect.  Do  the  masterpieces  of  Beethoven  and  Wagner  meet 
with  general  appreciation  in  America? 

The  Educator  (with  hurt  surprise).  Beethoven!  Wagner!  I 
should  think  that  the  present  war  would  show  you  how  useless  or  posi- 
tively mischievous  their  influence  is. 

The  Spirit  of  Culture  (somewhat  blankly).  Do  I  under- 
stand you  to  mean  that  Germany's  glorious  music  is  the  direct  cause  of  her 
participation  in  the  war? 

The  Educator.  Perhaps  I  would  scarcely  put  it  as  strongly  as 
that.     But  this  is  a  practical  country ;  we  believe  in  results,  and  the  results 


330  The  Haverfordian 

show  that  Germany,  with  her  much-vaunted  Beethovens  and  Wagnersi 
is  shocking  the  world  by  her  unciviHzed  conduct,  while  we  with  our 
unpretentious  ragtime  composers  stand  forth  as  the  embodiment  of  the 
highest  in  peace,  prosperity,  and  civilization. 

The  Spirit  of  Culture.  I  don't  believe  I  have  ever  heard  of 
ragtime.     Perhaps  you  can  explain  it  to  me. 

The  Educator  {with  a  smile  of  benignant  pride).  Ragtime  is  one 
of  the  noblest  developments  of  our  democracy.  Where  a  few  intellectuals 
find  enjoyment  in  the  complicated  harmonies  of  classical  music,  our 
whole  nation  enjoys  the  open  and  obvious  melodies  of  ragtime.  The 
exhausted  business  man,  the  tired  shopgirl,  the  professional  man,  the 
laborer,  all  meet  on  a  common  footing.  (Commences  to  hum  "  The  Inter- 
national Rag"). 

The  Spirit  of  Culture  {turning  slightly  pale).  Perhaps  we 
had  better  change  the  subject.  Is  there  a  highly  developed  taste  for  the 
art  of  literature? 

The  Educator.  That  depends  on  what  you  mean.  Our 
writers  don't  waste  their  lives  writing  books  for  a  remote  future.  They 
believe,  and  quite  rightly,  too,  that  their  mission  is  to  amuse  and  edify 
the  present,  not  the  ages  to  come.  They  are  quite  different  from  that 
ridiculous  Frenchman — I  think  his  name  was  Flaubert — who 
used  to  spend  five  and  ten  years  on  each  of  his  books.  Although  I  highly 
disapprove  of  such  a  course,  which  is  totally  lacking  in  practical  efficiency 
and  results,  I  read  one  of  his  books,  just  to  see  what  so  much  time  and 
labor  would  produce. 

The  Spirit  of  Culture.  What  was  the  impression  you  re- 
ceived from  reading  the  book? 

The  Educator.  Why,  will  you  believe  me,  it  left  me  more 
depressed  after  I  had  finished  it  than  when  I  had  begun  to  read ! 

The  Spirit  of  Culture.  Is  that  fact  any  objection  to  its  ar- 
tistic value? 

The  Educator  {again  hurt  and  surprised).  Any  objection! 
Why,  what  is  the  use  of  a  book  if  it  doesn't  make  the  world  a  little  better 
and  a  little  brighter  for  being  written?  This  book  didn't  even  teach  any 
valuable  moral  lesson.  Such  a  work  may  be  high  art,  according  to  the 
canons  of  captious  literary  criticism ;  but  it  seems  to  me  to  be  an  unprof- 
itable waste  of  time,  both  for  writer  and  for  reader.  No,  no!  These 
highly  praised  Continental  novels  may  suit  a  certain  type  of  mind;  but 
give  me  the  books  that  carry  a  little  sunshine  where  they  go, that  gladden 
the  hearts  of  their  readers  and  make  them  feel  that  life  is  well  worth 
living,  after  all.     I  have  the  same  feeling  about  poetry.     Why,  in  my 


Culture  a  la  Mode  331 

humble  opinion,  our  own  Longfellow's  "Psalm  of  Life"  is  worth  all 
those  elaborate  poems  of  Byron  and  Shelley  and  Swinburne,  with  their 
obscure  thoughts  and  classical  terminology,  both  equally  unintelligible 
to  the  man  in  the  street. 

The  Spirit  of  Culture  (wincing).  Is  your  nation  inclined 
to  moral  and  philosophic  thought? 

The  Educator.  Our  spiritual  condition  is  most  satisfactory 
at  present.  A  few  months  ago,  I  must  admit,  there  was  a  distressing 
apathy  in  religious  matters.  Some  people  actually  went  so  far  as  to 
doubt  whether  those  who  are  not  saved  by  faith  will  burn  in  eternal 
torment.     But  a  most  gratifying  change  has  recently  taken  place. 

The  Spirit  of  Culture.  How  was  the  change  brought 
about? 

The  Educator.  By  means  of  a  rather  singular  agency,  an 
ex-prizefighter  turned  evangelist.  He  carried  on  immense  revival  meet- 
ings and  sent  thousands  of  sinners  into  fits  of  hysterical  repentance. 

The  Spirit  of  Culture  What  methods  did  he  employ? 

The  Educator.  I  believe  his  most  effective  weapon  was  a 
twenty-round  fight  that  he  carried  on  with  the  devil  every  night  on  the 
stage.  Then  he  kept  up  such  intimate  and  familiar  conversations  with 
the  Deity.  (The  Spirit  of  Culture  shudders  perceptibly.)  Oh,  I  admit 
that  his  methods  were  a  trifle  crude;   but  he  certainly  got  the  results. 

The  Spirit  of  Culture.  May  I  inquire  what  those  results 
were? 

The  Educator.  The  turning  of  thousands  to  faith  and  re- 
pentance. 

The  Spirit  of  Culture.  Do  you  consider  his  teachings  the 
essence  of  religion  and  morality? 

The  Educator.  Not  exactly — in  fact,  they  would  hardly  suit 
me  at  all ;  but  there  is  a  certain  class  of  people —  And  you  can't  get  around 
the  fact  that  he  produced  the  results.  Why,  he  must  have  collected  thirty 
thousand  dollars,  at  least,  during  his  stay  here. 

The  Spirit  of  Culture.  That  is,  indeed,  a  decisive  result. 
But  this — this  pugilistic  evangelist  seems  to  have  been  emotional  rather 
than  intellectual  in  his  appeal.  Do  you  have  any  speculative  philos- 
ophers? 

The  Educator.  I  am  humbly  and  profoundly  thankful  that  we 
have  not.  Look  at  the  pass  to  which  Germany  has  been  brought  by  her 
Schopenhauers,  Hegels,  and  Nietzsches. 

The  Spirit  of  Culture.  But  those  three  men  were  diamet- 
rically opposed  to  each  other  in  their  theories. 


332  The  Haverfordian 

The  Educator  {somewhat  fretfully).  That  makes  no  difference! 
They  were  equally  detrimental  to  the  moral  and  religious  life  of  their 
nation. 

The  Spirit  of  Culture  {after  a  pause).  I  come  now  to  your 
particular  lifework,  education. 

The  Educator  {with  obvious  delight).  Ah,  here  I  know  that  you 
will  be  enchanted  by  our  departure  from  hidebound  conventionality.  In 
our  idea  of  extending  vocational  education  from  special  trade  schools  to 
the  high  schools,  and  ultimately,  I  trust,  to  the  colleges,  we  may  fairly 
claim  to  be  the  most  progressive  educators  in  the  world. 

The  Spirit  of  Culture.  I  wish  that  you  would  elucidate 
your  idea  more  fully. 

The  Educator.  With  the  utmost  pleasure.  We  have  com- 
pletely shaken  off  the  absurd  tradition  that  there  is  any  real  advantage 
in  the  study  of  those  two  dead  languages,  Latin  and  Greek.  Of  course, 
I  will  admit  that  there  is  a  certain  amount  of  disciplinary  value  in  the 
study  of  these  languages;  but  it  is  generally  agreed,  I  think,  that  a 
course  in  bricklaying  is  far  superior  to  one  in  Homer  for  the  development 
of  patience  and  accuracy;  and  when  one  considers  the  respective  prac- 
tical value  of  the  two — 

The  Spirit  of  Culture  {interrupting  him  with  a  shocked  and 
alarmed  expression).  But  are  you  not  overlooking  the  fundamental  ad- 
vantages of  the  classics,  their  literary  beauty,  and  the  opportunities 
that  they  give  for  the  contemplation  of  ancient  civilization? 

The  Educator.  Their  literary  beauty  may  have  appealed  to 
their  own  age;  it  has  little  meaning  for  ours.  And  as  for  their  civiliza- 
tion, let  me  only  make  a  few  comparisons  between  Athens  of  the  fifth 
century  B.  C.  and  America  today.  The  Greeks  of  that  period  had 
neither  railraods,  nor  telegraphs,  nor  steam-engines,  nor  newspapers — 

The  Spirit  of  Culture  {with  a  melancholy  smile).  Nor  rag- 
time, nor  religious  revivals. 

The  Educator.  Certainly  not.  And  they  were  sadly  indiffer- 
ent to  the  principles  of  social  and  industrial  justice.  Conceive,  if  you 
can,  the  sensations  of  strangeness  and  horror  which  a  modern,  progressive, 
twentieth  century  American  would  experience  upon  being  transported 
back  to  that  age  and  country. 

The  Spirit  of  Culture.  I  can  only  conceive  one  case  in 
which  these  sensations  would  be  more  pronounced. 

The  Educator.    What  case  is  that? 

The  Spirit  of  Culture.  The  case  of  a  Greek  of  that  period 
if  he  were  transported  to  America  of  the  present  day. 


Culture  a  la  Mode 


333 


The  Educator.  No  doubt  it  would  take  some  time  to  educate 
such  a  man  up  to  our  standards.  But  I  will  go  on  with  our  modern 
scheme  of  education.  We  hope,  in  the  near  future,  to  eliminate  every 
study  which  does  not  directly  contribute  to  the  earning  power  of  the  stu- 
dent. And  this  principle  governs  our  attitude  towards  culture,  of  which, 
I  understand,  you  are  the  patron  goddess.  If  culture  will  pay  a  man's 
rent  or  buy  him  a  suit  of  clothes,  well  and  good;  otherwise  it  has  no  place 
in  our  modern,  efficient  and  practical  educational  system. 

(As  he  utters  these  -words  The  Spirit  of  Culture  slowly  melts  away  into 
thin  air.  The  Educator  frowns,  rubs  his  eyes,  and  turns  to  write  the  following 
climax  to  his  soon-to-be-delivered  address,  "  Culture  and  Efficiency:  When 
culture  conflicts  with  practical  efficiency,  culture  must  go.") 


^fjat  a  tf)e  §ouns  JfvnnW  iflobement? 

By  Thomas  E.  Jones. 

[The  following  article  written,  by  the  General  Secretary  of  the  Friends' 
Board  of  Young  People's  Activities,  although  it  speaks  only  in  terms  of  one 
denomination,  will  be  of  interest  to  all  Haverfordians  as  a  typical  expression 
of  the  recent  growth  of  religious  interest  in  every  Protestant  church  in  America. 
Every  sincere  seeker  for  truth  will  welcome  the  effort  to  enlist  the  enthusiasm 
and  intelligence  of  youth  in  the  revival  of  true  spiritual  life  within  organized 
churches. — Editors] 

ANY  requests  for  a  more  definite  statement  of  what  the  Young 
Friends'  Movement  is,  make  necessary  a  clearer  exposition  of 
the  nature  and  the  purpose  of  our  work.  The  Board  of  Young 
Friends'  Activities  has  made  no  definite  statement  of  what  the  Young 
People's  Movement  is  and  for  what  it  stands  before  now,  because  it  has 
been  studying  the  field ;  trying  to  determine  our  needs,  and  to  define  our 
church  responsibility.  We  are  now  more  able  to  make  such  a  definition 
than  ever  before,  although  even  now  we  cannot  give  a  complete  state- 
ment. Only  the  future  can  reveal  what  the  Young  Friends'  Movement 
really  is  and  what  it  can  accomplish. 

The  Young  Friends'  Movement  practically  defines  itself.  It  is  an 
expression  of  new  life  and  interest  that  has  taken  hold  of  the  Young 
People  of  our  Society.  I  might  turn  aside  to  say  that  this  new  life  is 
not  peculiar  to  Friends  alone.  It  is  found  in  all  denominations  and  is 
expressing  itself  in  various  ways.  The  thing  that  seems  to  be  common 
to  all  is  a  renewed  interest  in  evangelism  and  a  desire  to  make  our  churches 
efficient.  This  spirit  has  especially  taken  hold  of  the  young  people  of  our 
denomination  and  is  making  itself  felt  among  practically  all  people  who 
call  themselves  Friends. 

The  Young  Friends'  Movement  is  characterized  by  three  things. 
It  is  young;  emphasizes  the  message  of  Friends;  and  is  a  decided  move- 
ment. In  the  first  place  it  is  made  up  of  and  belongs  to  young  people. 
There  are  of  course  many  in  the  middle  walks  of  life  who  are  deeply 
interested  in  our  work  and  are  helping  us  start,  but  the  real  life  and  power 
of  the  movement  rest  with  the  younger  members  of  our  denomination. 
It  is  young  in  expression,  being  enthusiastic,  active,  and  hopeful.  Again, 
this  movement  is  itself  young,  being  at  most  not  more  than  ten  or  fifteen 
years  old.     Of  course  there  were  signs  of  an  awakening  much  before  this, 


What  is  the  Young  Friends'  Movement?  335 

but  the  present  expression  did  not  find  place  among  Friends  until  about 
the  beginning  of  the  present  century.  The  first  signs  of  new  life  were 
among  Young  Friends  in  Ireland,  then  quite  spontaneously  in  England, 
Australia,  and  various  places  throughout  the  United  States.  One  of  the 
great  hopes  of  our  work  is  its  youth  and  spontaneity. 

In  the  second  place  the  Young  Friends'  Movement  is  an  attempt  to 
meet  the  demand  for  a  more  definite  policy  as  a  denomination.  Hundreds 
of  young  people  have  been  asking  for  what  do  we  as  a  Society  stand? 
What  right  have  we  for  existence?  And  have  we  any  distinctive  message 
for  the  world?  By  these  questions  no  one  is  wishing  to  encourage  denom- 
inational intolerance  nor  even  further  the  spirit  of  narrow  sectarianism. 
But  what  we  do  want  to  know  is  why  do  we  call  ourselves  Friends?  And 
do  we  not  by  the  very  use  of  that  term  place  ourselves  under  a  certain 
obligation  before  the  world,  which  demands  that  we  define  more  clearly 
our  position?  Our  C.  E.  organization  and  other  interdenominational 
movements  of  the  past  twenty-five  years,  all  good  in  themselves,  and  I 
for  one  have  nothing  but  praise  for  the  great  work  they  have  done,  tend 
to  obscure  the  distinctive  message  that  each  denomination  has  to  give 
and  has  been  struggling  these  three  hundred  years  to  maintain.  Despite 
the  fact  that  we  deplore  many  of  the  sectarian  differences  we  have  known 
in  the  past,  we  must  realize  that  the  variety  of  appeal  made  by  the 
church  as  a  whole  through  its  various  denominations  is  stronger  than  that 
which  any  one  church  can  make.  If  this  be  not  true  there  is  no  place  for 
the  small  denomination.  When  we  as  denominations  realize  that  we  are 
each  integral  parts  of  a  whole,  and  that  our  very  existence  in  that  whole 
depends  upon  every  other  part,  and  furthermore  that  the  efficiency  of  the 
church  as  a  whole  depends  upon  the  standard  of  each  individual  denom- 
ination, we  shall  see  how  petty  it  is  to  maintain  a  spirit  of  antagonism, 
but  instead  shall  feel  under  what  deep  obligation  we  are  placed  to  do  our 
work  well.  The  seriousness  of  a  half-hearted  policy  then  begins  to  make 
itself  clear. 

As  I  have  said  before,  Young  Friends  have  begun  to  realize  this  fact 
and  are  seeking  to  make  our  message  practical  and  definite,  so  that  the 
world  on  the  one  hand  may  know  what  we  stand  for  and  our  denomination 
on  the  other  may  know  what  is  expected  of  it. 

We  must  turn  the  numerous  rivulets  of  youthful  enthusiasm  from 
courses  of  isolated  endeavor  into  one  great  stream  of  spiritual  power. 
We  must  hope  and  work  for  the  time  when  the  hundred  and  twenty 
thousand  people  who  call  themselves  Friends  will  work  together  shoulder 
to  shoulder  to  bring  in  the  Kingdom  of  God.  I  repeat  that  the  Young 
Friends'  Movement  is  not  a  sectarian  revival  in  the  narrow  sense,  but  an 


336.  The  Haverfordian 

effort  to  make  efficient  all  our  Young  People's  organizations  and  aid  them 
in  doing  their  work  as  Friends. 

In  the  third  place  the  Young  Friends'  Movement  is  really  a  move- 
ment. It  is  expressing  itself  in  various  ways,  but  it  has  a  common 
purpose.  There  are  two  general  forms  which  it  is  taking.  First,  it  is 
establishing,  reviving,  and  stimulating  Young  People's  organizations 
in  local  meetings,  and  second,  it  is  holding  Quarterly  Meeting,  Yearly 
Meeting,  or  General  Conferences.  In  the  first  case  various  methods  are 
used.  Sometimes  a  gospel  team  will  visit  a  meeting  that  is  almost  spirit- 
ually dead  and  quicken  it  into  new  life.  Again,  the  young  people  of  a 
meeting  may  form  a  circle  for  the  purpose  of  studying  more  about  the 
history  and  principles  of  Friends.  A  dead  Christian  Endeavor  Society 
is  revived  with  the  appeal  to  do  some  concrete  piece  of  social  service  work. 
And  sometimes  a  group  of  young  people  form  a  fellowship  group  where 
they  hold  an  unprogrammed  meeting  after  the  manner  of  the  early 
Friends.  In  the  second  case.  Young  Friends  come  together  for  conference 
or  spiritual  quickening,  who  have  had  little  or  no  opportunity  of  seeing 
what  we  as  Friends  really  are  and  have  to  give  to  the  world.  We 
take  on  new  life,  regain  confidence  in  our  ideals,  and  seek  to  put  them 
in  practise. 

The  Five  Years'  Meeting  considered  the  Young  People's  work  so 
important  that  it  created  a  separate  Board  to  look  after  it.  The  work 
of  the  Board  has  been  large  and  varied,  but  the  following  are  some  of  the 
things  it  is  trying  to  accomplish : 

1.  To  unite  all  kinds  of  Young  Friends'  Activities  under  one  head. 
This  should  serve  as  a  responsible  center  to  which  all  young  Friends 
can  refer  and  to  which  they  belong,  thus  making  staple  and  permanent 
many  organizations  that  are  resting  on  a  shaky  foundation. 

2.  To  act  as  a  clearing  house  for  all  kinds  of  suggestions  for  Young 
People's  work. 

3.  To  furnish  Young  People  with  literature  or  other  supplies  for 
their  work. 

4.  To  serve  as  an  Advisory  Board  for  all  Young  Friends'  organiza- 
tions. 

5.  To  gather  and  file  for  permanent  record  all  C.  E.  reports  from 
each  Yearly  Meeting  and  to  make  our  C.  E.  Societies  integral  parts  of  our 
church. 

6.  To  encourage  the  study  of  Quaker  history  and  principles  among 
all  of  our  Young  People. 

7.  To  make  a  directory  containing  the  names  and  a  brief  biography 
of  all  Young  People  in  our  denomination. 


The  Unknowable  337 

8.  To  follow  up  each  of  our  Young  People  as  they  go  through  college 
and  move  from  one  place  to  another  in  business. 

9.  To  seek  to  bind  the  Young  People  closer  and  closer  to  the  church 
by  cultivating  in  them  a  passion  for  souls  and  deepest  devotion  to  God. 

With  such  a  program  as  this  we  are  hoping  to  enlist  the  support  of 
every  Young  Friend  and  of  every  older  Friend  who  is  interested  in  the 
Young  People. 


Zi)t  Witikm\JiMt 


It  grew  and  gleamed  with  lurid  light, — - 
A  squatting,  green-eyed  basilisk. 
It  stares  unblinking  in  the  night, 
Where  shadows  from  my  candU  frisk. 

My  questions  freeze  in  frightful  awe — 
Life's  adamantine  limit  seen — 
My  hopes  grow  ragged  in  its  maw. 
I  dread  its  eyes  of  glassy  green. 

I  sought  to  know  the  great  unknown. 
Alone  and  toiling  in  the  night — 
So  far  my  hope  of  sight  had  grown — 
Till  this  grew,  grinning  at  my  might. 


E.  M.  P. 


By  Jack  G.  C.  Le  Clercq,  '18. 

"Somewhere  a  voice  is  calling, 
Calling  for  me." 

^HE  Comtesse  Valerie  de  Saint  Maur  looked  quizzically  across  the 
breakfast  table  at  her  husband,  Yvon  de  Saint  Maur. 

"Well,"  she  exclaimed  pleasantly,  "from  whom  is  that 
letter? "  And  as  she  spoke  he  dropped  the  heavy  letter  on  the  floor,  but 
answered  not  a  word. 

Valerie  frowned  slightly.  "What  has  been  the  matter  with  you 
lately?"  she  asked;  "you  seem  as  if  your  mind  were  far  away.  Have 
you  been  working  too  hard  at  the  Embassy?" 

Yvon, who  was  an  attache  of  the  Belgian  Embassy,  looked  back  and, 
in  a  distrait  tone  of  voice,  "Yes,"  he  said. 

With  feminine  tact  she  saw  that  nothing  was  to  be  gained  by  ques- 
tioning him  about  his  troubles. 

"  I  do  not  see,"  she  remarked,  "why  the  Belgian  government  should 
feel  alarmed  at  the  present  situation.  Even  if  Servia,  Austria,  Russia, 
France  and  Germany  were  to  fight,  it  would  not  affect  Belgium.  Why, 
therefore,  is  there  such  excitement  at  the  Embassy?" 

Her  handsome  husband  looked  at  her  fondly  as  he  said  affection- 
ately, "You  do  not  understand." 

"  Vraiment,"  she  replied.  "But  Belgium  is  neutral,  mon  ami,  and 
it  has  built  up  its  prosperity  upon  its  neutrality.  We  have,  and  shall 
ever,  pin  our  faith  to  the  sacred  promises  of  the  great  nations  of  the 
world." 

Yvon  smiled.  "Alas,  I  would  it  were  so!"  He  looked  very  serious 
for  his  thirty  years — his  brow  was  knit  in  a  frown  and  his  whole  counte- 
nance wore  an  expression  of  great  gloom.  "You  see,  if  England,  France, 
Germany  or  any  other  country  on  the  face  of  the  earth  could  possibly 
gain  anything  by  violating  our  neutrality,  I  assure  you  they  would  not 
hesitate  an  instant.  The  sacred  promises  of  the  great  nations  of  the 
world,  the  oaths  of  the  mightiest  rulers — what  are  they?  Forty  million 
Belgian  neutralities  could  not  save  our  poor  little  country." 

"Do  you  think  that  England.  ..."  suggested  Valerie. 

"  My  dear  girl,"  he  interrupted  laughingly,  "  England,  even  England, 
would  have  no  scruples.  As  recently  as  the  nineteenth  century  England 
calmly  blew  up  the  Danish  fleet  in  the  harbor  of  Copenhagen,  without 


"The  Voice"  A  Story  339 

even  a  declaration  of  war.  And  the  Jamestown  Raid.  ..."  he  laughrd 
loudly.     "  England  would  not  respect  us." 

But  he  suddenly  ceased  laughing  and  very  seriously:  "Valerie,"  he 
said,  "the  letter  on  the  floor  comes  from  the  Prime  Minister  of  Belgium. 
Every  Belgian  abroad  is  to  be  ready  at  any  moment  to  leave  for  Ostend. 
A  general  mobilization  is  expected." 

"What!"  gasped  Valerie,  incredulous. 

"Exactly  this,"  explained  Yvon:  "Belgium  fears  invasion." 

Valerie  was  thunderstruck.  Yvon  might  have  to  go  and  fight!  it 
seemed  cruel,  impossible.  But  Valerie  had  the  best  blood  of  Europe  in 
her  veins;  directly  descended  from  the  Dutch  sailor  Van  Tromp,  she 
had  inherited  his  sangfroid : 

"I  hope  my  husband  will  go,"  she  said,  simply. 

But  Yvon  answered  not  a  word. 

The  Belgian  Ambassador  to  the  Court  of  Saint  James  rose. 
"Gentlemen,"  he  said,  "you  are  all  no  doubt  surprised  that  I  have  called 
you  together.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  I  myself  am  surprised  that  I  had  to 
do  so.  But  that  is  Fate.  ..."  he  paused  in  order  to  clear  his  throat. 
Silence  reigned  supreme  and  the  three  hundred  Belgians  present  listened 
attentively:  "This  is  no  time  for  words.  I  shall  be  explicit."  The 
short,  jerky  sentences  were  characteristic  of  the  great  warrior  who  was 
addressing  the  men,  and  their  brutality  created  a  profound  impression 
on  them:  "News  has  come  from  headquarters  in  Brussels.  A  partial 
mobilization  has  begun;  a  general  mobilization  will  be  ordered  soon. 
You  understand?  Gentlemen,  war  is  impending.  Germany  and  France 
are  growling  at  each  other.  For  our  safety  we  must  mobilize.  I  have 
fought;  now  you  may  have  a  chance.  You  have  a  call.  A  call  to 
arms!     Your  King  and  country  need  you!     God  save  the  King ! " 

Little  did  Belgium's  Ambassador  realize  that  the  words  he  had 
uttered  were  soon  to  be  on  every  lip;  that  the  British  Isles,  Canada, 
Australia,  India  and  Africa — nearly  the  whole  world — were  to  ring  with 
the  echo  of  those  three  sentences. 

"This  is  a  matter  of  life  and  death.  Means  are  being  taken  so  that 
every  Belgian  in  this  country  may  reach  Ostend  by  to-morrow.  I  my- 
self sent  out  papers  to  every  recognized  Belgian  in  England. 

"You  see  what  it  is.  The  stronger  our  army,  the  less  we  fear  inva- 
sion. I  believe  in  you;  you  are  Belgians.  Think  what  it  means;  think 
of  Belgium.     Then  you  will  go." 

The  supreme  confidence  and  self-assurance  of  the  grizzled  old 
statesman  and  warrior  gripped  the  audience;  at  the  back  of  the  hall 


340  The  Haverfordian 

someone  took  up  the  Belgian  national  anthem.  They  sang  "La  Bra- 
banconne"  as  it  had  never  been  sung  since  the  poet  who  composed  it, 
Jenneval,  died  at  the  siege  of  Lierre,  fighting  for  the  independence  of  his 
country;  never  before  had  it  been  jeopardized,  and  now,  dreaming  of 
dying  as  Jenneval  had  done,  they  sang  with  fierce  enthusiasm. 

The  lofty  music  written  to  the  glory  of  Belgium's  unknown  heroes 
rang  through  the  building,  and  then  all  was  quiet.  The  minister  again 
rose:  "Fellow-Belgians,"  he  said,  in  a  voice  choked  with  sobs,  "you 
have  sacrificed  everything.  I  doubt  whether  you  even  realize  the  gieat- 
ness  of  your  self-denial.  Men  will  forget  what  you  have  done;  Belgium 
may  forget.  But  up  above,  in  Heaven,  lives  One  eternally  who  never 
lets  pass  any  act  of  self-denial  without  retribution.  God  will  reward 
you,  my  noble  compatriots.  God  bless  you!  Thank  you,  my  friends; 
in  the  name  of  Albert  of  Belgium,  I  thank  you." 

Enthusiasm  reigned  supreme;  unrestrained  joy  and  exultation 
seized  the  brave  men  and  they  yelled  themselves  hoarse.  Then  the 
minister  walked  to  the  head  of  the  stairway  and  "Thank  you,"  he  said, 
shaking  the  hands  of  every  man  who  walked  out.  His  words  were  beau- 
tiful in  their  simplicity. 

Now  and  then  they  joked. 

"I  will  remember  you  to  the  Boulevard  Anspach,"  said  one  of  the 
secretaries,  trivially.  Triviality  at  a  moment  of  heroic  sacrifice  is  indeed 
sublime. 

Half  an  hour  later,  the  Ambassador  walked  back  to  the  room;  one 
man  alone  was  left  out  of  the  crowd  that  had  filled  the  place. 

"Well,  Monsieur  de  Saint  Maur,  when  do  you  go?"  he  asked 
cheerfully. 

Yvon  lifted  his  aching  head  and  muttered  harshly,  "  I  go  not." 

The  elder  man  looked  at  him  amazed,  then  turning  on  his  heel, 
"Coward!"  he  murmured,  aside,  but  not  so  low  that  Yvon  could  not 
hear. 

A  look  of  pain  spread  over  the  young  attache's  face: — "Your  Ex- 
cellency," he  called  out  sharply,  and  as  the  Ambassador  came  back, 
" Does  your  excellency  think  me  afraid? " 

As  if  ignoring  the  question,  the  other  said:  "Never  shall  I  forget 
the  day  when  I,  at  the  head  of  the  garrison  of  Liege  at  that  time,  was 
driving  to  Jupille  with  my  wife.  We  had  just  passed  Huy  and  were 
going  down  the  hill  when  the  horse  bolted.  At  the  end  of  the  road  lay 
Death.  But,  happily,  between  Death  and  us  stood  a  boy,  a  mere  child, 
twelve  years  of  age.  I  shall  never  as  long  as  I  live  forget  his  heroism  as 
he  stopped  the  runaway  horse.     His  name  was  Yvon  de  Saint  Maur. 


"The  Voice"  A  Story  341 

Why,  therefore,  does  he  hesitate?      A  de  Saint  Maur  cannot   but   fight." 

"What  of  world  peace?"  asked  Yvon. 

"It  cannot  be,"  replied  the  Ambassador.  "Belgium  must  fight 
or  die." 

"I  go,  then,"  said  Yvon,  determinedly. 

"Thank  you,"  said  the  old  man,  for  the  hundredth  time  that  day. 
*********** 

He  told  Valerie  when  he  got  back;  she  smiled  through  her  tears. 
"  I  am  proud  of  you,  Yvon,"  she  said  sweetly. 

Leaving  his  wife,  Yvon  went  up  to  his  office  to  settle  any  business 
he  might  have.  As  he  was  writing,  he  heard  somebody  singing.  It 
was  Valerie. 

Far  away  the  sound  of  music  came  through  the  doors  of  his  study; 
the  beautiful  voice  of  his  wife,  the  way  she  played  the  song,  the  touch 
and  the  rhythm,  all  made  him  listen.     She  was  singing  divinely;  her 
anguished  soul  was  brave  enough  to  send  a  message  to  his;  and  it  was 
with  an  indescribable  beauty  and  melancholy  that  she  sang: 
"Dusk  and  the  shadows  falling 
O'er  land  and  sea. 
Somewhere  a  voice  is  calling, 
Calling  for  me." 

The  words  dawned  upon  him  in  a  new  light:  it  was  the  voice  of 
Belgium,  his  country,  calling  to  him  from  across  the  sea, — asking  him 
to  follow  the  motto  of  the  noble  Saint  Maur  family;  the  pathos  of  his 
wife's  song  struck  home  and  he  felt  that  she  was  spurring  him  on,  even 
though  she  was  to  lose  him.  "Que  voulez-vous! "  he  said  to  himself  as 
he  thought  of  Bertrand  de  Saint  Maur,  his  ancestor,  the  conqueror  of 
the  Duke  of  Alva,  and  the  hero  who  had  handed  down  their  motto  to 
members  of  the  Saint  Maur  family,  "I  am  a  de  Saint  Mauri"  and  "I  die 
fighting,"  he  quoted. 


Two  Letters 

"Paris,  Aug.  30th, 
"To  the  Comtesse  Valerie  de  Saint  Maur  from  Jean  D'Estrees. 
"Madame: — 

"Without  having  the  pleasure  of  your  acquaintance,  the 
fact  that  for  the  last  three  weeks  I  have  been  fighting  side  by  side  with 
your  husband  prompts  me  to  write. 

"Alas,  Madame,  your  husband  was  too  good  a  man  to  live;  we  who 
were  with  him  under  fire  alone  can  appreciate  this.     The  day  before  the 


342  The  Haverfordian 

battle  of  Lille  he  gave  me  the  enclosed  letter  to  send  to  you.  'Jean,' 
he  said,  'something  tells  me  I  am  to  die  to-morrow,'and  when  I  exclaimed, 
'Nonsense!'  he  cut  me  short.  'Here  is  a  letter  which  I  beg  you  to  send 
to  the  address  I  have  written;  if  I  come  safe  out  of  this  battle  you  will 
return  it  to  me.' 

"Madame,  it  has  been  my  sad  fate  to  have  been  obliged  to  send  it 
to  you.  Please  allow  me  to  add  my  heartfelt  sorrow  and  my  sincere 
admiration  for  your  husband. 

"Well  may  you  be  proud  of  him;  he  died  a  hero. 

"The  colors  were  nearly  in  the  hands  of  the  Germans  when  Yvon 
de  Saint  Maur  rushed  out  of  the  line,  and,  having  recaptured  the  flag,  ran 
back.  A  bullet  struck  him  as  he  reached  our  line.  His  great  sorrow 
was  that  he  died  shot  in  the  back.  Death  was  almost  instantaneous; 
his  last  words  to  me  were  so  low  that  I  barely  heard  them.  '  I  die  fight- 
ing,' he  said,  and  the  rest  I  did  not  hear,  except,  'Calling,  calling  for  me.' 
....  If  I  may  be  of  any  service,  Madame,  I  pray  you  not  to  hesitate,  for 
I  shall  be  glad  to  do  anything  within  my  power. 

"I  am,  Madame, 

"Jean  d'Estrees. 

"P.  S.     He  has  been  buried  with  the  colors  he  so  nobly  saved. 
Alone  on  the  hill  is  he  sleeping  his  last  sleep.     The  air  is  pure  there; 
there  are  flowers  and  light.     He  has  found  his  place  in  the  sun." 

Valerie  de  Saint  Maur  looked  out  of  the  window ;  the  shadows  were 
falling  over  London,  enveloping  the  capital  as  with  a  veil  of  blue.  Long 
minutes  she  spent  gazing  out  into  the  increasing  darkness.  Her  grief 
and  pain  were  too  great  for  tears;  with  dry  eyes  she  opened  the  enclosed 
letter  from  Yvon  de  Saint  Maur. 

"Valerie,"  she  read. 

"We  have  been  working  hard  all  today  and  now  only,  at  eleven 
o'clock,  do  I  find  the  leisure  to  write. 

"I  feel  well,  Valerie.  It  seems  to  me  that  I  have  had  a  chance  to 
prove  my  worth.     I  have  taken  it. 

"  O  my  soul !  Something  tells  me  that  to-night  is  to  be  my  last.  As 
I  sit  here  with  the  cold  wind  blowing  o'er  the  peaceful  camp,  I  realize 
that  that  very  wind  will  blow  my  soul  across  the  Great  Divide 

"To-morrow  is  our  hardest  fight.     I  think  of  you. 

"  If  I  die,  Valerie,  do  not  forget  the  song  we  used  to  sing: 


"The  Voice"  A  Story  343 

"  '  Night  must  pass  and  day  must  follow  after. 
Other  joys  and  griefs  must  come  with  day. 
Yet  through  all  the  weeping  and  the  laughter. 
You  will  ever  hear  the  words  I  say . . .  .' 

"The  only  hill  in  sight  is  looming  up  in  the  darkness.  I  feel  as  if  I 
were  going  to  be  buried  there;  durirvg  the  day  it  is  bathed  in  golden  sun- 
shine.    Perhaps  I  may  find  a  place  in  the  sun. 

"There  are  no  stars  in  the  heavens — all  is  dark  as  though  Night  will 
bring  with  it  a  Day  of  Death. 

"As  I  write  I  hear  the  Voice;  it  is  calling  me.  O'er  land  and  sea  it 
calls  me,  but  it  is  not  the  voice  of  Belgium. 

"  I  feel  good  to-night,  O  my  soul,  for  I  have  heard  the  Voice;  it  is 
the  voice  of  Him  who  came  on  earth  that  we  might  be  saved.  Above  the 
tumult  of  the  battle  I  shall  hear  the  voice  of  the  Prince  of  Peace  calling 
me  up  to  Him.  Valerie,  when  you  receive  this  I  shall  be  in  His  presence. 
I  think  of  you  and  of  our  child,  who  may  be  born  by  the  time  I  will  be 
through. 

"Good-bye,  O  my  soul!  If  it  be  a  son  that  we  have,  call  him  Albert, 
in  honor  of  our  hero-king;  if  a  girl,  then  Valerie,  in  honor  of  you. 

"But  I  must  rest.     Farewell,  Valerie. 


"Your  happy  lover, 


'Yvon." 


The  doctor  bent  over  the  unconscious  woman  in  the  bed.  "I  save 
either  the  mother  or  the  child." 

His  colleague  looked  down  at  Valerie  de  Saint  Maur. 

"Her  husband  is  dead,"  he  said;  " she  has  nothing  to  live  for." 

The  other  thought  a  minute:  "The  child,  then,"  he  said,  with 
determination. 

Valerie  at  last  came  back  to  consciousness;  the  doctors  looked  at 
each  other  as  if  to  say,  "She  cannot  live  another  hour." 

"  Is  it  a  boy ? "  she  asked. 

"No,"  answered  the  surgeon. 

"Call  her  Dolorides,"  she  said  faintly:  "child  of  pain." 


By  Eugene  M.  Pharo,  '15. 


The  sun  steals  through  the  rose  window 
To  see  her  dancing  there. 
Her  cheeks  flush  in  his  ardent  glow, 
And  gleams  her  golden  hair. 

Within  her  silken  saffron  gown, 
Her  limbs,  like  ivory  gleaming, 
Dance  to  a  lute,  dance  up  and  down. 
With  grace  celestial  seeming. 

Her  rosy  feet  scarce  touch  the  ground, 
Her  red  lips  parted  slightly. 
{It  seems  her  lips  drink  in  the  sound 
That  makes  her  move  so  lightly.) 

Her  eyes  are  blue  (her  girdle's  hue) , 
All  radiantly  shining. — 
But  soon,  too  soon,  the  dance  is  through, 
The  dancer  smiles,  reclining. 


"jFrienbj;  at  tfie  Jfront" 

AT  11.01  p.  m.,  August  4th,  a  state  of  war  existed  between  Great 
Britain  and  Germany.  On  September  10th  Mr.  Asquith  stated 
in  the  House  of  Commons  that  438,000  men  had  answered  the 
call  to  arms,  and  asked  the  House  to  pass  a  vote  for  another  500,000  men. 
On  September  17th  Earl  Kitchener,  in  his  unoratorical  way,  said  in  the 
House  of  Lords:  "In  the  response  to  the  call  for  recruits  for  the  new 
armies  which  it  is  considered  necessary  to  raise,  we  have  had  a  most  re- 
markable demonstration  of  the  energy  and  patriotism  of  the  young  men 
of  this  country."  All  England  was  covered  with  placards  with  the  ap- 
peal: "  Your  King  and  Country  Need  You ! "  in  flaming  letters — and  the 
youth  and  brawn  of  England  were  answering  the  call  to  enlist  with  one 
accord. 

And  in  this  national  crisis  which  called  for  the  use  of  arms,  what 
were  those  Englishmen  doing  who  could  not  conscientiously  bear  arms 
or  kill — who  believed  that  Christ  meant  what  He  said  when  He  uttered : 
"  This  is  My  commandment,  that  ye  love  one  another  as  I  have  loved  you"? 

On  May  8th,  1907,  a  tall,  slender  freshman  toed  the  mark  in  Walton 
Field.  At  the  crack  of  the  pistol  he  was  off,  and  led  his  teammates  to  a 
victory  against  Lehigh  and  established  a  college  record  of  4.35  minutes 
for  the  mile.  In  somewhat  the  same  manner  Mr.  Philip  J.  Baker,  now 
a  distinguished  Cambridge  graduate,  and  an  authority  on  international 
law,  was  off  at  the  boom  of  the  first  guns  at  Liege,  and  is  now  leading 
those  Englishmen  who  cannot  conscientiously  fight,  in  a  most  strenuous 
service,  not  only  of  their  country  but  also  of  their  Master. 

Philip  J.  Baker  undertook  to  organize  an  ambulance  corps  of  80 
men.  Almost  a  hundred  responded,  mostly  University  men  and  mostly 
of  the  denomination  of  Friends.  A  training  camp  was  established  at 
Jordans — a  short  distance  from  London,  and  soon  they  were  qualified 
for  the  Red  Cross  examinations.  To  join  the  English  Red  Cross,  how- 
ever, it  was  necessary  to  enlist  and  bear  side-arms,  so  Mr.  Baker  gained 
the  permission  of  the  Belgian  and  French  governments  to  go  out  as  an 
individual  unit. 

Thus  the  First  Anglo-Belgian  Ambulance  Unit  was  created. 

On  Saturday  morning,  October  31st,  43  of  these  men  with  motors 
and  supplies  set  sail  from  Dover  on  the  S.  S.  Invicta.  They  had  not  gone 
far  before  a  destroyer  raced  past  them  at  the  speed  of  30  miles  an  hour. 
Presently  a  small  cruiser  was  seen  in  distress  with  five  destroyers  hovering 
about  her.  A  correspondent  of  the  London  Star  who  was  on  the  S.  S. 
Invicta,  writes  as  follows  in  the  issue  of  November  2nd: 


346  The  Haverfordian 

"As  we  drew  close  we  could  see  she  was  slowly  settling  by  the  stern. 
She  was  the  Hermes,  returning  from  Dunkirk.  Twice,  at  an  interval  of 
about  twenty  minutes,  she  was  struck  by  torpedoes  from  a  submarine. 
The  first  shock  did  little  damage,  and  the  crew  saw  neither  the  torpedo 
nor  the  submarine.  The  second  time  no  one  saw  the  submarine,  but 
many  watched  the  torpedo  skimming  along  the  surface  till  it  struck  the 
ship  amidships.  The  shock  was  not  great,  and  the  ofificers,  who  were  at 
breakfast  in  the  wardrooms,  hardly  felt  it.  But  a  great  hole  was  torn 
in  the  ship's  side,  and  she  began  to  sink  slowly.  Her  water-tight  doors 
were  all  closed  and  so  the  crew  gained  about  two  hours  to  get  away. 

"Many  were  already  in  the  destroyers'  boats  when  we  arrived,  but 
large  numbers  were  still  on  board.  The  Invicta  launched  all  her  boats, 
and  all  of  us  who  could  row  volunteered  to  man  them.  The  ambulance 
men  worked  admirably,  both  in  bringing  the  crew  off  and  in  treating  those 
who  had  collapsed  from  long  exposure.  One  young  orderly  named  Gray 
jumped  into  the  sea  at  sight  of  a  floating  body  and  brought  it  to  a  boat 
very  gallantly,  but  unhappily  the  poor  fellow  was  dead  already.  One 
other  died  on  board  in  spite  of  all  efforts  to  restore  respiration;  and 
one  marine  was  killed  by  the  explosion.  But  I  think  all  the  rest  were 
saved,  though  some  of  the  cases  that  we  treated  were  very  far  gone. 

"The  cruiser  herself  filled  more  rapidly  towards  the  end.  Waves 
broke  over  her  decks  aft,  and  at  length  she  turned  very  quietly  on  her 
side.  The  steam  rushed  out,  but  there  was  no  explosion.  Her  masts 
and  funnels  touched  the  level  of  the  water,  and  she  turned  slowly  over. 
The  bow  and  keel  took  about  twenty  minutes  still  to  disappear. 

"We  gathered  up  the  survivors  from  all  the  boats,  and  returned 
with  them  to  Dover.  The  destroyer  remained  circling  around  the 
place  in  the  hope  of  catching  sight  of  the  submarine  periscope. 

"No  one  could  speak  too  highly  of  the  courage  and  skill  and 
activity  of  the  ambulance  corps,  as  well  as  of  the  Invicta  s  crew." 

In  spite  of  this  delay  the  party  got  to  Dunkirk  that  Saturday  night, 
and  immediately  set  to  work.  A  quotation  from  Mr.  Baker's  report  of 
November  6th,  printed  in  the  English  Friend,  is  as  follows: 

"On  arrival  at  Dunkirk  the  larger  number  of  the  party  proceeded 
almost  at  once  to  the  station  sheds,  where  the  wounded  are  laid  out  on 
straw  The  work  there  has  continued,  with  the  exception  of  half  of 
Monday  night,  ever  since.  It  is  mostly  carried  on  by  relaj'  parties  of 
six  to  twelve  persons,  who  work  day  and  night  in  shifts  of  four  hours. 
As  the  stream  of  wounded  is  almost  continuous,  and  as  it  requires  at 
the  least  six  in  a  shift,  and  usually  more,  to  cope  with  the  need,  it  is  clear 
that  for  a  party  of  less  than  fifty  the  work  has  been  heavy." 


"Friends  at  the  Front"  347 

While  the  "larger  number"  of  the  party  were  at  this  work,  the 
presumably  smaller  number  loaded  4,140  wounded  men  in  four  days  on 
five  boats. 

The  Belgian  government  then  offered  them  a  military  hospital  at 
Ypres,  but  upon  arrival  there,  it  was  found  that  the  town  was  deserted 
and  partially  destroyed.  The  party  slept  that  night  in  the  deserted 
hospital — the  bombardment  of  Ypres  continuing  at  intervals.  Their 
next  step  was  as  follows: 

"We  therefore  went  north  to  Woesten,  a  village  on  the  main  road 
to  Fumes,  where  there  was  a  French  evacuating  station.  The  medecin 
chef  of  the  station  at  once  accepted  the  services  of  the  party,  and  pro- 
vided a  large  room  for  its  accommodation.  Since  Tuesday  the  party 
has  done  a  considerable  amount  of  work,  including  the  evacuation  of 
hospitals  at  Poperinghe,  Furnes,  and  Dunkirk  of  perhaps  40  or  50  very 
seriously  wounded  men,  some  of  whom  might  have  died  if  they  had  not 
been  taken  to  hospital  at  once.  They  have  also  dressed  over  100  cases, 
and  have  on  three  occasions  collected  wounded  from  points  just  behind 
the  firing  line.  They  were  engaged  in  an  endeavor  to  remove  about 
70  men  from  the  village  of  Zuydschoot  when  the  Germans  began  to  shell 
it.  They  succeeded  in  removing  about  40,  but  the  remainder  were  killed 
by  the  collapse  of  the  building  in  which  they  were  lying.  Some  members 
of  the  party  were  for  some  time  under  fire  while  this  operation  was  being 
carried  out." 

After  this  strenuous  beginning  of  their  first  field-hospital  at  Wor- 
cester, Mr.  Baker  reports  as  follows: 

"The  main  part  of  the  work  continued  to  be  the  collection  of  wounded 
from  various  villages  just  behind  the  firing  line,  and  the  evacuation 
of  cases  too  serious  to  be  sent  by  train  to  hospitals  in  Furnes  and  Dun- 
kirk. Probably  altogether  between  200  and  250  wounded  have  been 
brought  back  from  the  villages  of  Zuydschoot,  Boesinghe,  etc.;  and  of 
these  a  considerable  proportion  would  have  been  killed  had  they  not 
been  removed.  On  November  18th  twenty-five  were  brought  out  of 
Boesinghe  while  the  village  was  undergoing  a  heavy  shell  fire;  on  the 
second  journey  twenty-two  shells  fell  while  the  cars  were  being  loaded. 
On  November  20th  fifty  more  people,  including  some  refugees,  wounded 
civilians  and  nuns,  were  brought  from  the  same  village,  which  was  again 
being  fired  on.  The  conduct  of  everyone  concerned  on  both  occasions 
was  admiiable. 

"About  forty  or  fifty  serious  cases  have  been  evacuated  during  the 
week  to  Furnes  and  Dunkirk.  This  work  is  a  severe  strain  both  on  the 
cars  and  on  the  drivers,  but  is  a  most  valuable  part  of  the  service  that 


348  The  Haverfordian 

the  unit  is  able  to  render,  as  it  is  undoubtedly  the  means  of  saving  some 
men  who  otherwise  would  die.  Some  much  larger  and  heavier  cars  than 
are  yet  at  the  disposal  of  the  unit  are  really  necessary  for  the  purpose. 

"In  addition  to  the  above  work,  a  certain  amount  of  dressing  has 
been  done.  On  November  17th,  after  a  heavy  fight  around  Zuydschoot 
and  Bixschoot,  about  100  men  were  dressed,  some  of  them  for  the  first 
time  since  they  were  wounded.  Altogether  about  250  men  have  been 
dressed  by  members  of  the  unit  at  Woesten  during  the  last  week." 

To  follow  every  step  in  the  development  and  widening  of  the  field 
of  usefulness  of  the  Anglo-Belgian  Ambulance  Unit,  would  be  too  long 
a  story  to  print  in  these  limited  pages.  A  perusal  of  the  reports  in  the 
London  Friend,  to  which  we  are  indebted  for  quotations,  can  alone 
satisfy  such  a  demand. 

From  the  latest  reports,  the  situation  is  as  follows:  There  are  some 
110  persons  in  the  Unit,  including  7  nurses.  The  headquarters  of  the 
Unit  is  at  Furnes,  midway  between  Dunkirk  and  Ostend  on  the  Belgian 
coast.  Telephone  communications  from  the  local  French  Army  Head- 
quarters keep  them  informed  as  to  the  batteries  and  trenches  where  the 
casualty  list  is  heavy.  From  this  headquarters  there  are  phone  lines 
to  the  evacuation  sheds  at  Dunkirk,  the  Villa  St.  Pierre  at  Dunkirk 
and  8  Field  Stations  at  the  front. 

The  Evacuation  Sheds  are  those  already  described — temporary 
shelters  for  wounded  on  the  way  to  England  or  elsewhere.  The  Villa 
St.  Pierre  is  a  chateau  which  has  been  turned  into  a  Friends'  Urgency 
Case  Hospital.  The  eleven  lady  nurses  are  located  here.  The  Field 
Stations,  of  which  the  one  at  Woesten  is  an  example,  are  lettered 
W,  P,  O,  Ya,  Yb,  J,  V,  O  in  the  censored  reports.  Over  each  is  a  Com- 
manding Officer  and  an  Adjutant,  with  Dressers,  Orderlies,  Ambulance 
Drivers,  Stretcher-Bearers,  etc.  These  Field  Hospitals  are  very  mobile 
and  the  men  attached  to  them  undergo  every  hardship.  They  sleep 
in  haylofts,  and  in  one  case  occupied  an  unused  pig-stye.  Some  of  the 
stations  carry  from  40  or  60  wounded  a  day  from  the  trenches  to  the 
Evacuation  Hospital  at  Dunkirk.  They  are  constantly  exposed  to 
shell  fire  and  have  to  do  much  of  their  work  at  night  in  order  to  avoid 
being  seen.  Not  the  least  daring  of  the  things  that  have  to  be 
done  is  that  of  driving  ambulances  filled  with  mangled  men  along  roads 
gutted  by  shell-fire,  and  without  the  use  of  lights  in  the  dark.  Then 
there  is  the  creeping  up  to  the  trenches  at  night  and  the  carrying  out  of 
the  wounded,  in  total  silence,  far  enough  back  so  that  stretchers  can  be 
used,  and  thence  to  the  ambulances.     Besides  the  soldiers  there  are  innu- 


Triolet  349 

merable  refugees,  orphaned  children  and  widows — some  starving,  others 
wounded,  most  without  shelter. 

At  the  present  time  there  are  150  at  Jordans  and  elsewhere  pre- 
pared to  join  this  Unit.  There  is  work  enough  for  a  thousand  such  men. 
There  is  organization  enough  to  handle  them.  But  they  can  only  go  in 
twos  and  threes.      There  is  neither  sufficient  money  nor  equipment. 

Y.  N.,  '15. 


Criolet 


The  shrouds  crack  in  the  wind,  Marie; 

The  sailor  sails  at  dawn. 
'Twixt  yo7i  and  me  creeps  in  the  sea. 
The  shrouds  crack  in  the  wind,  Marie. 
The  seagulls  shriek  their  litany, — 

Our  clearance  paper's  drawn. 
The  shrouds  crack  in  the  wind,  Marie; 

The  sailor  sails  at  dawn. 

E.  M.  P 


Cfje  Snfiipi'ration  of  a  Womisn 

By  Eugene  M.  Pharo,  '15. 

FELIX  slipped  the  little  volume  of  Le  Gallienne  into  his  pocket 
with  an  almost  surreptitious  motion  as  Belle  entered  the  room. 
He  had  reached  the  house  twenty-five  minutes  before,  and 
after  waiting  ten  minutes  for  Belle  to  make  her  tardy  appearance  he  had 
taken  his  travelling  companion  from  his  pocket  and  had  soon  become 
almost  unconscious  of  his  keen  impatience,  in  enjoyment  of  the  delicate 
prose  of  the  volume. 

"Greetings,  Belle,"  he  said,  looking  with  an  eye  of  ardent  appre- 
ciation at  the  filmy  blue  glory  of  her  gown,  her  sparkling  eyes  and  the 
eager  red  of  her  almost  too  narrow  lips.  A  dreamy  appraisal  of  her 
seemed  to  fill  his  eyes,  in  addition  to  the  glad  light  of  pleasure,  as  he 
looked  into  her  face. 

He  seemed  always  this  way,  Belle  thought,  as  she  murmured  an 
apologetic  explanation  that  she  had  expected  him  on  the  later  train.  He 
seemed  to  be  always  looking  into  and  through  her,  as  if  looking  for  some- 
thing, and  quite  puzzled  that  he  did  not  find  it — or  questioning  whether 
he  had  found  it  or  not. 

"  Is  it  cold  in  Philadelphia,  these  days? "  she  said,  as,  with  a  glad  look 
at  her  proposed  fiance,  and  a  careless  shrug  of  her  shoulders,  she  dis- 
missed the  strange  feelimg  which  had  come  over  her,  and  took  a  seat  on 
the  large  divan  before  the  fireplace. 

"I  really  haven't  noticed  the  weather  much  lately,"  Felix  replied 
in  a  negligent  manner.  "Since  father  died  and  his  affairs  were  found 
to  be  in  such  an  unlooked-for  condition  after  the  final  adjustment  last 
spring,  I  have  been  spending  all  my  thoughts  upon  how  to  make  a 
living." 

"But,  Felix,  are  they,  then,  in  such  an  awful  shape?" 

"There  is  practically  nothing  left.  Belle."  Felix  took  a  seat  beside 
her  on  the  divan  and  looked  at  her  in  the  pure  joy  of  her  beauty,  stroking 
the  little  white  hand  which  lay  inert  in  her  lap  as  she  looked  with  a  fixed 
stare  at  the  leaping  flames. 

"You  know  that  I  had  planned  to  spend  a  year  or  so  at  Harvard 
and  to  do  my  best  to  polish  up  what  little  style  and  talent  in  the  way  of 
literary  expression  I  may  have,  so  that  I  might  make  scribbling  my 
excuse  for  existence.  The  competence  which  father  had  promised  me 
would  have  made  this  and  our  marriage  perfectly  possible.  Of  course 
these  plans  will  have  to  be  considerably  modified  now  and  our  marriage 


The  Inspiration  of  a  Woman  351 

will  have  to  be  postponed  several  years  more.  I  had  hoped  that  our 
engagement  might  be  announced  this  winter,  but  even  that  would  look 
eminently  foolish  now.  And  then,  too,  my  literary  ambitions — I  haven't 
said  much  about  them  to  you — but  they  are  a  very  real  and  living  thing 
with  me.  My  'job,'  when  I  get  it,  will  have  to  be  of  the  sort  that  will 
give  these  ambitions  some  sort  of  play.  And  the  work  that  literary  up- 
starts can  get  is  as  a  rule  of  a  more  or  less  tattered  sort  unless  they 
abandon  their  ideas  almost  entirely." 

"But  Felix,  is  abandonment  in  any  sense  necessary?  You  know 
that  I  am  ready  to  wait  ages  for  you— but — but — oh,  dear,  can't  you 
get  some  sort  of  business  position  and  do  your  writing  in  the  evening, 
say?" 

"I  have  thought  of  that,  Belle,  on  your  account.  It  seems  that  I 
owe  it  to  you — and  of  course  you  know  how  desperately  I  want  it  myself — 
that  I  should  do  everything  possible  to  hasten  the  time  of  our  marriage. 
But  I  do  not  think  you  quite  realize  the  way  it  appears  to  me.  It  seems, 
in  spite  of  the  beautiful  goal  of  it  all — the  possession  of  you — ^plenty  of 
money  to  make  you  look  as  beautiful  as  you  do  this  afternoon  in  that 
gown  and  all  the  rest  of  it — that  I  should  be  sacrificing  a  sort  of  ideal.  It 
would  be  putting  money  in  the  first  place  over  all  that  has  really  been 
my  life  up  to  this  time — books  and  all  the  good  things  that  they  can  be 
made  to  express  with  a  little  self-denial  and  hard  work — who  knows? — a 
chance  to  make  the  world  a  little  better.  You  know  how  hard  the 
problem  of  social  work  hit  me  when  I  was  finishing  college  last  year. 
Well,  it  seems  to  me  that  in  that  would  be  all  the  chance  in  the  world  to 
acquire  the  knowledge  that  would  make  my  writing  of  some  account 
and  to  do  some  direct  good  while  I  am  learning.  But  the  pay  is  far  from 
munificent  and  it  would  be  some  time  before  we  could  marry  and  live  the 
way  we  must,  to  be  happy  together. 

"On  the  other  hand,  there  is  that  commercial  position  in  New  Or- 
leans that  '  Buck's'  father  has  offered  me.  But,  dear,  you  do  not  know 
how  the  dreariness  of  commerce  repels  my  silly  young  soul!  Foolish 
it  may  be,  but  I  cannot  bring  myself  to  accept  it." 

"Oh,  well,  Felix,  it'll  come  out  all  right  somehow.  Where  are  we 
going  this  evening?     It  seems  a  long  time  since  you  were  here." 

Lost  in  the  enjoyment  of  "Oh,  Oh,  Delphine"  that  evening,  Belle 
noticed  Felix's  abstraction,  but  when  he  hardly  answered  her  enthusias- 
tic comments  on  the  play  she  did  no  more  than  look  at  him  for  a  moment 
in  a  surprised  sort  of  way  and  realize  that  he  was  in  another  of  his  "ab- 
surd moods." 

The  irSO  that  evening  received  Felix  into  one  of  its  "lowers"  with 


352  The  Haverfordian 

a  chill  coldness  that  seemed  a  fitting  climax  to  the  cold  and  cramped 
feeling  that  enveloped  his  whole  mind.  He  had  expected  that  Belle 
would  be  a  little  more  sympathetic.  She  had  always  listened  to  his  semi- 
poetic  rhapsodies  on  his  chosen  art,  at  the  few  times  he  had  made  them, 
with  apparent  interest.  A  suspicion  that  this  interest  was  but  simu- 
lated for  his  own  sake  began  to  assail  him  forcefully.  She  didn't  care 
much  for  books  herself.     He  knew  that. 

The  rather  cold  little  note  that  he  received  the  following  day  telling 
him  of  her  pleasure  in  his  visit  did  not  reassure  him  to  any  great  extent. 

Felix  was  devoted  to  what  he  called  his  "art."  His  devotion  had 
as  yet  carried  it  little  further  on  its  way  than  to  some  daintily  turned 
lyrics  in  his  college  magazine  during  his  undergraduate  days,  and  one 
or  two  slight  attempts  published  in  Ainslee's  since  graduation.  But  he 
was  continually  working  on  bits  of  prose,  none  of  which  had  as  yet  at- 
tained the  merit  he  deemed  necessary  before  he  would  consent  to  hold 
them  up  to  public  view.  He  talked  very  enthusiastically  to  his  inti- 
mates about  his  "aims,"  and  at  times  shyly  read  them  some  of  his 
"stuff."  It  must  be  confessed  that  he  still  had  a  long  row  to  hoe,  but 
his  friends  had  confidence  that  in  the  course  of  time  the  row  would  be 
hoed.  What  is  more,  and  really  the  only  fact  of  importance,  is  that  Felix 
hinself  had  absolute  confidence  in  his  ability  to  "arrive"  ultimately. 

Pushed  by  what  was  almost  necessity,  following  his  father's  death 
and  its  unexpected  consequences,  he  finally  went  into  the  work  of  which 
he  had  spoken  to  Belle.  The  newspapers  were  full  and  his  first  attempts 
to  get  on  the  staff  of  one  of  them  proved  abortive  because  of  the  effects 
of  the  World  War  and  the  number  of  men  laid  off. 

His  work  in  the  S.  P.  C.  C.  in  that  home  of  social  work,  Philadelphia, 
proved  highly  interesting.  He  had  enough  to  provide  for  his  frugal 
needs  and  to  buy  the  ink  and  paper  which  he  used  up  in  such  concen- 
trated haste.  Innumerable  sketches  of  the  scenes  into  which  he  entered 
as  a  saving  factor  in  the  slums  of  the  city,  though  many  of  them  de- 
pressing in  tone,  delighted  him,  because  he  could  feel  his  growing  power 
over  language  and  the  technique  of  the  true  story-teller. 

Frequent  letters  to  Belle,  some  of  them  describing  the  scenes  he 
witnessed  and  the  experiences  he  gained — as,  for  instance,  what  time  an 
irate  Irishwoman  pursued  him  for  fifteen  minutes  about  a  kitchen  table 
with  a  narrow  but  sharp  carving  knife,  because  he  had  come  to  take  away 
her  drunken  "man" — brought  to  him  the  interested  comments  of  a 
reader  of  current  novels,  but  very  little  appreciative  interest  in  the 
author  of  the  amusing  or  tragic  tales.  In  turn  she  described  the  last 
dance  to  which  she  had  gone,  or  the  winning  of  a  prize  at  bridge.      She 


The  Inspiration  of  a  Woman  353 

occasionally  asked  him  to  come  and  see  her — to  spend  a  week  or  two  at 
the  shore,  and  then  sweetly  regretted  that  he  did  not  see  fit  to  come,  with 
a  total  disregard  of  the  unavoidable  claims  on  his  time. 

For  a  year  and  a  half  things  continued  in  this  way — frequent  letters 
from  Felix,  an  occasional  acknowledgment  from  Belle,  and  then  perhaps 
a  Sunday  spent  in  dreamy  plans  for  the  mansion  that  would  go  up  for 
their  co-habitation  when  Felix  should  have  his  first  big  work  accepted 
and  his  name  should  become  known.  Felix  often  thought  at  these  times 
of  the  height  to  which  his  happiness  might  rise  if  this  daintily  clad  and 
fairy-like  creature  should  think  of  coming  to  live  with  him  and  to  wait 
with  him  in  the  humble  dwelling  in  West  Philadelphia  which  was  the 
only  property  his  father  finally  appeared  to  have  left  him. 

In  the  summer  of  his  second  year,  when  he  was  working  amongst  the 
aggravated  conditions  which  the  hot  weather  always  creates  in  the  un- 
fortunate sections  of  a  large  city.  Belle  wrote  him  of  her  expected  depar- 
ture for  the  exposition  in  California.  She  was  going  in  a  party  with  her 
father  and  mother  and  a  business  acquaintance  of  her  father's.  This 
friend  was  taking  them  in  his  yacht.  He  was  a  young  man  about  thirty. 
He  had  gone  into  the  raincoat  business,  manufacturing  with  a  new  kind 
of  cloth,  specially  prepared  and  very  cheap.  He  had  made  large  sums 
of  money.  A  real  man  he  was,  she  said,  and  one  whom  she  admired  very 
much.  Not  that  he  had  much  imagination  nor  could  talk  half  as  "pret- 
tily" as  Felix.     He  was  just  "a  big  hulk  of  a  man" — but  very  successful. 

Felix  wrote  back  his  pleasure  in  her  opportunity  to  see  the  exposi- 
tion, and  regretted  that  he  could  not  take  her  in  his  own  yacht.  "Some 
day,"  he  said,  "we  will  sail  together  beneath  the  Southern  Cross  and 
think  of  the  one  that  we  have  to  bear  now  in  being  separated."  He  may 
have  been  a  trifle  foolish,  but  she  was  beautiful,  and  he  loved  her  very 
much. 

Belle  sailed  the  first  of  August,  as  she  had  expected.  Felix  came  to 
New  York  to  bid  her  adieu  and  to  extract  promises  of  long  letters  from 
the  other  side  of  the  continent.  The  promises  were  given,  the  yacht  cast 
off,  and  Felix  spent  a  thoughtful  two  hours  on  the  train.  Mr.  Murdoch 
was  evidently  entirely  the  man  that  Belle  believed  him — a  well-fed,  well- 
clad,  and  alert  young  raincoat  manufacturer. 

Felix,  however,  finished  his  thinking  before  he  reached  his  lodgings. 
He  told  himself  that  his  thoughts  had  been  unworthy  of  his  firm  faith 
in  Belle. 

Though  Felix  had  not  told  Belle,  he  had  had  two  articles  accepted 
in  July,  one  by  the  American  Magazine  and  the  other  by  the  Atlantic 
Monthly.     He  was  reasonably  sure  that  Belle  would  not  discover  him, 


354  The  Haverfordian 

though  one  of  them  was  published  immediately  in  the  latter  magazine. 
He  was  not  quite  content  with  this  record  alone  and  did  not  wish  to  speak 
until  he  had  made  sure  of  his  powers  with  the  novel  upon  which  he  had 
been  working  for  the  last  eight  months.  When  he  received  Belle's  letter 
from  New  Orleans,  with  a  three-page  description  of  the  beautiful  parties 
that  they  had  had  on  shipboard  and  a  paragraph  on  the  wonders  of  the 
sea,  he  had  just  finished  the  last  chapter  of  his  book. 

He  received  her  second  from  San  Francisco,  when  he  was  half-way 
through  the  revision.  He  had  taken  his  two  weeks'  vacation  at  this 
time  to  work  more  uninterruptedly  at  his  writing.  The  publisher  had 
predicted  a  huge  success  for  his  book,  which  he  said  was  bound  to  ride 
high  on  the  crest  of  the  reform  wave  which  had  inundated  the  city  after 
the  advent  of  "Billy"  Sunday  the  winter  before. 

Another  three  weeks  went  by.  A  long  letter  came  from  Belle.  She 
had  much  to  say  of  the  miracles  of  modern  invention  at  the  exposition — 
the  excellent  machinery  which  made  manufacturing  such  a  wonderful 
operation  at  the  present  day;  the  weaving  machines  which  could  do  so 
much  more  work  in  one  minute  than  the  "Lady  of  Shalott, "  for  instance, 
could  do  in  a  century  at  her  stupid  loom. 

She  told  of  a  long  trip  they  had  made  to  San  Diego  and  the  per- 
fectly dear  little  glass-bottomed  boats  through  which  one  could  see  the 
fish  swimming  about  and  getting  their  food. 

Felix  had  received  the  first  check  on  his  work  at  this  time  and 
stopped  to  pat  the  long  ticket  to  San  Francisco  that  reposed  snugly  inside 
the  inside  pocket  of  his  vest.  He  would  show  her  some  beauty,  he  said, 
when  he  got  there. 

He  read  on.  Belle  asked  him  about  his  work.  She  seemed  more 
interested  in  it  now  than  she  had  ever  been  before.  Felix  thought  the 
long  absence  was  making  her  realize  something  of  what  their  love  could 
mean — the  co-operation  and  enjoyment  they  could  get  out  of  things 
together.  He  smiled,  with  a  distinct  warmth  in  his  chest.  He  had 
"arrived"  now,  if  his  book  met  the  success  which  the  keen-sighted  pub- 
lisher had  pronounced  it  would  meet.  -  He  would  show  her  how  to  live. 
She  should  be  dressed  in  beautiful  clothes  and  all  the  world  would  look 
to  see  so  perfect  and  happy  a  couple.  No  extravagance  seemed  too 
absurd.  They  would  go  to  Italy,  and  in  the  Venetian  gondolas  she 
would  beam  upon  him,  and  he  would  sing  that  the  world  might  hear  and 
wonder.  He  would  paint  in  words  as  Michael  Angelo  had  painted  in 
oils.  He  would  not  take  her  into  industrial  exhibits  to  admire  machinery 
—not  he!  Did  not  the  stolid  Murdoch  know  what  an  angel  he  was 
escorting? 


The  Inspiration  of  a  Woman 


355 


These  thoughts  passed  through  his  mind  as  a  warm  feeling — an 
impression  that  suffused  him  as  he  read. 

He  turned  the  page. 

"  I  hope  that  your  work  is  coming  along  finely.  I  am  sure  that  it 
will.  Goodness  knows  that  when  a  man  thinks  as  much  of  books  as  you 
do,  he  ought  to  make  a  success  of  them.  Mr.  Murdoch  says — Jack,  I 
should  say,  for  you  know,  dear  friend,  I  have  promised  to  be  to  him  as 
much  if  not  more  than  your  books  are  to  you — that  when  a  man  sets  his 
mind  on  any  one  thing  he  is  sure  to  get  it,  some  time.  I  suppose  that  the 
news  of  our  engagement  will  hardly  come  as  a  surprise  to  you.  You  are 
so  clever  at  reading  circumstances.  It  is  so  long  since  things  have  been 
quite  as  they  should  be  between  us — I  hardly  knew  you  when  you  came 
to  say  goodbye  at  New  York — that  I  feel  that  I  am  only  doing  the  right 
thing  in  yielding  to  my  very  strong  respect  and — affection  for  Jack,  and 
agreeing  to  become  his  wife. 

"Your  friend,  as  always, 

"Belle." 


The  Eyes  of  the  World,  By  Harold  Bell  Wright.    Published  by  the 
Book  Supply  Co.,  Chicago.     12mo.,  $1.35,  net. 

IN  all  the  novels  he  has  written,  Mr.  Howard  Bell  Wright  has  proved 
himself  to  be  the  possessor  of  an  active  mind  and  of  a  true  sense  of 
the  artistic  and  beautiful. 
His  latest  book,  "The  Eyes  of  the  World,"  only  shows  us  what 
we  already  knew  from  "The  Shepherd  of  the  Hills,"  and  "The  Winning 
of  Barbara  Worth";  namely,  that  he  still  holds  the  attention  of  the  read- 
ing public  as  one  of  the  most  observant  and  artistic  novelists  of  the  day. 
What  is  really  unfortunate  is  that  his  style  is  not  much  improved.  With 
a  little  more  care,  the  style  might  have  equalled  the  plot  and  action,  both 
of  which  are  good. 

There  is  power,  there  is  imagination,  there  is  a  love  of  Nature  and 
Art,  and  the  plot  is  distinctly  original.  The  contrast  between  the  char- 
acters is  striking,  the  main  ones  are  so  well  painted  that  one  cannot  but  re- 
member every  one  of  them.  There  is  a  multi-millionaire,  whose  life  has 
been  one  of  vice  and  debauchery;  his  second  wife,  a  hypocritical  "dame 
du  monde, "  who,  for  all  her  professed  simplicity  and  purity,  is  as  sensual 
and  as  bestial  as  her  husband ;  his  daughter  by  his  first  wife,  whose  only 
claim  to  our  sympathy  is  that  she  is  not  what  she  might  have  been.  Then 
an  innocent  woman,  the  victim  of  a  coward's  base  passion;  an  innocent 
young  girl,  whose  beautiful  simplicity  and  purity  are  as  lovely  as  her 
physical  charms ;  an  ordinary  type  of  a  young  American  educated  abroad ; 
a  mountaineer  whose  courtesy  and  kindness  are  charming.  Add  to  these 
a  sarcastic,  cynical  novelist,  whose  sarcasm  and  cynicism  hide  a  wonderful 
mind ;  an  art-critic,  whose  inheritance  in  addition  to  much  money  is 
much  vice  and  lust;  a  mother,  whose  unselfishness  is  sublime,  and  an 
escaped  convict,  repentant  and  chivalrous.  Every  character  is  true  to 
life;  Mr.  Wright  has  shown  great  insight  in  painting  every  one  of  them. 
Beautiful  also  are  the  descriptions  of  California:  the  blue-gray 
mountains,  the  glorious  sunrise,  the  heavenly  sunset,  the  wonderful 
sunshine,  the  orange  groves — the  whole  atmosphere  of  this  Western 
paradise. 

The  author  must  be  an  ardent  worshipper  of  Nature  as  well  as  a 
lover  of  Art — both  go  hand  in  hand.  The  reader  never  tires  of  the  praise 
of  California's  beauty,  which  he  may  or  may  not  have  seen. 

More  beautiful  are  the  ideas  of  Art  which  Mr.  Wright  puts  into  the 


Book  Review  357 

mouths  of  his  characters;  "Art  for  Art's  Sake"  is  his  slogan,  and,  to 
quote  a  well-known  critic:  "he  strikes  a  powerful  blow,  convincing  and 
con\'icting,  at  artists  and  authors  who  prostitute  their  talent." 

Let  us  quote  his  own  words,  which  Conrad  Lagrange,  the  successful 
novelist,  says  to  the  hero  of  the  book:  "I  am  a  literary  scavenger.  I 
haunt  the  intellectual  slaughter  pens  and  live  by  the  putrid  offal  that  self- 
respecting  writers  reject.  I  glean  the  stinking  materials  for  my  stories 
from  the  sewers  and  the  cesspools  of  life.  For  the  dollars  they  pay,  I 
furnish  my  readers  with  those  thrills  that  public  decency  forbids  them  to 
experience  at  first  hand.  I  am  a  procurer  for  the  purpose  of  mental 
prostitution.  My  books  breed  moral  pestilence  and  spiritual  disease. 
The  unholy  filth  I  write  fouls  the  minds  and  pollutes  the  imagination  of 
my  readers.  I  am  an  instigator  of  degrading  immorality  and  unmen- 
tionable crimes."  There  is  no  doubt  at  all  that  Mr.  Wright  has  at- 
tempted to  steer  clear  of  the  course  of  such  writers ;  his  book  is  a  eulogv  of 
the  beautiful  and  of  the  right.  If  only  because  of  his  sincerity,  the  book 
is  well  worth  reading.  But  its  sincerity  is  not  its  only  beauty:  Nature, 
Art  and  Lo\e,  in  the  guise  of  California,  the  picture  and  Sibyl,  must  not 
be  forgotten. 

From  "The  Fyes  of  the  World  "  we  can  see  that  there  are  boundless 
possibilities  and  much  success  in  store  for  Mr.  Harold  Bell  Wright;  and 
we  feel  that  this  is  not  to  be  his  last  work. 

Some  day  perhaps but  let  us  await  that  day  instead  of 

idly  foretelling  it. 

J.  G.  C.  Le  Clercq,  '18. 


Alumni  department 


We  are  glad  to  publish  the  follow- 
ing letter  and  article  by  Mr.  Samuel 
E.  Hilles,  of  the  Class  of  1874. 

Gentlemen: 

I  am  enclosing  No.  2  of  some 
Sketches  I  have  lately  been  getting 
out  for  a  Chicago  trade  paper — 
"Offices  Appliances" — on  my  re- 
cent trip  to  the  Orient.  You  will 
find  an  allusion  to  two  Haverford 
men  in  this  article,  and  I  certainly 
was  pleased  to  meet  out  there  "on 
the  firing  line,"  such  men  as  Dr. 
Wm.  Cadbury  and  Dr.  Harold 
Morris,  as  also  Dr.  Woods  and  his 
wife,  in  these  far-away  fields,  so 
greatly  needing  just  such  devoted 
work. 

Haverford,  I  am  sure,  does  not 
forget  them,  and  it  was  quite  evi- 
dent, even  in  my  short  stay,  that 
they  have  not  forgotten  dear  old 
Haverford,  and  its  best  traditions. 

In  China,  the  new  is  crowding 
out  the  old,  in  many  ways,  and  the 
wave  Df  transition  which  is  rising, 
is  wonderful  to  see. 

At  Hong  Kong,  the  cutting  off  of 
their  queues;  in  Canton,  a  depart- 
ment store  and  incipient  sky- 
scraper; in  Shanghai,  beautiful 
banking  houses  and  a  fine  modern 
hotel:  these  are  but  a  few  of  the 
many  evidences  that  this  really 
great  nation  is  awakening  from  its 
lethargy,  and  with  its  many  ad- 
mirable qualities,  needs  only  the 
yeast  of  Christianity  to  become  one 
of  the  great  factors  in  the  world, 
for  enterprises  that  are  tried  and 
true. 

When  they  once  learn,  as  a  na- 


tion, or  collectively,  the  strength 
of  combined  effort  for  the  general 
good,  who  shall  set  the  bounds  of 
their  achievement? 

Very  sincerely, 

Saml.  E.  Hilles. 

A  JAUNT  TO  THE  FAR  EAST 

Art.  H 

After  \'ery  interesting  experiences 
in  the  Philippines,  including  an  in- 
spection of  many  activities,  I  took 
boat  from  Manila  on  July  15th,  for 
the  two-day  trip  to  Hong  Kong, 
to  catch  the  Pacific  Mail  Steamer 
Korea,  for  my  return  to  San  Fran- 
cisco. 

One's  first  sight  of  Hong  Kong 
and  its  wonderful  peak  and  harbor 
must  always  be  impressive.  We 
passed  in  between  beautiful  is'ands 
and  headlands,  almost  grudging 
time  given  to  one  side,  for  fear  we 
would  miss  attractions  on  the 
other. 

As  we  approached  the  city  of 
Victoria,  for  Hong  Kong  is  the 
name  of  the  island,  we  passed  in 
sight  of  an  aerial  railway  for  use 
of  employes  of  a  sugar  refinery.  I 
was  told  that  some  time  ago,  the 
machinery  got  out  of  ord;r,  and  the 
passengers  were  finally  rescued  by 
the  flying  of  a  kite  across  the  wires, 
high  in  air. 

Towering  far  above  the  pictu- 
resque harbor  and  city  is  the  Peak, 
standing  over  1,800  feet  above  the 
sea,  and  harnessed  by  a  tramway 
which  takes  passengers  (but  no 
freight)  nearly  to  the  top.  The 
tramway  is  a  single  track  and  there 


Alumni  Department 


359 


is  quite  an  angle  near  the  top,  but 
these  features  are  skilfully  oxer- 
come  and  one  car  goes  past  the 
other  in  safet>-,  at  the  passing 
point,  as  at  Lookout  Mountain. 

A  Jewish  colonial  governor,  Na- 
than, spent  a  great  sum  years  ago 
in  planting  trees  and  shrubbery  on 
the  slopes  of  the  Peak,  and  the  re- 
sult, with  the  many  attractive 
residences  of  \vealth\'  British, 
Chinese  and  others,  is  most  beauti- 
ful. 

From  a  wind-swej)!  link-  pagoda 
on  the  summit,  the  \  iew  was  in- 
comparable. .Al  our  feet  lay 
"Hong  Kong,"  or  Victoria,  across 
the  harbor  Kowloon  and  the  main- 
land. The  natixe  boats  looked  like 
gnats,  and  the  steamers  like  beetles 
on  the  water,  far,  far  below. 

But  to  me  the  greatest  charm  of 
the  scene  was  the  stretch  of  the 
shores  and  the  sea,  and  the  tropical 
vegetation  which  gave  such  beauti- 
ful colors  to  it  all. 

Retracing  our  way,  I  went  to  the 
English  cathedtal,  for  it  was  Sun- 
day morning,  and  here  on  the  peak- 
side,  set  among  grand  old  trees,  and 
surrounded  by  shrubbery,  I  found 
for  me  a  novel  feature,  in  the  dozen 
or  more  "punkah"  boys,  who  in- 
side and  outside  the  church  pulled 
the  strings  for  the  swaying  fans 
overhead.  "Ah" — the  thought 
came,  "are  we  so  near  India?" 

Much  of  the  land  for  the  best 
official  and  business  blocks  has 
been  reclaimed  from  the  harbor. 
The  architecture  of  these  newer 
buildings  is  very  substantial,  and 
most  of  them  have  deep  arched 
porches,  so  the  hot  sun  does  not 
directly  enter  the  rooms. 

The  same  element  of  cheap  labor, 
so  apparent  in  Japan,  is  here  also; 
it  is  men,  not  horses,  who  draw  the 
loads    on    comparative    levels,    or 


carr>-  the  passengers  in  chairs  up 
the  peak-side.  Greater  dignit\'  of 
wealth  takes  four  bearers  in  place 
of  two.  For  ten  cents  Hong  Kong 
silver,  or  say  four  and  a  half  cents 
our  money,  two  bearers  will  carry 
one's  chair  for  a  quarter  of  an  hour 
down  in  the  city,  or  for  double 
rates  on  the  Peak.  To  go  to  the 
boat-landing,  from  our  charming 
hotel  (St.  George's  House),  part 
way  up  the  Peak,  the  average  per- 
son would  first  take  a  chair,  with 
two  bearers,  down  steps  and  slopes, 
and  then,  on  the  lower  level,  change 
to  the  iwo-wheeled  jinrikisha, 
rai)itlly  drawn  by  one  coolie  over 


Heavy  Hauling,  by  Men.  in  Place  of  Horses 

the  well-paved  streets.  A  curious 
thing  was  that  if  one  paid  them 
too  much,  they  were  quite  sure 
to  ask  for  more — "cumshaw,"  but 
they  were  most  eager  for  the  pit- 
tance of  employment. 

There  are  no  driving  roads  up 
the  Peak,  and  all  the  building  ma- 
terial, etc.,  for  the  houses  and  re- 
taining walls,  all  furniture  and 
bulky  supplies,  must  be  carried  up 
by  hand ;  much  of  this  is  done  by 
the  women,  and  I  counted  several 
loads  of  bricks  in  their  balanced 
baskets,  forty  bricks  larger  than 
ours  (full  5  lbs.  each)  for  a  woman's 


360 


The  Haverfordian 


load,  fifty-two  for  a  man.  In 
unloading  flour  at  Hong  Kong  I 
was  told  it  was  not  unusual  for  a 
coolie  to  walk  the  gangplank  with 
eight  sacks  of  fifty  pounds  each  on 
his  shoulders  and  neck. 

The  cosmopolitan  character  of 
travel  about  these  far  Eastern  seas 
is  shown  by  the  recent  experience 
of  a  friend  in  going  direct  from 
Hong  Kong  to  Shanghai. 

With  seventeen  at  the  steamer's 
table,  twelve  different  languages 
were  spoken;  but  for  any  general 
conversation,  English  was  always 
resorted  to. 

Canton  the  Populous 
A  trip  of  a  night  on  a  comfortable 
English  boat  brought  me  over  the 
West  and  then  the  Pearl  River  to 
Canton,  the  seat  of  many  Chinese 
revolutions,  through  its  nearly 
4,000  years  of  history.  I  was  sur- 
prised to  see,  on  the  way,  the  care 
with  which  the  steamer  people 
guarded  against  piracy,  which  is 
still  prevalent.  On  a  large  boat, 
the  piracy  most  feared  is  by  an  up- 
rising among  the  third  class  pas- 
sengers, who  are  carefully  guarded 
by  Sikhs,  or  stalwart  East  India 
men.  It  is  not  a  safe  piece  of  water 
for  small  pleasure  boats,  and  even 
those  of  good  size  are  sometimes 
attacked. 

Canton  is  extremely  interesting, 
but  has  a  very  trying  climate  for 
visitors.  The  humidity  (95  per 
cent  when  I  was  there),  added  to  a 
high  temperature,  has  a  way  of 
sapping  one's  energy  that  is  hard 
to  withstand,  and  I  was  weary  at 
nine  in  the  morning. 

The  life  on  the  river,  where  thou- 
sands of  the  natives  live,  is  a  fas- 
cinating scene — here  a  dozen  small 
junks,  laboriously  sculled  against 
the  strong  tide  by  a  man  and  his 
wife — the  weight  of  the  long  oar 


overcome  by  a  rope  attached  to  the 
free  end — there  one  and  another 
pulling  themselves  along  by  hooking 
on  to  the  other  boats — out  in  the 
stream,  perhaps  a  rice-power  boat 
having  a  treadmill  for  a  dozen  men 
and  boys,  connected  with  a  small 
paddle  wheel  at  stern — now  comes 
a  modern  tug — then  a  sail-boat 
with  more  wind-holes  than  sail- 
cloth— then  a  French  gunboat,  or 
a  large  river-steamer  for  Shanghai 
or  Macao,  then  a  dilapidated  boat 
with  five  detached  square  sails — 
surely  one  could  watch  it  all  for 
many  days. 


Punkah  Boy.  on  Verandah  oj  Hotel.  Pulling 
the  Siring  for  Dining-room  Fan 

We  land  near  the  beautiful  Sha- 
meen  or  foreign  concession,  where 
all  the  principal  governments  have 
their  consulates  and  post-oflices, 
and  after  a  stroll  under  the  grate- 
ful shade-trees  of  "mosquito  boule- 
vard" cross  the  guarded  bridge  to 
the  native  city.  This  is,  indeed,  a 
part  of  China,  at  close  quarters! 

With  a  guide,  we  thread  our  way 
through  the  arteries  of  this  ancient 
city,  old  when  Rome  began,  in 
many  places  almost  able  to  touch 
the  fronts  of  the  shops  on  either 
side  at  once,  stepping  aside  quickly, 
as  approaching  cries  announce 
bearers  with  chairs  or  other  bur- 
dens;     passing    small    shop    after 


Alumni  Department 


361 


small  shop  where  the  work  is  clone 
at  the  door,  if  one  may  say  door 
where  there  seemed  to  be  none. 

One  man  was  laboriously  making 
small  fish  hooks;  another  was 
smearing  stale  fish  with  blood,  to 
make  them  look  palatable;  an- 
other forging  iron  with  a  bamboo 
air-pump  for  bellows;  in  scores  of 
shops  four  or  five  salesmen,  naked 
to  the  waist,  in  beautifully  carved 
chairs,  waiting  for  the  customers 
whom  we  did  not  see.  The  dirty 
little  shrines  and  temples — the 
mud-covered  eggs  a  year  or  two 
old,  in  baskets — the  luxurious  den- 
tists' offices — one's  eyes  and  mind 
were  so  filled  with  new  impressions 
that  one  really  needed  to  take 
time  for  thought  and  proper  assimi- 
lation. At  a  public  dispensary,  one 
of  the  prescriptions  to  be  taken 
infernally,  was  of  broken  sea- 
urchin  shells! 

But  the  smells!  rivalling  the 
neighborhood  of  Peter  the  Great's 
house,  in  far-away  Holland,  though 
here  at  such  close  quarters  one 
could  not  easily  escape. 

I  asked  my  friend,  Dr.  Cadbur\-, 
of  Philadelphia,  now  of  the  Canton 
Hospital,  what  was  the  population 
of  Canton.  "From  800,000  to 
three  millions,"  and  he  added, 
"probably  a  million  and  a  half." 
And  of  these  several  hundred 
thousand  live  on  the  small  junks  on 
the  river.     "Why  pay  rent?"  etc. 

At  Canton,  Christian  College, 
near  the  city,  is  a  fine  institution, 
set  upon  beautiful  rolling  ground, 
for  training  the  younger  Chinese, 
and  having  some  four  hundred 
students.  A  great  eagerness  for 
study  is  apparent. 

While  in  Hong  Kong  the  wearing 
of  a  ciueue  is  a  great  exception,  in 
Canton  I  saw  many;  and  in  various 
ways  the  difference  between  British 
and  Chinese  authority  is  evidenced. 


In  China,  away  from  the  coast 
cities  especially,  human  heads  come 
off  very  easily,  and  various  illustra- 
tions were  given  me,  in  the  tales 
told.  Formerly,  for  instance,  a 
first-class  execution  of  a  prisoner, 
at  the  convenience  of  the  tourist, 
could  possibly  be  arranged  for  a 
small    sum. 

I  stood  for  a  time  on  the  Bimd, 
or  Canton  water  front,  to  watch  the 
passing  throng — Manchu  ladies  in 
rich  attire,  carried  in  their  elegant 
chairs — ten  coolies  carrying  a  heavy 
piece  of  machinery  slung  under 
stout  [)oles  and  the  men  grunting  at 


Bowen  Road,  ihe  Arlislic  Mouth  of  the 
Water-supply  Tunnel 

each  rhythmic  step — a  jinriki  man 
drawing  a  comfortable  looking  Ce- 
lestial in  his  silk  robe — surely  all 
sorts  and  conditions  of  men! 

A  notable  French  Catholic  cathe- 
dral stands  high  above  the  houses 
in  the  nativ'e  city.  I  was  told  it 
was  built  without  hoisting-ropes, 
and  that  the  brick  in  it  was,  much 
of  it,  tossed  up  from  man  to  man — 
from  story  to  story. 

The  swarming  tide  of  life  there 
does  not  welcome  innovations,  ex- 
cept as  they  can  understand  and 
use  them.  The  first  railway  inter- 
fered, they  thought,  with  the  spirits 


362 


The  Haverfordian 


of  their  dead  ancestors,  or  with 
"feng  sui" — wind  and  water;  so 
they  ran  the  locomotives  and  cars 
into  the  water  and  tore  up  the  rails. 

As  a  reminder  of  years  of  ex- 
clusion, one  of  the  best  streets  in 
the  native  city,  I  suppose  it  may 
be  fourteen  feet  wide,  is  the  Street 
of  the  Thirteen — so  named  be- 
cause at  one  time  there  were  there 
thirteen  merchants  allowed  to  do 
business  with  foreigners. 

But  a  better  day  is  coming  for 
China — these  schools  and  hospitals 
are  sowing  the  precious  seed,  and 
even  now  the  Chinese  in  the  East 
are  subscribing  liberally  to  enter- 
prises of  the  "foreign  devils"  for 
China's  welfare. 

An  enterprising  Chinaman  from 
Australia,  and,  curiously,  "Sin- 
cere" is  his  name — has  erected  on 
the  Bund  a  modern  department 
store,  which,  with  a  new  hotel  ad- 
joining, is  proving  a  nine  days' 
wonder  to  the  natives;  and  the 
store,  with  its  roof-garden,  was 
thronged  with  open-mouthed  visi- 
tors. I  can  testify  to  the  good  lunches 
served  in  the  hotel,  where  actually 
a  "lift"  took  one  up  to  the  dining- 
room  and  garden.  Those  who  have 
not  visited  Canton  can  scarcely 
realize  what  such  innovations  mean 
to  the  Cantonese. 

Strange  to  say,  however.  Canton 
was  ahead  of  Hong  Kong  in  having 
the  wireless  system  on  shore.  Hong 
Kong,  a  free  port,  and  in  tonnage 
perhaps  the  third  port  in  the  world, 
had,  when  I  was  there  in  July,  to 
depend  on  vessels  in  the  harbor  for 
wireless  messages.  I  fancy  this 
condition  will,  by  sheer  necessity, 
be  soon  remedied.  I  was  told  the 
site  for  a  station  had  been  selected 
and  equipment  ordered,  after  four 
years  of  agitation. 

Embarking  finally  at  Hong  Kong 
on  July  23,  our  return  voyage  was 


full  of  delightful  personal  experi- 
ences, but  shadowed  soon  by  the 
shock  of  the  European  news  which 
only  a  few  days  later  reached  us. 
Our  route  this  time  lay  west  of  the 
Island  of  Formosa  ("Ilha  For- 
mosa," or  the  "Beautiful  Island" 
of  the  Portuguese)  to  Keelung,  a 
small  port  in  the  northern  end. 

Here,  after  waiting  on  a  typhoon 
to  move  away,  we  found  again  a 
fortified  site  where  photography 
was  quite  under  the  ban,  and  as  the 
town  of  Keelung  was  not  interest- 


Road-rolling,   by  about   Twenty   Men 
and  Boys 

ing,  quite  a  party  of  us,  including 
President  Judson  of  Chicago  Uni- 
versity and  his  wife,  took  train  up 
to  Taipeh  or  Taihoku,  the  capital 
of  the  island — about  an  hour  and  a 
half  ride  to  the  southwest.  There 
we  found,  in  the  twenty  minutes 
available  between  trains,  fine  wide 
streets  and  a  capital  government  or 
Japanese  railway  hotel. 

The  scenery  from  the  train  was 
more  than  usually  interesting — 
many  streams  and  rice-terraces,  but 
no  savages  (cannibals)  as  may  be 
found  further  south.  The  separa- 
tion between  a  high  civilization  and 
primitive  savagery  is,  in  Formosa, 
notably  close. 

How  diversified  are  its  principal 
products  ! — head-hunters,    rice, 


Alumni  Department 


363 


sugar,  gold,  siher,  copper,  sulphur, 
coal,  petroleum,  camphor,  rattan, 
tea.  It  was  here  we  took  on  board 
620  tons  of  tea,  worth  nearly  three 
quarters  of  a  million  dollars  at 
average  Oolong  price. 

In  going  from  Keclung,  almost 
the  rainiest  place  in  the  world,  to 
Taipeh,  only  20  miles  away,  we 
passed  to  a  comparatively  dry 
climate,  and  the  seasons  are  prac- 
tically reversed.  Further  south, 
tropical  jungles  are  shadowed  by 
snow-capped  peaks.  The  Chinese, 
Spanish,  Dutch,  French  and  now 
the  Japanese,  ha\e  all  had  a  hand 
in  this  strangely  rich  land  of  the 
savage  and  the  buccaneer. 

Some  day  the  Japs  will,  I  hope, 
plant  some  shade  trees  in  Keelung; 
it  reminded  one  of  Curacao,  in  the 
Dutch  West  Indies,  and  the  heat 
and  humidity  were  very  trying. 

A  curious  but  wise  provision 
against  plague  and  other  epidemics 
in  Formosa  is  a  law  exacting  two 
rats  per  year  from  each  householder, 
and  once  in  the  year  all  the  contents 
of  the  house  must  be  placed  out- 
side for  thorough  inspection  and 
fumigation. 

Turning  north  to  the  mouth  of 
the  Yangtse,  bound  for  Shanghai, 
over  the  stormy  Eastern  Sea,  our 
good  Capt.  Nelson  again  delayed 
for  the  passing  of  the  typhoon  and 
a  troublesome  bar,  and  we  an- 
chored for  the  night  at  Wu-sung 
in  the  yellow  flood  of  water,  and 
early  next  morning  steamed  forty 
miles  up  the  great  riv^er  before 
finally  taking  a  company  launch 
for  the  fourteen  miles  remaining, 
before  reaching  Shanghai.  It  is 
certainly  a  long  lighterage. 

The  water-front  of  Shanghai  is 
very  attractive;  a  narrow  park 
fringes  the  Bund,  which  in  turn  is 
bordered  by  most  substantial  look- 
jng  banks — Russian  and  others —  a 


fine  hotel  and  commercial  buildings. 
The  city,  in  fact,  makes  a  very 
creditable  appearance,  and  has  a 
x'er},'  large  distributing  trade  to 
other  parts  of  China. 

Much  of  the  street  transporta- 
tion is  upon  large  wheelbarrows 
having  a  wheel  nearly  30  inches  in 
diameter,  set  near  the  center;  and 
upon  these  barrows  the  coolies 
carry  literally  staggering  loads, 
their  feet  constantly  shifting  to 
keep  balance,  as  they  wheel  through 
the  streets.  They  did  say  that  the 
charge  being  a  stated  amount,  re- 
gardless of  load,  occasionally  I 
might,  at  close  of  the  day,  see  one 
loaded  up  with  five  women  on  one 
side  and  five  on  the  other,  the 
coolie  patiently  taking  the  load. 

A  statue  on  the  water-front, 
to  that  great  man.  Sir  Robert  Hart, 
greatly  pleased  me,  and  is  said  to  be 
a  very  good  likeness. 

Here  was  a  man  of  whom  any 
nation  might  be  proud.  Hats  off! 
Listen  to  this  epitaph — it  deserves 
study,  and  reverence: 

"Sir  Robert  Hart,  Baronet,  G. 
C.  M.  G.,  1835-1911— Inspector 
General  of  the  Chinese  Maritime 
Customs — Founder  of  China's 
Light  House  Service — Organizer 
and  Administrator  of  the  National 
Postofiice — Trusted  Counsellor  of 
the  Chinese  Government — True 
Friend  of  the  Chinese  People — 
Modest,  Patient,  Sagacious  and 
Resolute,  He  Overcame  Formid- 
able Obstacles  and  Accomplished 
a  Work  of  Great  Beneficence  for 
China    and    the    World." 

It  is  no  wonder  the  Grand  Old 
Man  was  stoop-shouldered. 

Which,  think  you,  will  turn  the 
balance  in  the  scales  of  the  Eternal 
— Napoleon  or  Sir  Robert  Hart? 

He  gave  as  much  as  any  man — ■ 
he  gave  himself — for  China. 

Near  Shanghai,   my    friend    Dr. 


364 


The  Haverfordian 


Harold  Morris  of  Philadelphia, 
showed  me  the  beautiful  grounds  of 
St.  John's  Episcopal  College,  where 
some  450  Chinese  youths  are  getting 
the  ideals  of  an  American  Christian 
education.  This  is  the  kind  of 
work  that  counts.  Would  that 
there  was  more  of  it  in  China.  It 
is  less  expensive  and  surely  more 
efficient  in  the  long  run  than  an 
over-plus  of  battleships,  or  granting 
of  indemnities.  From  Shanghai 
along  a  well-lighted  coast,  our 
route  finally  brought  us  in  two 
days  to  Nagasaki,  where  we  coaled 
again  by  that  interesting  method 
shown  in  my  previous  article,  but 
this  time,  as  an  experiment,  with 
Manchurian  rather  than  Japanese 
coal. 

At  Nagasaki,  on  account  of 
quarantine  rules,  we  were  not  al- 
lowed to  go  ashore  if  to  return,  and 
most  strict  watch  was  kept  that 
photographs  were  not  taken. 

A  peace  meeting  of  Friends  of 
both  branches  was  held  at  the 
4th  and  Arch  Streets  Meeting 
House,  Philadelphia,  on  December 
30th,  1914.  President  Sharpless 
presided  at  the  afternoon  session. 
In  the  evening  session,  with  Walter 
T.  Moore,  '71,  as  presiding  member, 
introductory  words  were  spoken  by 
Stanley  R.  Yarnall,  '92,  and  Francis 
R.  Taylor,  '06.  An  address  was 
delivered  in  this  session  by  George 
M.  Warner,  '73. 

A  series  of  public  peace  meetings 
have  been  held  in  the  Haverford 
College  Union,  under  the  auspices 
of  the  Haverford  Friends'  Bible 
School.  Is  Peace  on  Earth 
Practicable?  It  is,  according  to 
Stanly  R.  Yarnall,  '92,  and  Francis 
R.  Taylor,  '06,  who  addressed  the 
meeting,  Sunday,  January  10th, 
on  "The  Historical  Development  of 
the  Peace  Ideal."     Mr.  Yarnall  is 


Chairman  of  the  Executive  Com- 
mittee of  the  Pennsylvania  Arbitra- 
tion and  Peace  Society,  and  Vice- 
President  of  the  Philadelphia  Peace 
Association  of  Friends.  Mr.  Tay- 
lor is  a  member  of  the  Philadelphia 
bar. 

Dr.  Rufus  M.  Jones,  '85,  spoke  on 
"Facts  and  Ideals"  in  the  meeting 
on  January  17th. 

Dr.  Sharpless  is  chairman  of  a 
committee  of  the  People's  Rights 
Association  of  Delaware  County, 
Pa.,  the  purpose  of  which  is  a 
scientific  investigation  of  condi- 
tions at  the  Media  court  house, 
including  fees,  irregularities,  etc. 

J.  Passmore  Elkinton  is  Secre- 
tary  of   the  Association. 

'76 
Professor  F.  G.  Allinson  de- 
livered an  address  before  a  meeting 
of  the  Philological  Society,  on 
Wednesday,  December  3d.  Among 
those  present  were:  Dr.  H.  J. 
Cadbury,  '03,  and  Dr.  R.  M. 
Gummere,  '06. 

'96 

L.  Hollingsworth  Wood  read  the 
call  for  the  meeting  of  the  American 
League  to  Limit  Armaments,  which 
was  held  recently  at  the  Railroad 
Club,  New  York  City.  The  pur- 
pose of  the  League  is  to  oppose  the 
campaign  for  an  increase  in  naval 
and  military  expenditures. 

Mr.  Wood  was  elected  secretary 
of  the  League. 

'97 
Alfred  M.  Collins  is  head  of  the 
Collins-Day  South  American  ex- 
pedition, which  sailed  recently  from 
New  York  for  Brazil.  Before  the 
departure  of  the  expedition  Mr. 
Collins  called  on  Colonel  Roosevelt 
at  the  latter's  invitation,  and  re- 
ceived many  suggestions  and  much 
good  advice  regarding  the  difficul 


Alumni  Department 


365 


ties  of  exploration  in  the  Brazilian 
wilds. 

George  K.  Chcrrie,  head  nat- 
uralist for  Colonel  Roosevelt,  will 
accompany  Mr.  Collins  in  a  similar 
capacity.  Mr.  Cherrie  will  assume 
the  chief  responsibility  in  making 
collections.  For  Mr.  Collins  the 
expedition  will  be  largely  in  the 
nature  of  a  big  game  hunt. 

'02 

The  following  item  concerning 
the  work  of  C.  Linn  Seller,  will  be 
of  additional  interest  to  Haver- 
fordians,  apropos  of  the  fact  that 
it  is  from  the  pen  of  an  alumnus 
who  is  himself  a  b'terary  critic  of 
recognized  ability.  We  take  the 
liberty  to  insert  it  exactly  as  re- 
ceived from  Mr.  Sigmund  Spaeth: 
"The  songs  of  C.  Linn  Seller,  '02, 
are  attracting  wide  attention  be- 
cause of  their  unusual  combination 
of  melodiousness  and  artistic  in- 
dividuality. Boosey  &  Co.,  pub- 
lishers of  a  number  of  his  composi- 
tions, prophesy  a  sensational  suc- 
cess for  him.  John  McCormack, 
Alice  Nielsen,  and  David  Bispham 
are  singing  his  songs." 

Mr.  Seller's  address  is,  Avon 
Road,  Bronxville,  N.  Y. 

Charles  Wharton  Stork  was 
awarded  the  Browning  Society's 
medal  for  his  poem,  "The  Flying 
Fish:  An  Ode,"  at  the  annual 
Manuscript  Night,  on  January 
22nd,  at  the  New  Century  Club, 
124 South  12th  Street,  Philadelphia. 

The  Browning  medal  is  awarded 
each  year  for  the  best  poem  and 
short  story  submitted  by  the  mem- 
bers. 

'03 

Mr.  Warren  K.  Miller  was  mar- 
ried to  Miss  C.  Frances  Jordan 
Sieger  on  December  18th,  at  Sieger- 
\-ille.  Pa.  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Sieger 
will  be  at  home  after  May  1st,  at 


248  North  Fourth  Street,  Allen- 
town,  Pa. 

'04 
The  Class  of   1904  has  decided 
to  edit   and   print   its  class   paper 
again  this  spring,  which  it  has  done 
annually  since  graduation. 

'O.S 
John  L.  Scull  is  now  back  with 
the  Standard  Roller  Bearing  Com- 
pany. 

"Milton's  Knowledge  of  Music" 
is  the  title  of  a  book  by  Sigmund 
Sf'aeth,  '05,  regarding  which  the 
New  York  Times  says:  "It  shows 
a  knowledge  and  appreciation  of 
music  that  are  generally  foreign  to 
literary     criticism."  And     the 

Buffalo  Evening  News:  "Dr. 
Spaeth's  book  will  appeal  to  every 
lover  of  English  literature  because 
of  the  new  light  which  it  throws  on 


OVER  360  SAMPLES  OF 
GOOD  LETTERHEADS 


\^0U  will  find  here  an  unique  display  so 
arranged  that  you  can  see  the  entire 
number  in  5  minutes,  or  you  can  profita- 
bly spend  half  an  hour;  a  wide  range  of 
prices,  plenty  of  good  colors  in  both  paper 
and  ink,  and  a  type  display  suitable  for  all 
kinds  of  business,  from  the  professional 
ones  for  the  lawyer  and  doctor  on  up  to 
the  elaborate  ones  for  the  business  that  re- 
quires that  kind. 

You  are  invited   to  see    the   display  any 
day  from  8  to  5-30.      Send  for  booklet, 
"Where  To  Buy  Letterheads." 

ACTON  ISJi&rAlf^ 

29  SOUTH  SEVENTH  STREET 
PHILADELPHIA 


366 


The  Haverfordian 


the  personality   of  the   great   epic 
poet." 

The  book  may  be  secured  for 
$1.00  a  copy  from  G.  Shirmer,  3 
East  43rd  Street,  New  York  City. 

'06 

R.  L.  Cary  has  been  recently 
made  a  director  of  the  Bureau  of 
Municipal  Research  in  Baltimore, 
Md. 

Ex-'08 

Dr.  Calvin  B.  Coulter  is  now 
Resident  Bacteriologist  in  the  Pres- 
byterian Hospital,  Madison  Ave- 
nue and  70th  Street,  New  York 
City. 

Dr.  Coulter,  after  leaving  Haver- 
ford,  graduated  from  Williams 
College  in  1907,  and  supplemented 
his  work  with  a  year  at  Princeton 
and  with  a  medical  course  at  Co- 


lumbia,   graduating   from    the  last 
place  in  1913. 

His  address  is  20  East  90th 
Street,  New  York  City. 

'08 

Mr.  and  Mrs.  George  Henderson, 
of  "Friendship  Hill  Farm,"  Paoli, 
announce  the  engagement  of  their 
daughter,  Dorothy  Erwin  Hender- 
son, to  J.  Jarden  Guenther,  son  of 
Mr.  and  Mrs.  Emil  Guenther,  of 
"Hamilton  Court." 

Mr.  Guenther  is  a  member  of  the 
Class  of  1908,  and  was  president 
of  the  Y.  M.  C.  A.  during  his  last 
year  at  College,  and  Chairman  of 
the  Preston  Committee  from  1907- 
1912. 

'10 

Charles  Fygis  Clark  has  taken 
winter  lodgings  at  O'ermead,  West 


n 
u 


nnnnnnnoannnnnonnnnnnonnnnnnnnn 

g  ''A  LIVE  STORE"  g 

n^i  .J  ...  ^ 

0  I  i  is  the  only  kind  to  which  a  young  man  0 

^        *  ^^'  IKNES  should    tie     where    the    stock    is  always  ^ 

bl-i —  new;  where  good  taste  prevails  and  cour-  0 

n        TA.1L/OR3  '-^^y  rules.     Such  a  store  is  right  here  and  13 

^        MEN  ;«<D  BOYS  it  is  becoming  more  popular  every  season.  ^ 

M         CTil^''""**^^  '^^^  largest  gathering  of   Foreign  and     w 

n         ^^^^^^  Domestic  Woollens   in  the  city  is  await-      0 

^  <^^^!^r  ^"§  your  inspection  and  opinion.  |^ 

n  ^  Suits  and  Overcoats,  -  -         $25  to  $50   ^ 

^      '  ""•       Full  Dress  Suits,  -  -         $40  to  $70   0 

n 

PYLE,  INNES  &  BARBIERI,  ^ 


11  IS  WAUNUT  ST., 
PHILADELPHIA. 


COLLEGE 


n 

v_.     1     ^   ,    ,^  ^  A^  K^  1115  Walnut  Street,         -  -  -         Philadelphia    0 

nnnnnnnnnonnnnnnonnnnnnonnnnnnn 


H  TAILORS 


Alumni   Dkpartmknt 


367 


Chester,  Pa.  His  friends  will  he 
interested  to  know  that  his  health 
is  excellent,  a  result  of  dieting 
under  the  direction  of  Victor 
Schoepperle. 

'10 
Arthur  Hutton  spent  the  week 
of  January  lOlh  in  Boston,  solicit- 
ing business  for  the  A.  M.  Collins 
Manufacturing  Co.,  fancy  paper 
boxes. 

C.  D.  Morley  has  been  recently 
promoted  to  the  editorial  depart- 
ment of  Doubleday,  Page  and 
Company,  New  York  City. 

'11 
Harrison  S.  Hires  is  now  residing 
at  East  Orange,  N.  J.,  having  taken 
charge  of  the  New  York  office  of 
the  Charles  K.  Hires  Com[5any. 

'12 
Robert    E.    Miller,    who    is    the 
ad\'ertising  manager  for  the  Hamil- 


ton Watch  Company  at  Lancaster, 
Pa.,  was  called  as  a  witness  to 
testify  liefore  the  Interstate  Com- 
merce Committee  at  Washington, 
on  January  9th,  on  the  Price  Stand- 
ardization Bill  now  before  Congress. 
Louis  D,  Brandeis  antl  many  jiro- 
minent  men  testified  at  the  same 
hearing. 

Mr.  Miller  was  elected,  on  Jan- 
uary 12th,  a  mcmlier  of  the  Exec- 
utive Committee  of  the  Lancaster 
Manufacturers'  Association,  a 
branch  of  the  National  Manufac- 
turers' Association. 

Ex-'12 
Gorham  Parsons  Sargent  is  at 
]3rcsent  in  the  employ  of  the  Hare 
and  Chase  Insurance  Agency,  309- 
11  Walnut  Street,  Philadelphia, 
Pa. 

Ex-'14 
Richard     Schoepperle     spent     a 
we°k-pnd  at  College  in  January. 


JOB  PRINTING 

OF    EVERY    DESCRIPTION 
PROMPT  AND  REASONABLE 

MAIN  LINE  PRINTING  GO. 

10  ANDERSON  AVENUE 
ARDMORE,  PA. 


COLLEGE  WORK 
A  SPECIALTY 


ESTIMATES  GIVEN 
PHONE  1087 


OPEN  EVENINGS 


Aubrey  Howell 


Richard  S.  Dewees 


Insurence 

HOWELL  &  DEWEES 

SPECIAL   AGENTS 

Provident    Life  and   Trust    Co. 

Fourth  and  Chestnut  Streets 
Philadelphia 


For    the   gentlemen    who    appreciate 

the  refinement  of  good  grooming. 

Our    Barber   Shop  was   inaugurated 

50  years  ago.      No  Tipping. 


13th  above  Chestnut, 


Phila, 


The  Haverpordian 


INSURANCE 

Fire  or  Burglary  Insurance  on  Students'  per- 
sonal effects  while  at  College  or  elsewhere. 

Tourists'  Floating  Insurance  on  personal  ef- 
fects against  all  risks  in  transit,  in  hotels, 
etc.,   hoth  in  this  country   and   abroad. 

Automobile  Insurance  covering  damage  to  car 
and  liability  for  damage  to  property  or  for 
injuries  to  persons. 

Longacre  &  Ewing 

Bullitt  Building       HIS.    Fourth  St. 
Philadelphia 

Pepairing   of   Hall,    Chimes  and  French 
Clocks  a  Specialty 

A.  A.  FRANCIS,  Jeweler 

US  W.  Lancaster  Ave.  phone  144D 

Ardmore,  Pa. 


C.  W.  Scott  Company 

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Carriages,  Wagons  and  Autoinobiies 

"Careful  Handling  and  Quality" 
Send  us  Your  Suitings  to  be 

Dry-Cleanea,   Scoured 
and    Pressed 

At   Reasonable  Rates 


Our  College  Agent 

Mr.  I.  Thomas  Steere 


S.  p.  Frankenfield  Sons 

Undertakers 
ARDMORE,  PA. 

Successors  to 
JOSIAH  S.  PEARCE 

33  E.  Lancaster  Avenue 

Phone,    Ardmore    9 

J.  OWEN  YETTER 
General  Shoe  Repairing 

ARDMORE,   PA. 

Will  Collect  Shoes  Monday  Evening  and  Deliver 
Thursday  Morning 
T.   B.  Whitson,   College  Agent 


Attractive 

Wall   Paper 

At  Popular  Prices 

A. 

L. 

Diament 

& 

Co. 

1515  Wa 

Inut 

Street                Philadelphia, 

Pa. 

WILLIAM  S. 
YAflNALL 

Manufacturing  Optician 

118  S.  15th  Street,  Philadelphia 

Phone  258 

C.  E.  Edwards 

Confectioner 

ICE  CREAM   AND   FANCY  ICES, 

FANCY  CAKES 


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Bell,  Market  1632,  1633  Keystone.  Main  109,  110,  HI 

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i 


aberforbian 


Contents 


Editorial  Comments 326 

Culture  a  la  Mode,  Dialogue 

William  H.  Chamberlin,  '17  328 

What  is  the  Young  Friends'  Movement? 

Thomas  E.  Jones  333 

The   Unknowable,    Verse E.    M.    P.,    '15  336 

"The  Voice,"  a  Story Jack  G.  C.  LeClercq,  '18  337 

The  Dancing  Girl,  Verse Eugene  M.  Pharo,  '15  343 

"Friends  at  the  Front,"  Article 344 

Triolet,  Verse E.  M.  P.,  '15  348 

The  Inspiration  of  a  Woman,  Story 

Eugene  M.  Pharo,  '15  349 

Book  Review 

The  Eyes  of  the  World .  .Jack  G.  C.  Le  Clercq,  '18  355 

Alumni  Department Robert  Gibson,   '17  357 


Jfetiruarp 

1915 


M 


arceau 


Photographer 


^F 


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Philadelphia 

Special  rates  to  students 
Phone,  Spruce  5606 


Conveniently  located  for  residents 
along  the  lines  of  the  Pennsylvania 
Railroad. 

Special  Terms  and  Privileges  for 
Women's  Accounts. 

Officarf 

Rowland  Comly,  President 

Hugh  Mcllvain,  zst  Vice-President 

Walter  H.  Lippincott,  2nd  Vice-Pres. 

William  Bradway,  Treasurer 

Alfred  G.  White,  Asst.  Trust  Officer 

S.  Harvey  Thomas,  Jr.,  Asst.  Treasurer 


Logan  Trust  Company 
of  Philadelphia 

1431  Chestnut  Street 


SAILOR  SUITS 
a  Specialty 

No  Agencies      Made  to  Order  Only 

PETER    THOMSON 
TAILOR 


-TO— 


Men,  Women  and 
Children 


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New  York  House : 
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The  Haverfordian 


VOU  can't  go  out  in  the  market 
and  buy  printing  as  you  can 
some  commodities,  shopping  here  and 
there,  and  count  on  the  lowest  priced 
article  really  showing  the  lowest  cost. 
£,ach  job  of  printing  is  a  separate 
piece  of  manufacture.  For  this  reason 
no  printer  can  tell  exactly  what  any 
job  is  worth  until  it  is  finished.  If  he 
has  to  figure  close,  somebody  is  sure  to 
lose,  and  generally  it  is  both  the  cus- 
tomer and  the  printer.  You  can't  get 
quality  and  service  that  way.  Select 
your  printer  as  you  would  your  tailor. 
The  man  who  wants  a  cheap  suit, 
cheaply  made,  goes  to  a  cheap  tailor. 
For  a  good  suit,  well  made,  you  go 
to  a  good  tailor.  You  don't  shop. 
Buy  your   printing  in  the  same  way. 

THE  Holmes  press 

J.  Linton   Engle,  Treasurer 

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TANNATE  LEATHER 

Have  you  tried  to  tear  out  a  slender  slit  sample  of  Tannate  Round 
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Tannate  is  as  durable  as  it  is  strong.  It  lasts  from  two  to  five  times 
as  long  as  ordinary  round  belting. 

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Veal,    Lamb,    Sweetbreads     and     Calf's    Liver 

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HAVERFORD  PHARMACY 

has  become  known  as  a  place  where  many  of  the 
solid  comforts  of  life  may  be  obtained.  One 
worth  mentioning  is  the  famous  Lotion  for  sun- 
bum,  chapped  hands  and  face,  and  other  irri- 
tations of  the  skin.  Decline,  gently  but  firnjy, 
any  other  said  to  be  "just  as  good." 


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FRANK    MULLER 


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No  cord  or  chain  required  with  our  Eye  Glasses 

Official  Photographers  of 
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graphs 


s 


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1628   Chestnut    St., 

Philadelphia 


Send 

Her  a 

Sauiplt 


er 


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sweetheart,  to  the  hostess  whose  hos- 
pitality you  enjoyed  ;  to  the  one  who  showed 
you  a  courtesy.  The  Sampler  speaks  a 
various  language;  its  message  is  always  in 
good  taste.  The  Sampler  is  an  assortment 
taken  from  ten  of  Whitman's  most  popular 
packages  Chocolates  and  Confections. 

Ash  for  the  Sampler  package 
of  any    IVbitman's  agency. 


^ 


V 


\X 


"  ^^'^pier 


Local  Agent : 
W.  L.  Harbaugh,  Haverford,  Pa. 


Smedley  &  Mehl 

Lumber 

and  Coal 
BUILDING  MATERIAL 


Phone   No.  8 


ARDMORE 


Howson  &  Howson 

SOLICITORS  OF   PATENTS 

West  End  Building,  32  S.  Broad  Street 

PHILADELPHIA 

Libel  ty  Towar.  53  Liberty  Street.  Cor.  Nassau 
New  York 

918  F  Street,  Washington 

The  oldest  woman  in   Philadelphia  can  quote 
her  great  grandmother  as  an   authority   for  the 
high  quality  of 
Good  old 


MILLBOURNE 


Flour 


Al  All  Dealers 

SHANE  BROS.  &  WILSON   CO. 

63rd  and  Market  Streets  Philadelphia.  Pa 


Daniel  E.Weston 


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[praocyseciCLCPCQaA 


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OF  ARDMORE 

LIABILITIES 

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Surplus     -    -    -    -     125,000.00 

Undivided  Profits-        50,000.00 

Deposits    -     -     -     -  1,000,000.00 

JOSIAH   S.   PEARCE,  President 

HORATIO  L.  YOCUM,  Treasurer 

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Druggists 

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Danri'nrr    ^"^    Step,    The 
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Young  and  old  alike  are  fasci- 
nated with  these  new  dances.  Our 
method  assures  perfect  dancers. 

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Private  Lessons  Daily  by  Appoint- 
ment, 


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PHILADELPHIA 


The  Bryn  Mawr  Trust  Company 


Capital  Authorized,  $25o,ooo 


Capital   Paid,  $125, coo 


Allows  inlertst  on  deposits.      Acts  as  Executor,  Administrator,  Trustee,  etc.      Insures  Titles  to  Real  Estate. 
Loans  Money  on  Mortgages  or  Collateral.      Boxes  for   rent   and   Valuables   stored    in  Burglar   Proof  Vaults. 


JOHN  S.  GARRIGUES,  Secretary  and  Treasurer 
P.   A.    HART,  Trust  Officer  and  Assistant  Secretary 


A.  A.  HIRST,  President 

W.  H.  RAMSEY,  Vice-President 

DIRECTORS 
A.  A.  Hirst  Elbridge  McFarland  Wm.  C.  Powell,  M.  D.  W.  H.  Ramsey 

L.    Gilliams  John  S.  Garrigues  H.  J.  M.  Cardeza 

William  L.    Hirst  Jesse  B.    Matlack  Joseph   A.  Morris  Phillip  A.   Hart 

J.  Randall    Williams  Samuel  H.  Austin  John  C.  Mellon 

r  R  A  N  F  '  S    ICE  CREAM 

V^XV^XX11_^       k^      CAKES  &  PASTRIES 

are  made  under  the  most  sanitary  con- 
ditions.    Call    and    see    them    made. 

Store  and  Tea  Room,  1310  Chestnut  Street 
Main  Office,  23rd  Street  below  Locust 


Name  Registered  August  7th,  1906 


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Haverford  College 

Favorite  Tailors 

WHELAN  &   CO. 

206  S.  12th  Street,  Philadelphia 


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Window  Glass 


Skylight  and  Floor  Glass.  Rolled  Cathedral,  beautiful  tints.  Embossed, 
Enameled  and  Colored  Glass.  A  full  stock  of  Plain  Window  Glass.  Every 
variety  for  Architects*  and  Builders'  Use.     A  full  line  of  Glaziers'  Diamonds. 

Benjamin  H.  Shoemaker 

205-207-209-21   N.  Fourth  St.  PHILADELPHIA 


Hirst    ^    McMullin 

MAIN  LINE 
Real    Estate 


West  End  Trust 
Building 


Philadelphia 


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RYAN  BROS. 

Auto  Truck  Seroice 

Phone,  Bryn  JNIawr  216-D 

ROSEMONT,  PA. 


HENRY  B.   WALLACE 


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BRYN  MAWR,    PA. 


Telephone 


Gentlemen's  Wardrobes    Kept  in   Good   Order 
on    Yearly    Contract 

A.  TALON E 

TAILOR 
Phone,  931 A  Afdmore  Ardmore.  P» 

E.  M.  FENNER 
Confectioner 


BRYN  MAWR, 

Ardmore,   Pa. 


PA. 


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If  you  are  seeking  apartments  In  the  suburbs,  don't  overlook  HAVERFOI^D   COURT, 
Rooms  single  or  en  suite,  for  transient  or  permanent  guests. 

Building  and  equipment  new  and  up-to-date.     One-minute  walk  to  Haverford  Station, 
P.  R.  R.,  and  to  Merion  Cricket  Club. 

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IN 

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and 

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$15  and  upwards 


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SONS 

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Chestnut 

Street 

Philadelphia 


Co. 

M.  J.  ENSIGN 


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— f^ 

Caterer  and 

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— *  — 

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1865  -  FIFTY  YEARS  -  1915 


The  Provident  Life  and  Trust  Company 

of  Philadelphia 


Capital  Stock    --.---• 
Surplus  belonging  to  Stockholders 


OFFICERS 

Asa  S.  Wino,  President. 

T.  WiSTAR  Brown,  Vice-President. 

J,   Barton   Towns  end,   Vice-President  and 

Assistant  Trust  OfiScer. 
J.  RoBBRTS  FouLKE,  Trust  Officer. 
David  G.  Alsop,  Actuary. 
Samubl  H.  Troth,  Treasurer. 
C.  Waltbr  Borton,  Secretary. 
J.  Thomas  Moore,  Mgr.  Insurance  Dept. 
W.  C.  Craigb,  Assistant  Tru St  &  Title  Officer. 
John  Way,  Assistant  Tres.surer. 
J.  Smith  Hart,  Insurance  Supervisor. 


-  $1,000,000 

-  $5,000,000 

DIRECTORS 

T.  Wistar  Brown        Frederic  H.  Strawbridge 
Asa  S.  Wing  John  Thompson  Emlen 

William  Longstreth    Morris  R.  Bockius 
Robert  M.  Janney      Henry  H.  Collins 
Marriott  C.  Morris      Levi  L.  Rue 
Jos.  B.Townsend,  Jr.  George  Wood 
John  B.  Morgan  Charles  H.  Harding 

J.  Whitall  Nicholson 


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Headquarters  for  College  Men 

Ten  Minutes'  Walk  to  Forty  Theatres 
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SPECIAL  RATES  FOR  COLLEGE  TEAMS 
and  STUDENTS. 

Harry  P.    Stimson,  Mgr. 

The  Cumberland  does  more  college  business  than 
any  other  Hotel  in  New  York. 

Headquarters  for  HAVERFORD 


-I- 

4- 


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eese 


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The 


Haverf ordian 


Voliime      27 


Haverford  College 
1915-1916 


The  Haverfordian 


EDITORS 

Edgar  C.  Bye,  Editor -in- Chief 

Robert  Gibson,  1917  Jack  G.  C.  LeClercq,  1918 

William  H.  Chamberlain,  1917 

BUSINESS  MANAGERS 
Edward  R.  Moon,  1916  (Mgr.)  Arthur  E.  Spellissy,  1917  (Asst.  Mgr.) 

Price,  per  year $1.00  Single  Copies $0.15 

The  Haverfordian  is  published  on  the  tenth  of  each  month  during  College 
year.  Its  purpose  is  to  foster  the  literary  spirit  among  the  undergraduates  and 
to  provide  an  organ  for  the  discussion  of  questions  relative  to  college  life  and  policy. 
To  these  ends  contributions  are  invited,  and  will  be  considered  solely  on  their 
merits.  Matter  intended  for  insertion  should  reach  the  Editor  not  later  than  the 
twentieth  of  the  month  preceding  the  date  of  issue. 

Entered  at  the  Haverford  Post-Office,  for  transmission  through  the  mails  as  second-class  matter 

Vol.  XXXVII||C       HAVERFORD,  PA.,  MARCH,  1915  No.  1. 


yielded  a  large  amount  of  meritorious  material,  for  all 
of  which  we  wish  to  thank  the  contestants.  The  First 
Prize  was  not  awarded.  The  Second  Prize  goes  to  H. 
P.  Schenck,  1918,  and  Honorable  Mention  to  Douglass 
C.Wendell,  1916.  and  Kenneth  W.  Webb,  1918.  We 
publish  the  first  two  of  the  above  stories  in  this  issue. 
The  last  story,  together  with  the  best  of  those  not 
mentioned,  will  appear  in  succeeding  months. 


3n  WW  Ssissue 

Special  Features 

The  Size  of  Haverford President  Sharpless  3 

The  Church,  The  College,  and  Billy  Sunday 

W.  H.  Chamberlin,  '17  13 

Paintings  or  People? E.  M.  Pharo,  '15  20 

The  Genius  of  the  Past Donald  Painter,  '17  23 

An  Appeal  to  Our  Appreciation  of  Heroism 

L.  Hollingsworth  Wood,  '96  26 

Stories 

The    Brute H.     P.     Schenck,     '18       6 

On    Guard D.    G.    Wendell,    '16     18 

Verse 

Ein  Gedanke Robert  Gibson,  '17  5 

The    Sundayitis Robert  Gibson,     '17  12 

The  Captive  Eagle F.  M.  Morley,   '15  17 

Early  Morning  in  Washington  Square.  .  .W.  S.  Nevin,    '18  25 

Departments 

The    Uneasy    Chair Editorial    27 

Books 

Sinister  Street J.  G.  C.  LeClercq,  '18    29 

Through  the  Glasses 

Boris  Godounov W.  H.  Chamberlin,  '17     31 

Alumni    Department Robert    Gibson,     '17     2>2> 

The  Poetry  of  Vachell  Lindsay 


Charles  Wharton  Stork,  '02 


THE    HAVERFORDIAN 


Vol.  XXXViri  HAVERFORD,   PA.,  MARCH,   1915  No.   1 


C^e  ^i}t  of  ^laberforb 

I  AM  glad  to  answer  the  request  of  the  Editors  of  the  Haverfordian 
that  I  should  say  something  about  the  number  of  students  we 
should  aim  to  have  in  Haverford  College.  For  a  small  college, 
that  is  one  of  250  or  less,  may  be  urged  the  advantage  of  close  acquaint- 
ance among  the  different  members  of  the  College.  This  will  show  itself 
in  more  personal  interest  in  the  welfare  of  the  students,  intellectually 
and  morally,  in  stronger  and  more  wholesome  college  spirit,  and  in  more 
adaptation  to  individual  needs  and  temperaments.  For  the  larger  col- 
lege may  be  mentioned  the  greater  momentum  which  numbers  often  give, 
the  increased  opportunity  to  manage  outside  college  activities,  the 
greater  effectiveness  in  elective  courses,  and  the  better  utilization  of  the 
work  of  the  professors. 

It  is  difficult  to  determine  which  of  these  points  of  view  is  more  im- 
portant, and  it  is  not  a  matter  of  wonder  that  the  sentiment  of  the 
friends  of  the  College  should  be  divided.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  I  doubt  very 
much  whether  any  antecedent  opinions  we  have  on  the  subject  will  have 
much  effect  upon  the  result.  It  is  not  likely  that  future  administrations 
will  decline  to  receive  well-prepared  and  desirable  students  provided 
there  is  dormitory  accommodation  sufficient  to  house  them.  It  is  also 
probable  that  those  who  prefer  a  small  college  will  greatly  extend  their 
limit  as  the  old  limit  is  approached.  I  can  remember  very  well  when 
four  classes  of  20  each  was  supposed  to  be  the  ideal  number ;  later  when 
150  was  to  be  the  maximum,  and  now  we  talk  about  200  or  250. 
When  the  latter  figure  is  reached  it  is  probable  that  the  conservative 
friends  of  the  College  will  think  that  300  is  a  better  number;  and  what 
will  happen  after  that  no  one  can  foretell.  People  who  thought  that 
there  were  only  about  100  students  of  the  right  sort  for  Haverford  have 
changed  their  minds,  as  they  find  that  the  College  is  not  deteriorating 
in  quality  as  it  is  increasing  in  numbers.  Any  increase  in  numbers,  how- 
ever, must  be  preceded  by  additional  dormitory  space,  for  our  neighbor- 
hood is  not  favorable  to  boarding-houses,  and    the  difficulties  of  main- 


4  The  Haverpordian 

taining  standards,  if  such  houses  existed,  would  be  greatly  increased. 
At  present  our  students  all  live  in  dormitories  except  a  few  who  reside 
at  home,  and  it  is  quite  important  that  this  situation  should  continue. 
Friends,  therefore,  of  increase  of  numbers  must  see  to  it  that  the  in- 
creased accommodations  are  provided ;  for  we  are  practically  full  at  the 
present  time. 

Another  point  must  be  seriously  considered :  Means  taken  by  some 
colleges  to  increase  their  numbers  are  such  as  Haverford  cannot  adopt. 
The  lowering  of  standards,  undignified  advertising  and  underbidding 
are  quite  as  evident  in  the  methods  of  certain  colleges  as  in  some  second- 
rate  business  firms.  There  is  a  proper  advertisement  of  the  real  merits 
of  the  College  which  should  not  be  neglected ;  it  would  consist  in  explain- 
ing, to  young  men  fitted  to  enter  college,  or  who  are  likely  to  be,  the  real 
conditions  at  the  institution.  There  are  scores  of  young  men,  who,  if 
they  knew  Haverford  as  it  is  without  any  exaggeration,  would  find  that 
it  is  the  ideal  college  for  them.  They  do  not  know  it  at  present,  and  are 
not  likely  to  except  by  verbal  or  written  statements  lodged  with  them. 
Of  the  two  the  verbal  statement  will  count  for  ths  most,  and  this  is  why 
we  must  look  with  approval  upon  the  efforts  being  made  by  the  under- 
graduates and  some  of  the  younger  Alumni  to  present,  either  individ- 
ually or  collectively,  the  claims  of  Haverford  to  boys  who  ought  to  come 
here. 

Business  of  almost  all  sorts  now  requires  agents,  and  for  the  College 
we  cannot  expect  anything  better  than  the  efforts  of  those  who  know 
by  several  years'  residence  what  they  are  talking  about,  and  whose 
enthusiasm  for  the  place  will  enable  them  to  present  its  claims  with  the 
arguments  that  appeal  to  the  boys.  It  is  perfectly  proper  to  point  out 
to  them  the  wholesome  sanitary  conditions,  the  ample  opportunity  for 
sports  right  at  the  door  of  the  College,  the  scholarly  character  of  the 
Professors,  the  opportunities  of  the  Library  and  Laboratories,  and  the 
pleasant  spirit  of  comradeship  which  prevails  throughout.  These  are 
legitimate  assets  of  the  College  which  cannot  be  too  widely  known. 

On  the  other  hand  we  cannot  buy  up  athletes  simply  because  they 
are  athletes  with  money  or  promises.  There  are  large  scholarship  funds 
in  the  possession  of  the  College,  but  these  are  given  practically  on  the 
basis  of  competitive  examination  in  which  physical  excellence  has  no 
place. 

We  should  not  unjustly  disparage  other  institutions  in  presenting 
the  advantages  of  Haverford,  and  we  should  not  give  any  one  oppor- 
tunit}^  to  hope  that  the  Faculty  will  seriously  relax  their  standards  of 
admission    in  particular  cases. 


EiN  Gedanke  S 

Undoubtedly  the  entrance  examinations  prevent  many  boys  from 
coming  to  Haverford.  It  is  the  only  college  in  the  state  and  one  of  only 
six  in  the  United  States  which  requires  examinations  from  all  candi- 
dates for  entrance  who  aspire  to  a  degree.  This  requirement  undoubt- 
edly drives  many  away  in  advance.  It  is  so  easy  to  enter  many  other 
colleges  by  the  simple  presentation  of  a  certificate  from  schools,  which 
is  often  rather  easily  obtained,  that  boys  who  do  not  care  for  the  special 
advantages  of  Haverford  take  the  line  of  least  resistance  and  enter  else- 
where. Some  are  excluded  by  the  examinations,  but  as  a  result  those 
who  come  are  apt  to  stay.  For  several  years  past  the  College  has  lost 
only  about  a  dozen  students  a  year  in  addition  to  the  graduating  class. 
So  that  the  thing  to  do  is  to  induce  boys  to  take  the  ordeal  of  the  exami- 
nation, with  the  assurance  that  if  they  are  moderately  fitted  they  will 
be  admitted,  and  once  admitted  will  not  regret  it. 

It  is  to  our  interest,  whatever  our  college  ideals  may  be,  to  have  a 
larger  number  of  candidates.  If  we  want  a  large  college,  of  course  this 
is  the  only  way  to  get  it.  If  we  want  a  small  college  we  want  emphasis 
laid  upon  the  quality  of  the  students,  and  to  secure  this  there  must  be 
such  an  overflow  of  applicants  that  the  best  only  need  be  taken. 

Hence  I  think  that  we  are  all  agreed  that  the  time  is  appropriate 
for  effective  efforts  to  increase  the  number  of  candidates  for  admission, 
by  methods  which  are  collegiate  and  dignified — leaving  the  number 
actually  taken  into  the  College  to  be  determined  by  dormitory  accom- 
modations and  the  results  of  the  examinations. 

— /.  S. 


€in  (§cbanfee 

Gaze  upon  the  glory  that  was  Rome, 

As  if  the  choice  of  elegance  were  thine.' — 
Ah!  never,  Father  Tiber,  can  ye  boast 

The  romance-breathing  fragrance  of  the  Rhine. 

The  Danube  has  a  charm  to  lull  despair, 

The  careless  joy  of  youth  is  in  the  Seine, 
But  none  of  ye,  my  streams,  can  e'en  compare 

Thy  rippling  songs  to  Lorelei's  refrain. 

— Robert  Gibson,  '17. 


tirtje  Prute 

A  SHRIEK  of  the  horn,  a  whirl  of  wind,  a  splash  of  mud.     The 
husky  Brute  jumped  and  almost  swore — but  he  saw  the  Sweet 
Young  Thing  at  the  wheel.     He  looked  over  toward  the  puddle 
that  tried  to  float  his  straw.     He  looked  at  his  golf  bag  and  the  one 
broken  club.     The  huge  car  stopped.     A  liveried  negro  came  walking 
back  and  handed  him  a  card. 

"De  Missy,  she  done  offer  huh  apol'gies,  suh,"  he  said. 
"Oh,  s'all  right,  s'all  right,"  said  the  husky  Brute,  "s'all  right." 
The  negro  turned  and  walked  back  to  the  machine,  which  soon 
whirled  off.     The  Brute  stood  looking  down  at  the  bit  of  cardboard  in 
his  hand.     It  read: 

"Jane  Van  Verbeck  Hall." 
"What  a  confounded,  long-eared  idiot  I  am!"  said  the  Brute,  as 
he  secured  one  of  his  cards  from  an  inner  pocket  of  his  blazer  and  started 
toward  the  vanishing  motor,  leaving  his  hat  and  golf  bag  lying  in  the  road. 

I. 

It  was  to  be  a  very  exclusive  affair.  The  Brute  didn't  want  to  go, 
but  even  wealth  has  its  unpleasant  and  compulsory  duties  to  perform. 
And  he,  who  hated  formalities  and  collars,  was  actually  compelled  at 
times  to  detach  himself  from  golf  and  breaking  the  speed  limit,  and  attend 
severe  social  functions,  at  which  pink  lemonade  and  cookies  were  dis- 
tributed by  short-trousered  servants.  The  Brute  especially  hated  the 
admiration  bestowed  upon  him,  for,  let  it  be  whispered,  he  had  acquired 
an  enviable  football  reputation. 

Some  become  cowards  at  the  cannon's  mouth,  others  at  the  sight 
of  sudden  danger,  but  the  Brute  wilted  at  the  scene  of  the  evening's 
festivities.  Two  minutes  later  the  huge  gray  roadster  was  breaking 
the  speed  limit  away  from  the  lantern-lighted  grounds  and  the  brilliant, 
servant-lined  doorway.  He  sped  from  road  to  road,  making  turns  with- 
out a  thought  of  where  he  was  going,  or  how  he  would  be  able  to  return. 
Suddenly  the  Brute  leaned  forward  and  slowly  cut  down  his  speed.  In 
the  glare  of  the  headlights  he  distinguished  a  motionless  car.  It  was  a 
machine  he  had  seen  but  once  before,  yet  he  had  dreamed  of  that  par- 
ticular motor  many  times  of  late.  A  "Frenchy"  was  excitably  swinging 
his  arms  around  and  walking  back  and  forth  in  short,  jerky  steps,  stop- 
ping now  and  then  to  clap  his  hands  to  his  forehead  and  cry,  "  Mon  Dieu ! " 
A  rapidly  evaporating  trail  of  liquid  leading  backward  told  the  tale  of 
the  punctured  tank. 


The  Brute  7 

The  Brute  was  hailed  as  a  miraculous  find.  Two  minutes  later  a 
perfumed  young  person  was  seated  beside  a  much  bewildered  young 
man.  The  car  started  forward  with  the  smooth,  even  glide  of  the  thor- 
oughbred machine.  A  man  wearing  a  military  moustache  and  breath- 
ing forth  French  oaths  was  poking  his  finger  into  a  jagged  hole  in  the 
gasoline  tank.  The  Brute  found  his  breathing  apparatus  defective  to 
such  an  extent  that  it  was  next  to  impossible  for  him  to  breathe  or  to 
speak.     Finally,  however,  he  ventured  to  remark,  "Fine  evening." 

"Perfectly  gorgeous,"  remarked  the  young  person,  with  the  result 
that  the  Brute  nearly  reversed  the  engine. 

But  the  silence  was  broken  and  soon  they  were  chattering  away 
about  all  sorts  of  delightfully  foolish  and  unimportant  topics,  unmind- 
ful of  the  fact  that  they  were  disobeying  the  accepted  laws  of  etiquette, 
and  calling  down  upon  their  heads  the  terrible  wrath  of  the  gods  of 
society. 

The  car  swerved  into  a  broad,  curving  drive.  The  lanterns  swung 
idly  in  the  faint  breeze,  and  beyond  through  a  great  doorway  poured  a 
flood  of  light.  The  music,  softened  by  the  distance,  threw  its  enchant- 
ment over  the  gardens  and  the  little  lake  beyond.  The  car  wound  its 
way  silently  up  to  the  house.  Up  the  broad  marble  steps  and  across 
the  paved  verandah  marched  the  Brute  and  the  girl.  He  bravely 
saluted  the  host,  and  even  bowed  gracefully  to  the  hostess,  and  then — 

II. 

The  Brute  and  the  girl  had  become  separated.  He  didn't  know 
how  it  had  happened;  he  only  knew  that  it  hadn't  been  his  fault.  He 
made  his  way  to  the  library,  one  of  those  collections  of  rare  volumes 
thrown  open  occasionally  on  state  occasions.  The  huge  armchair  was 
wonderfully  comfortable.  A  summer  zephyr  stirred  the  great  silk 
curtains.  The  conversation  in  the  great  drawing-room  filtered  through 
the  portieres  and  sounded  like  the  buzzing  of  bees.  In  a  short  time  the 
Brute  had  fallen  asleep. 

"He's  a  failure." 

The  Brute  awoke  with  a  start.  Evidently  he  was  no  longer  the 
only  occupant  of  the  luxurious  store-room.  Then  he  heard  his  name 
mentioned  and  he  pricked  up  his  ears. 

"Money  at  his  command.  A  brain  capable  of  something.  About 
the  only  thing  he  has  done  successfully  is  football.  Smashes  through  a 
tense  mass  of  bone  and  muscle,  injures  a  few, — a  lot  of  "Rah-rahs"  from 
the  crowd, — and  we  have  our  dear  chap's  photo  in  all  the  morning 
papers." 


8  The  Haverfordian 

The  Brute  gritted  his  teeth  and  waited.     There  was  no  escape. 

'"Why  don't  he  do  something  for  humanity  with  his  wealth  instead 
of  wasting  his  energy  on  sports! — Football. — Acts  like  a  brute, — yes, 
that's  it  exactly,— he  IS  a  BRUTE." 

The  young  fellow,  sitting  very  quietly  behind  a  library  table,  heard 
no  more.  At  first,  his  face  had  paled,  but  now  as  his  thoughts  passed 
rapidly  from  one  scene  to  another,  he  sat  bolt  upright,  and  gripped  the 
arms  of  his  chair  until  his  knuckles  were  white.  The  blood  slowly  re- 
turned to  his  countenance.  Gradually,  very  gradually,  he  relaxed. 
He  had  made  a  great  resolution — a  resolution  which  did  more  for  his 
country  than  did  the  Battle  of  Gettysburg.  And  then  he  dozed  off 
again. 

III. 

The  very  exclusive  affair  had  passed  into  history.  The  motors 
that  lined  the  drive,  gradually  faded  away  one  by  one  into  the  night. 
The  great  doors  and  windows  on  the  lower  floor  were  closed.  The 
streaks  of  crimson  that  betokened  the  coming  day  were  already  appear- 
ing in  the  eastern  sky.  The  birds  sang  joyously.  A  dog  barked  once. 
Then,  as  the  darkness  gave  way  to  twilight,  a  long,  sleek  machine  rolled 
up  the  drive  and  discharged  a  solitary  passenger.  He  strolled  about  the 
gardens  for  a  long  time  and  filled  his  arms  with  precious  blossoms,  which 
he  selected  carefully.     Returning,  he  laid  them  upon  the  seat  of  the  car. 

An  hour  passed.  Two.  The  great  mansion  was  still  wrapped  in 
silence.  The  Brute  paced  nervously  up  and  down  the  verandah.  He 
halted  now  and  then  to  glance  up  at  the  sky.  Another  hour  passed. 
Servants  began  moving  about,  and  finally  the  Brute  was  admitted.  He 
was  hailed  with  delight  by  the  head  of  the  house  and  was  forced  to  tramp 
over  the  wet  fields  in  order  to  inspect  some  new  stock  recently  acquired. 
Breakfast  being  served  upon  their  return,  the  Brute  was  forced  to  listen 
to  a  lengthy  discourse  upon  the  merits  of  a  new  breed  of  fowl.  His  host 
was  somewhat  disconcerted  during  his  recital  by  the  fact  that  the  Brute 
kept  his  eyes  fixed  upon  the  door. 

"Did  Miss  Hall  remain  here  over-night?"  inquired  the  young  man, 
finally,  when  he  could  stand  it  no  longer. 

"Indeed  she  did.  Had  some  unfortunate  accident  on  the  way,  I 
believe.  Rescued  by  somebody  in  time  to  attend  the  affair  last  night. 
Forget  the  chap's  name.  Must  be  quite  a  delightful  young  fellow  ac- 
cording to  her  description." 

The  Brute  almost  choked  on  a  piece  of  toast,  but  hastily  gulped 


The  Brute  9 

some  coffee.  The  host  observed  the  sudden  confusion  of  his  guest,  but 
failed  to  recognize  the  cause. 

"Yes,  yes.  Very  extraordinary.  It  seems  he  was  too  bashful  to 
remain.     Evidently  was  afraid  of  a  little  praise." 

The  Brute  pulled  out  his  watch,  whistled,  dabbed  at  his  crimson 
face  with  his  handkerchief,  and  then  hastily  arose.  Bidding  a  hasty 
adieu,  he  ran  to  his  car  and  sped  away. 

IV. 

He  had  made  all  his  preparations.  His  plans  were  complete.  The 
final  step  remained  to  be  taken,  and  it  was  the  most  difficult  step  of  all. 
With  a  trembling  hand  he  raised  the  huge  brass  knocker  and  let  it  fall. 
The  lackey  bowed  him  into  the  hall.  The  Brute  stood  whirling  his  hat 
around  his  index  finger.  He  followed  the  servant  into  the  reception- 
room  and  sat  down.  Twenty  minutes  passed.  He  had  looked  at  the 
clock  ever  since  his  entry,  and  consulted  his  watch  frequently.  A 
strange  perfume  pervaded  the  atmosphere  and  he  turned  around.  A 
smiling,  graceful  figure  stood  in  the  doorway.  He  rose,  and  the  polite 
greetings  of  etiquette  having  been  successfully  accomplished,  they  con- 
versed freely  and  without  restraint. 

"  I  am  going  away,"  he  said  suddenly. 

"Going  away?" 

"Yes.     I  want  you  to  think  of  me." 

"  I  am  sure  I  will  always  think  of  you  with  the  highest  regard." 

" I  know  that  it  isn't  right,"  he  continued,  "to  ask  it  of  you." 

"But  I  do  not  understand." 

"I  love  you,"  he  blurted  out.  "I  know  I  have  never  been  worthy 
of  you.  That's  why  I  am  going  away.  They  say  that  I  am  a  brute — a 
failure.  I  am  going  to  make  good.  You  don't  know  me  at  all.  I  admit 
all  this.  When  I  return  you  will  perhaps  think  much  better  of  me.  I 
ask  but  one  thing — that  you  think  of  me.  It  will  be  that  one  little  act 
which  will  strengthen  me  during  the  task  I  am  about  to  undertake." 

The  girl  appeared  startled  at  first.  She  glanced  at  his  earnest  face, 
and  remained  silent.  The  ticking  of  the  little  jeweled  clock  sounded 
thunderous  in  the  tense  quiet. 

"I  promise,"  she  said,  and  quickly  brushing  his  forehead  with  her 
lips,  she  fled  from  the  room. 

V. 

There  is  a  very  curious  legend  that  is  told  to  visitors  in  the  tender- 
loin of  the  greatest  metropolis  of  America.     It  is  a  fabulous  tale,  seldom 


10  The  Haverfordian 

believed.  There  remain,  however,  certain  proofs  which  seem  to  sub- 
stantiate the  legend.  The  hero  has  always  been  described  as  having 
been  of  tremendous  breadth  of  shoulder.  This  is  perhaps  the  only  state- 
ment in  which  all  the  descriptions  agree. 

There  are  sweat-shop  proprietors  who  are  still  cursing  him;  and 
there  are  mothers  of  babes  reared  by  his  aid,  who  are  still  praying  for 
him  each  night.  There  are  men  of  all  nationalities  who  gratefully  re- 
member his  lifting  touch,  his  word  to  the  man  in  the  gutter.  There  are 
men  who  remember  the  beatings  he  gave  them.  They  are  the  wife-beat- 
ers, and  they  still  have  fear  of  his  fierce  and  sudden  punishment.  There 
are  students,  former  newsboys,  who  will  never  forget  the  financial  aid 
so  wisely  and  carefully  bestowed.  There  are  gamblers  who  remember 
his  appeal  to  them.  He  never  criticized  their  life;  he  merely  spoke 
gently  with  them. 

They  tell  tales  of  starving  families  fed,  of  thriftless  fellows  rendered 
thrifty,  of  child-labor  victims  freed  and  cared  for,  and  of  corrupt  city 
officials  punished;  but  in  a  sanatorium  in  eastern  Pennsylvania  rests  a 
cripple  who  knows  the  whole  story.  He  it  was  who  begged  in  the  coldest 
winter  weather  on  the  bleak  street  corners  of  the  shopping  district,  until 
a  certain  very  wonderful  thing  happened.  He  had  been  arrested  for 
begging  and  was  about  to  be  sent  to  a  reformatory,  when  a  very  tall 
young  man  arose  from  among  the  crowd  in  the  juvenile  court,  spoke  a 
word  to  the  judge  and  then  took  him  along  to  a  room  on  the  third  floor 
of  a  tenement.  It  was  a  wonderful  room — prettier  than  any  the  cripple 
had  ever  seen  before.  There  was  a  bed,  desk,  carpet,  filing-cabinet, 
and  many  chairs.  Before  long  the  boy  was  an  efficient  typist.  His 
guardian  was  seldom  there.  They  had  no  visitors,  and  wished  none. 
Their  retreat  was  purposely  a  secret  one.  The  work  of  the  young  cripple 
was  very  light,  but  his  guardian,  curiously  enough,  insisted  that  he  take 
periodic  vacations,  which  although  enjoyable  had  a  certain  disagreeable 
ending,  namely,  the  submission  to  a  specialist's  diagnosis. 

A  year  passed  away.  The  magistrates  in  the  local  courts  were 
amazed  at  the  wonderful  change  that  had  come  over  the  community. 
The  social  workers,  who  had  been  unable  to  effect  any  change  by  years  of 
hard  labor,  were  dumbfounded.  Yet  none  of  these  could  trace  the  cause 
of  it  all.  The  newspapers  of  the  great  metropolis  published  voluminous 
articles  on  the  subject.  Magazines  obtained  the  views  of  experts  and 
the  great  reform  wave  even  extended  to  the  cover  designs. 

The  little  room  in  lower  New  York  was  the  nucleus  of  the  whole 
affair.  Hidden  away  among  the  piles  of  papers  were  reports  and  records, 
jealously  guarded  by  a  cripple.     The  Brute  passed  day  after  day  among 


The  Brute  11 

the  foreigners  of  the  lower  East  Side.     Unshaven,  dressed  in  tattered 
garments,  he  guided  the  destinies  of  an  embryo  nation. 

VI. 

Miss  Jane  Van  Verbeck  Hall  was  a  member  of  a  slumming  party 
which  made  a  superficial  circuit  of  the  lower  East  Side  every  month. 
On  this  particular  excursion  the  members  had  decided  to  swoop  unex- 
pectedly down  upon  an  unsuspecting  tenement  and  explore  it  to  its 
dregs.  The  sun  which  in  the  suburbs  smiles  over  the  green  valley  foliage, 
was  completely  hidden  here.  Drab  walls  were  guarded  from  the  sunlight 
by  the  factory  smoke.  The  heat  arose  from  the  paving-stones  and  was 
reflected  back  by  the  baked  walls.  Many  of  the  young  tourists  in  fact 
were  more  desirous  of  sitting  in  some  shady  nook  and  enjoying  some 
fiction,  than  of  participating  in  the  grim  reality.  They  entered  a  par- 
ticularly dingy  building  and  climbed  the  dark  and  narrow  stairs.  On 
the  third  floor  they  found  a  cripple  who  stared  at  them  with  distrust  and 
dodged  through  a  battered  door  into  a  room  beyond.  This  strange  con- 
duct interested  the  young  ladies  considerably,  and  the  young  officer  de- 
tailed to  accompany  them,  desirous  of  showing  his  authority,  forced  open 
the  door.  They  had  all  expected  to  find  a  squalid,  dirty  room,  bare 
of  comforts.  To  their  surprise  they  found  the  windows  neatly  curtained, 
the  room  completely  furnished,  office  accessories  scattered  about  and  a 
general  appearance  of  neatness.  It  was  at  this  opportune  moment  that 
the  Brute  arrived.  The  boy  was  angrily  expostulating  with  the  guardian 
of  the  law,  who  was  examining  the  papers  nearest  him.  The  Brute  had 
served  his  time. 

VII. 

The  canoe  glided  silently  beneath  the  overhanging  branches  of  the 
old  maples.  A  golden  glow,  the  sunset  on  the  waters,  formed  a  pool  of 
liquid  gold  and  ochre. 

"I  have  conquered,"  said  the  Brute,  gently,  "but  all  of  this  glory  is 
as  naught  without  you,  gentle  soul.  I  want  you.  My  work  is  not  over. 
Itiias  just  begun.  Tomorrow  I  leave  for  a  tour  of  the  industrial  centres 
of  England.  I  have  put  my  wealth  behind  me.  I  will  recognize  but 
three  duties  hereafter — my  duty  to  you,  God,  and  humanity.  Will  you 
help  me  in  this  great  task?" 

The  twilight  was  sinking  over  the  land.  The  strange  quiet  of  even- 
ing was  broken  only  by  the  gentle  murmur  of  the  waters.  The  girl  hung 
her  head  and  was  silent  for  a  time.     But  there  was  no  doubt  in  her  mind. 


12  The  Havertordian 

She  turned  around  and  gazed  softly  into  his  face.     He  leaned  forward 
tremblingly,  feeling  that  his  whole  life  was  at  stake. 

"You  know  the  promise  that  I  gave  you  a  long  time  ago.     I  have 
more  than  kept  it.     I  have  loved  you." 

Darkness  had  fallen,  enshrouding  the  joys  and  sorrows  of  all.     Two 
souls  drifted  down  the  flowing  waters  to  their  happiness. 

—H.  P.  Schenck,  '18. 


You  can  talk  about  your  ministers,  philosophers  and  such, 

But  the  whole  durn  sum  a7td  substance  really  don't  amount  to  much. 

You  ask  me  why  I  doubt  'em,  so  I'll  have  to  answer.  Well, 

Can  a  college  mans  religion  lift  a  feller  out  o'  hell? 

I've  knocked  about  some  in  my  time,  and  seen  the  world  a  bit, 

And  know  that  square  pegs  in  round  holes  have  never  made  a  fit. 

And  it's  all  the  same  in  'Frisco  as  it  is  in  old  New  York, 

Where  you  see  the  devil  struttin'  with  a  magnet  on  his  fork. 

Oh!   I've  got  the  Sundayitis,  and  I've  hit  the  sawdust  trail; 

I  can't  resist  his  arrows  with  a  double  coat  of  mail. 

He  may  be  a  trifle  offish,  and  perhaps  a  bit  too  rough, 

But  you'll  have  to  grant  it,  fellers,  he's  surely  got  the  stuff. 

So,  fellers,  quit  your  knockin',  and  go  round  to  hear  him  preach: 

He'll  hit  you  square  and  solid,  on  a  plane  that  you  can  reach. 

There's  no  mincin'  round  the  subject  in  philosophic  awe. 

But,  preachin'  hell  for  sartin,  he'll  read  you  out  the  law. 

Mayhap,  he's  not  quite  right,  boys,  but  right  here  let  us  pause, — 

He's  got  the  pluck  to  fight,  boys,  and  he's  workin  for  the  Cause! 

— Robert  Gibson,  '17. 


tlTfje  Cfjurct).  ^f)E  College  anb  "J^illp"  ^unbap 

THE  rivers  of  this  country  will  run  red  with  blood  before  they  take 
the  Bible  out  of  the  public  schools."  "The  man  who  does  not 
believe  in  the  justice  and  power  of  God  (the  context  indicates 
a  direct  allusion  to  Dr.  Eliot,  of  Harvard)  is  a  liar.  He  is  so  low  down 
that  he  would  need  an  aeroplane  to  get  to  hell."  "  I  don't  care  who  you 
are,  if  you  do  not  believe  in  salvation  through  the  blood  of  Jesus  Christ, 
you  will  go  to  hell."  "When  the  concensus  of  scholarship  conflicts 
with  the  word  of  God,  the  concensus  of  scholarship  can  go  plumb  to  hell." 

No,  these  pithy  and  forcible  comments  are  not  extracts  from  the 
deliberations  of  a  church  council  held  in  the  tenth  century.  Nor  are 
they  culled  from  the  sermons  of  some  obscure  campmeeting  exhorter  who 
is  preaching  to  a  mob  of  illiterate  backwoodsmen.  They  are  typical 
statements  from  the  lips  of  the  Rev.  William  A.  Sunday  in  his  sermons 
at  the  tabernacle  in  Philadelphia,  sermons  which  are  loudly  extolled  as 
the  greatest  factors  for  individual  and  social  righteousness  in  America 
to-day.  Other  phrases,  which  doubtless  conduce  to  the  moral  elevation 
of  his  auditors,  are:  "rotten,  stinking  mass  of  Unitarianism, "  and  "bas- 
tard theory  of  evolution." 

I  do  not  think  that  Billy  Sunday's  personal  character  is  especially 
objectionable.  He  is  undoubtedly  perfectly  sincere  in  his  extraordinary 
conceptions  of  God,  future  life,  and  the  message  of  Jesus  Christ,  and  his 
conviction  of  the  close  relationship  between  himself  and  the  Deity  is 
beyond  question.  His  faults  may  be  attributed,  in  some  measure  at 
least,  to  unfortunate  environment  and  natural  lack  of  refinement  rather 
than  to  any  innate  perversity  of  character.  But  the  personal  char- 
acter of  the  evangelist  is  of  minor  importance  in  comparison  with  the 
effect  of  his  work  and  the  attitude  which  the  religious  and  educational 
forces  of  the  country  should  take  towards  that  work. 

It  is  impossible  to  deny  that  Billy  Sunday's  sweeping  indictments 
of  social  and  individual  vices  do  a  certain  amount  of  good,  although  that 
good  has  certainly  not  been  underestimated  by  the  evangelist's  able 
corps  of  press  agents.  But,  on  the  other  hand,  Mr.  Sunday's  teachings 
and  methods  have  a  number  of  very  obnoxious  results  which  have  been 
generally  ignored  or  glossed  over.  His  inordinate  personal  vanity,  his 
illconcealed  contempt  for  all  who  do  not  practise  his  own  sensational  and 
hysterical  methods  of  conversion,  the  almost  incredible  venom  and 
coarseness  of  his  attacks  upon  Unitarianism  and  agnosticism ;  all  these 
elements  in  his  work  tend  to  revive  the  spirit  of  religious  fanaticism  and 
bigotry,  which  has  hitherto  happily  lain  dormant  in  our  country.     His 


14  The  Haverfordian 

vulgar  and  ill-informed  vituperation  of  those  discoveries  of  science  and 
historical  research  which  contradict  his  medieval  interpretation  of  the 
Bible,  arouses  in  ignorant  minds  a  tendency  to  despise  and  ridicule  the 
work  of  those  patient  scholars  who  are  trying  to  remove  the  clouds  of  ig- 
norance and  superstition  from  the  popular  mind.  And,  above  all,  his 
constant  insistence  upon  such  doctrines  as  a  physical  hell  and  eternal  tor- 
ment for  those  who  do  not  subscribe  to  certain  abstract  theological  tenets, 
gives  a  fatally  distorted  picture  of  Christianity  and  degrades  it  below 
the  level  of  the  most  intelligent  pagan  religions.  On  one  hand,  his  in- 
fluence turns  a  certain  number  of  hysterical,  broken-down  human  wrecks 
to  more  or  less  permanent  repentance;  on  the  other  hand,  it  degrades 
the  whole  moral  and  intellectual  tone  of  the  age  and  country,  turns  the 
most  sacred  beliefs  into  cheap  buffoonery,  and  inevitably  alienates  thou- 
sands of  intelligent  men  from  the  religion  which  the  evangelist  falsely 
claims  to  represent.  Can  it  be  questioned  whether  his  influence  is  more 
potent  for  good  or  for  evil? 

But  even  more  regrettable  than  the  enormous  popularity  of  the 
evangelist's  vaudeville  methods  in  religion,  even  more  distressing  than 
the  eagerness  with  which  multitudes  drink  in  his  crude  fanaticism  and 
his  outworn  dogmas,  is  the  well-nigh  inexplicable  attitude  which  the 
churches  and  higher  educational  institutions  of  the  nation  have  taken 
towards  Billy  Sunday,  his  beliefs,  and  his  methods. 

If  vulgarity,  ignorance,  and  fanaticism  are  vital  factors  in  the  mes- 
sage of  Christ,  then  Mr.  Sunday  can  well  claim  to  be  the  foremost  living 
interpreter  of  Christianity.  It  is  hard  to  believe  that  the  Christian 
Church  takes  such  an  attitude  towards  the  message  of  hei  Founder ;  and 
yet  how  else  can  one  explain  the  almost  universal  torrent  of  exaggerated 
praise  and  fulsome  adulation  with  which  the  Church  everjrwhere  greets 
the  evangelist?  At  every  tabernacle  service  hundreds  of  ministers  sit 
in  a  reserved  section  and  patiently  hear  themselves  and  their  methods 
held  up  to  the  coarsest  ridicule  by  a  man  who  is  probably  inferior  to  any 
one  of  them  in  everything  except  vaudeville  ability  and  billingsgate. 
The  spineless  submission  of  these  ministers  to  the  taunts  and  abuse  of 
the  evangelist  will  long  remain  a  source  of  shame  and  humiliation  to 
those  who  have  the  honor  and  dignity  of  the  Church  at  heart. 

"But,"  say  some  of  the  evangelist's  apologists,  "while  much  that 
Billy  Sunday  says  is  crude  and  exaggerated,  he  does  a  great  deal  of  good 
to  a  certaia  class  of  people.  Consequently,  we  will  overlook  or  condone 
his  methods,  while  we  applaud  his  results."  Such  a  contention,  it  seems 
to  me,  is  practically  a  confession  that  Christianity,  that  Christ's  methods 
and  spirit  have  been  a  failure.     For  the  qualities  of  love,  justice,  gentle- 


The  Church,  The  College  and  "Billy"  Sunday  15 

ness  and  tolerance,  which  are  so  predominant  in  the  New  Testament,  are 
conspicuous  by  their  absence  in  Mr.  Sunday's  wild  and  tempestuous 
exhortations.  In  confessing  her  own  weakness  by  enlisting  the  services 
of  such  a  thoroughly  unchristian  agent  as  Mr.  Sunday,  the  Church  has 
brought  a  graver  indictment  against  Christ  and  His  religion  than  the 
most  gifted  sceptical  philosopher  has  yet  been  able  to  bring. 

Has  the  Church  suffered  such  a  blindness  of  mental  perception  that 
she  cannot  perceive  the  incongruity  of  pretending  to  stand  for  a  liberal 
and  modern  interpretation  of  religion  on  one  hand,  and  of  endorsing  the 
medieval  fanaticism  of  Mr.  Sunday  on  the  other?  Or  is  she  controlled  in 
her  actions  by  an  unworthy  fear  of  alienating  and  offending  the  vulgar 
mob  which  regards  Mr.  Sunday's  combination  of  slang,  abusive  lan- 
guage, histrionic  talent  and  athletic  prowess  as  the  veritable  embodiment 
of  ideal  religion?  Neither  explanation  reflects  much  credit  upon  the 
present  condition  of  the  Church. 

But  even  more  remarkable  than  the  conduct  of  the  Church  has  been 
the  attitude  of  many  colleges  and  universities  which  have  more  or  less 
officially  taken  notice  of  the  evangelist  and  his  work.  It  has  hitherto 
been  the  general  impression  that  the  ideal  of  the  American  college  is  to 
make  scholars  and  gentlemen  of  its  students.  If  there  is  one  man  in 
America  who  seems  to  have  realized  this  ideal  perfectly,  that  man  is 
Dr.  Charles  Eliot,  President  Emeritus  of  Harvard  College.  In  dignity, 
in  fairness,  in  moderation,  in  breadth  and  depth  of  mind,  in  all  the  attri- 
butes of  the  truly  cultured  gentleman.  Dr.  Eliot  has  few  equals  and  no 
superiors  on  this  side  of  the  ocean.  Mr.  Sunday's  attitude  towards  Dr. 
Eliot  has  varied  from  the  coarse  abusiveness  quoted  at  the  beginning  of 
this  article  to  a  rather  amusing  affectation  of  pity  for  the  Doctor's  unfor- 
tunate narrowness  and  shallowness  of  mind.  One  would  suppose  that 
Mr.  Sunday's  attitude  towards  Dr.  Eliot  would,  in  itself,  forfeit  for  him 
the  sympathy  of  the  colleges  and  universities. 

But,  apparently,  the  majority  of  the  colleges  haA^e  either  given  up 
their  ideal  of  the  cultured  gentleman  or  else  have  come  to  the  conclusion 
that  Mr.  Sunday  is  a  much  closer  approximation  to  that  ideal  than  is 
Dr.  Eliot.  The  president  of  one  large  and  well-known  Pennsylvania 
college  leads  in  prayer  at  one  tabernacle  service  and  appoints  a  day  of 
prayer  for  Billy  Sunday's  success  at  his  college.  The  authorities  at  a 
still  more  widely  known  university  repeatedly  invite  Billy  Sunday  to 
address  the  students  and  lift  them  to  a  higher  moral  and  intellectual  plane. 
Everywhere  men  of  the  highest  reputation  for  scholarship  either  express 
unqualified  approval  for  Billy  Sunday  and  his  methods  or  criticize  him  so 
guardedly  and  cautiously  that  their  very  critici.  m  is  little  short  of  praise. 


16  The  Havertordian 

Nowhere  is  there  any  manly  repudiation  of  the  present  wave  of 
hysterical,  pseudo-religious  fanaticism,  nowhere  is  there  any  regard  or 
reverence  for  the  grand  old  classical  ideals  which  are  now  being  trampled 
in  the  mire  of  vulgar  contempt. 

It  would  seem  that  the  instinct  of  self-preservation  itself  would  lead 
the  colleges  to  combat  Mr.  Sunday's  influence  as  far  as  possible.  The 
first  principle  of  education,  the  writing  and  speaking  of  correct  English, 
is  outraged  by  the  evangelist  at  every  possible  opportunity.  His  opinion 
of  the  value  of  scientific  study  may  be  gathered  from  his  delicate  refer- 
ence to  evolution  as  "a  bastard  theory,"  and  his  frequent  allusions  to 
Darwin  as  "the  old  infidel."  His  appreciation  of  the  beauties  of  liter- 
ature is  expressed  in  his  description  of  Shakespeare  and  Milton  as  "old 
clods."  He  brands  the  historical  students  of  the  Bible  as  "trying  to 
know  more  than  God  does,"  while  his  conception  of  such  cultural  sub- 
jects as  Latin  and  Greek,  although  somewhat  vague,  seems  to  indicate 
that  an  undue  preference  for  the  works  of  such  dead  "  infidels"  as  Homer, 
Plato  and  Cicero  is  prejudicial  to  the  welfare  of  the  immortal  soul. 

So  much  for  Mr.  Sunday's  appreciation  of  the  cultural  part  of  the 
college  ideal.  In  regard  to  the  actions  which  do  or  do  not  mark  the  gen- 
tleman, there  will  always  be  considerable  difference  of  opinion.  But  it 
seems  fairly  obvious  that  a  man  who  habitually  violates  the  rules,  not 
only  of  courtesy,  but  of  common  decency  in  his  language,  who  almost 
invariably  substitutes  the  coarsest  abuse  and  invective  for  rational 
argument  and  logic,  and  who  is  incapable  of  carrying  on  any  discussion 
without  losing  both  temper  and  self-control,  has  no  right  to  that  honorable 
title.  If  the  educational  leaders  of  the  nation  believe  that  fanaticism  is 
a  more  potent  force  than  reason,  that  coarse  and  abusive  billingsgate  and 
slang  are  more  uplifting  than  the  language  of  the  cultured  gentleman, 
that  the  vision  of  eternal  torment  gives  a  higher  conception  of  religion 
than  the  trust  in  an  All-Wise  and  All-Merciful  Creator,  then  let  them  do 
away  with  free  scientific  and  philosophic  investigation  and  turn  the 
colleges  into  theological  and  religious  seminaries.  But  if  they  believe 
that  truth  and  reason  are  not  mere  names,  if  they  believe  that  Matthew 
Arnold's  "sweetness  and  light"  is,  after  all,  a  greater  element  in  the 
world's  progress  than  the  passions  and  tempests  of  the  mob,  then  let  them 
stand  manfully  by  their  colors  and  combat  Mr.  Sunday's  baleful  influ- 
ence at  every  point,  resting  confident  in  the  ultimate  triumph  of  culture 
and  light  over  barbarism  and  darkness. 

Unfortunately,  the  thought  leaders  of  the  nation  give  no  indication 
of  following  either  the  first  course,  which  would  be  consistent,  at  least, 
or  the  second,  which  would  require  a  high  type  of  moral  courage.     In 


The  Captive  Eagle  17 

common  with  the  foremost  men  in  the  Church,  they  seem  to  lack  the 
robust  self-confidence  which  enables  men  to  stand  up  for  their  convic- 
tions in  the  face  of  the  most  overwhelming  odds.  The  best  that  we  can 
hope  is  that  the  historian  of  the  future,  when  he  describes  the  Billy 
Sunday  revival,  will  draw  the  mantle  of  charity  over  the  inconsistent 
and  unworthy  attitude  of  the  Church  and  the  college. 

— William  H.  Chamberlain,  '17. 


tlTfje  Captibe  (Eagle 

Coldly  defiant  in  thy  cage  of  steel, 

We  glimpse  thee  dreaming  of  a  lost  demesne, 
And  in  that  regal  bearing  seek  the  pain 

O'er  which  thy  pride  has  set  so  firm  a  seal. 

Crude  outward  senses  lack  the  pow'r  to  feel; 
Thy  bondless  soul  o'er  boundless  waves  again 
Is  roaming,  free  to  soar  'neath  Nature's  fane, 

Surmount  all  clouds,  and  in  pure  sunlight  wheel. 

No  need  to  heed  the  throngs  that  pass  thee  by: 

The  night  must  come;  with  night  the  crowds  disperse. 

And  though  because  of  bars  thou  canst  not  fly. 
They  cannot  stay  thee  from  thy  universe. 

Swarming  berieath,  we  pity  thee  on_  high, — 
'Tis  mankind's  lot,  that  spirit-bonds  coerce. 

—F.  M.  M.,  '15. 


0n  d^uarb 

FELIX,  the  smiling  one,"  the  courtiers  called  young  de  Beauport, 
because  when  he  fought  he  always  smiled.  His  father  taught 
him  to  fence,  and  his  grandfather  taught  him  manners.  It  was 
a  great  day  for  him  when  he  came  to  Paris  to  the  Court.  His  grand- 
father took  him  around  to  the  armourer  and  told  the  fellow  he  wanted 
a  rapier — ''sharp  as  the  boy's  wit  and  long,"  he  said.  The  lad  chose  one, 
and  they  were  soon  inseparable,  each  a  living  part  of  the  other,  slim  and 
supple,  both. 

Felix,  I  think,  believed  in  three  things — in  his  rapier,  in  his  lady, 
and  in  himself.  She  was  fair,  Adele,  that  little  niece  of  Coligny's.  Felix 
loved  her  from  the  first;  when  he  met  her,  blushing  and  confused,  the 
day  he  took  a  message  from  the  King  to  the  kindly-faced  old  Admiral 
at  his  new  quarters  in  the  quaint  old  house  on  the  corner  of  the  crooked 
Rue  Carret.  After  that  he  always  managed  to  be  the  messenger  to  the 
Admiral's  house,  and  while  he  was  waiting  for  the  old  man  to  write  his 
reply,  the  girl  and  boy  used  to  talk  together  in  the  low-ceilinged  sitting- 
room,  and  he  would  tell  her  Court  gossip,  and  she  would  describe  to  him 
her  former  home  in  Rochelle.  Sometimes  he  would  pretend  she  was  a 
hateful  heretic,  and  cross  himself,  and  hold  his  sword  hilt  up  in  front  of 
him,  shrinking  away  from  her  in  pretended  fear,  while  she  would  gaze 
at  him,  big-eyed  with  awe.  Then  he  would  burst  into  a  merry  laugh 
and  ask  her  if  she  did  not  want  to  become  a  Catholic.  Much  he  was 
thinking  about  religion  then! 

Only  a  month  after  he  met  her,  the  great  day  came.  It  had  been 
hot,  for  the  time  was  August,  1572,  and  all  Paris  towards  sunset  was 
out  on  its  door-step.  In  the  air  was  a  tremble  of  excitement,  and  the 
troops  in  the  King's  barracks  were  restless.  Felix  did  not  notice  it,  for 
he  was  very  happy  that  St.  Bartholomew's  twilight.  He  was  going  to 
visit  Adele.  He  had  heard  a  wild  rumor  about  a  plot  against  the  Hugue- 
nots, but  that  did  not  concern  Adele,  safe  at  the  great  Admiral's. 

It  was  just  eight  when  he  stepped  from  under  the  massive  archway 
to  the  palace,  and  the  church  bells  began  to  ring.  That  sound  was  as  if 
the  waves  of  the  ocean  were  bells,  and  the  billows  were  crashing  out  over 
Paris.  It  sounded  as  if  all  the  sextons  in  Paris  had  gone  mad.  Felix 
stopped  at  the  corner  in  astonishment.  From  the  church  opposite  poured 
out  a  mob  of  bourgeois  armed  with  old  sabers  and  axes  and  halberds. 
Like  hounds  on  the  scent  they  rushed  down  the  street,  and  one  burly 
butcher  howled  out,  "Down  with  the  Huguenots!"  and  the  rest  took  up 
the  note  in  full  cry.     "My  God!"  murmured  Felix,  and  he  grew  white. 


On^Guard  19 

He  reached  the  house  on  the  Rue  Garret  but  just  in  time;  they 
were  battering  at  the  front  door  when  he  got  there.  FeHx  intuitively 
sought  the  side  of  the  house  away  from  the  crowd.  He  scaled  the  wall 
of  the  neighboring  courtyard  and  ran  to  the  rear,  where  he  climbed  into 
the  little  garden  back  of  Adele's  home.  "Adele,"  he  shouted,  "open, 
for  God's  sake,  open!"  Luckily  she  heard  him  and  let  down  the  bar, 
for  in  her  terror  she  had  run  to  the  rear  away  from  the  pandemonium  out 
front.  Seizing  her  hand,  he  pulled  her  out  and  pushed  the  door  to; 
"Quick!  Out  the  rear  gate!"  he  commanded.  They  reached  it  none 
too  soon,  for  down  the  side  street  came  the  first  overflow  of  the 
crowd.  Felix  hadn't  the  time  to  fight,  and,  although  they  recognized 
his  court  dress,  they  looked  at  him  askance,  but  he  turned  on  them  with 
his  quick  wit.  "The  girl  is  mine — go  thou  and  do  likewise."  And  with 
a  leer  he  motioned  the  stragglers  towards  the  house.  They  gave  a  short, 
ugly  laugh  and  passed  on  into  the  garden. 

Then  the  two  sped  down  the  street,  turning  into  byways  away  from 
the  tumult.  They  had  almost  reached  Felix's  grandfather's,  their 
haven,  when  back  of  them  around  the  corner  came  a  group  of  three  half- 
drunken  soldiers,  prowling  for  easy  plunder  and  bent  on  any  villany  to 
be  hidden  under  the  cloak  of  religious  zeal.  Felix  and  the  girl  shrank 
back  against  the  wall.  There  was  a  bare  chance  of  escaping  notice  by 
going  up  a  near-by  alley,  so  they  turned.  But  the  men  caught  sight 
of  the  girl's  dress,  and  one  of  them  cried  out,  "Come  on,  boys,  here's 
meat  for  us!"  They  fled,  and  had  not  gone  a  hundred  yards  when  they 
saw  the  alley  was  a  pocket.  Felix  groaned.  To  their  right  was  a  small, 
dark  archway  opening  upon  an  inner  courtyard.  They  were  desperate, 
and  had  to  make  a  stand.  Felix  set  his  jaw  and  swung  the  softly  sobbing 
girl  into  the  black  hole  behind  him.  It  was  three  against  one,  but  only 
two  could  attack  at  the  same  time.  The  first  came  on.  "Hell!  Boy, 
let  us  have  the  girl  and  we'll  let  thee  go."  He  stood  with  guard  half 
down,  sneering  into  the  boy's  face.  Felix's  rapier  was  long  then,  and  the 
man's  last  word  ended  in  a  gurgle,  for  the  point  passed  through  his  throat 
and  out  his  neck.  On  the  lips  of  Felix  played  a  smile,  and  his  eyes  shone 
a  steel  gray  that  matched  the  color  of  his  rapier  when  it  was  dry.  Then 
from  the  portal  rang  out  clear  and  defiant,  "On  guard,  curs!"  and  Felix, 
the  smiling  one,  had  begun  a  winning  fight. 

— Douglass  C.  Wendell,  '16. 


paintings;,  or  people? 

IT  is  a  fearful  thing  to  "take  in"  an  Art  Exhibit.  That  is,  if  you 
really  "take  it  in"  instead  of  conscientiously  enthusing  over  the 
paintings  in  room  after  room.  You  should  pay  some  attention 
to  the  paintings,  of  course.  They  help  to  explain  things.  But  so  much 
is  there  besides,  that  to  take  it  all  in  is  to  gorge  the  appreciation  fearfully. 

I  went  to  the  110th  Annual  Exhibition  at  the  Pennsylvania  Academy 
of  the  Fine  Arts  on  an  assignment.  I  went  on  "  free  day  "  in  order  to  see 
everything.  Four  hours  was  not  enough — four  years  would  hardly 
suffice.     Life  there  is  as  luxuriant  as  in  a  jungle — and  nearly  as  stifling. 

I  am  not  an  artist.  The  canvases  did  not  attract  my  attention  so 
soon  as  did  the  profusion  of  pretty  girls  and  beautifully  dressed  women. 
I  had  thought  it  would  be  like  a  church — that  I  would  see  few  men. 

There  are  almost  as  many  men  as  there  are  women.  Nearly  every 
woman  has  one. 

Some  women  trail  slender  tyros  of  an  eagerly  explanatory  type 
about  with  them,  and  get  technical  criticism  at  first  hand.  These  women 
are  usually  advanced  in  age  and  are  dressed  like  female  Maecenases. 
The  youths  are  a  great  deal  like  young  robins.  One  has  a  large  seal  ring 
on  the  index  finger  he  us.es  to  point  out  flesh  tints.  Fortunately  there 
are  few  of  this  type. 

Occasionally  a  solitary  woman  clothed  in  dark  blue  or  in  brown, 
with  a  sweepingly  large  hat,  pauses  silently  before  the  picture  of  a  young 
girl,  or  the  light  of  a  sunset  and  makes  me  wish  for  a  canvas  and  to  be 
an  artist. 

Behind  her  are  four  women  in  a  group.  Their  hats  are  blue,  brown, 
and  black ;  one  has  no  hat  at  all,  but  a  peacock's  plumage  held  smoothly 
under  a  transparent  net.  Their  dresses  flow  harmoniously  from  graceful 
figures,  and  a  yellow  vest,  or  a  purple  coat,  adds  to  the  riot  of  color 
heightened  by  bright  eyes  and  full,  red  lips. 

Two  nervous  little  Jewesses  scurry  by. 

A  tall  woman  with  long  eyelashes  and  quick,  brilliant  black  eyes, 
making  me  think  of  the  French  "filles  de  joie,"  trails  past  with  a  greasy- 
haired,  sensual-looking  man.  They  pass  a  mother, — in  marble, — 
praying  with  her  two  children  held  close.  The  man  makes  a  mechanical 
sound  intended  for  a  laugh.  The  woman  giggles  hysterically.  The 
sounds  rise  discordantly  above  the  steady  shuffling  of  feet  on  the  stone 
floor,  and  the  murmuring  of  voices,  as  the  crowd  flows  on,  forming  and 
breaking  in  little  eddies  like  water  in  a  shallow  stream. 

Staccato  sounds  bespeak  the  heels  of  two  women  of  fashion  who 


Paintings,  or  People?  21 

have  somehow  wandered  in  on  this  day  of  the  people.  They  chatter 
volubly.  Occasionally  they  glance  at  a  picture.  "See  that  fruit!"  one 
gurgles.  "Yes,  isn't  it  splendid?"  comes  the  appreciative  reply.  They 
pause  before  a  bronze  book-rack.  It  is  the  cast  of  a  polo  player  bending 
from  his  horse.  The  "Philadelphia  Blue  Book"  enhances  the  aesthetic 
ensemble  of  the  piece. 

Three  huge  negroes  stop  near  them.     They  move  on. 

The  tallest  and  heaviest  of  the  blacks  explains  to  his  brethren  that 
the  green  bronze  piper  is  charming  the  crouching  leopard  with  the  music 
of  his  flute. 

Across  the  hall  I  see  two  "young  things."  They  dart  from  one 
brilliant  picture  to  another — and  look  electrically  into  each  other's  face. 
The  girl  is  very  intense.  She  holds  the  man  feverishly  by  his  coat 
sleeve.  He  is  a  musician — not  the  kind  that  is  caricatured,  but  a  well- 
tailored,  clean-looking  artist.  They  are  getting  out  of  the  Exhibit  all 
that  it  holds.  She  is  the  best  picture  there,  under  the  shadow  of  her 
large  hat. 

It  is  fascinating  to  sit  in  the  vicinity  of  a  nude.  Here  one  can 
choose  the  artists.  Three  or  four  scrawny  youths  stand  nervously  for 
a  second  in  front  of  her.  Their  smirks  effect  a  feeling  of  revulsion.  A 
grandmother  comes  upon  her  suddenly  and  blushes,  with  a  start.  Two 
spinster  ladies  look  for  five  minutes  at  a  basket  of  fruit  nearby — but  their 
eyes  take  stolen  glances. 

The  intense  young  couple  darts  up. 

"Isn't  she  lovely?"  Petite  exclaims.  (I  name  her  on  sudden  im- 
pulse.) 

The  musician  surveys  the  sculpture  critically,  and  agrees.  I  love 
"Petite"  and  her  lover  more  than  before. 

I  walk  about  once  more  and  am  impressed  with  the  pictures  of  tall 
chimneys,  of  large  men  at  heavy  labor,  of  pulleys  and  canals  that  be- 
speak the  rude  vigor  of  a  new  day.  The  picture  of  an  "L"  crowd  ab- 
sorbed in  its  newspapers,  the  sculpture  of  commuters  beating  their  way 
through  the  wind  and  storm,  make  me  think  of  a  time  when  artistry  was 
occupied  in  portraying  the  Holy  Virgin,  and  saints  and  cherubs  that 
have  never  yet  been  seen. 

I  come  upon  a  picture  of  the  best-loved  artist  of  the  few  who  have 
received  the  encouragement  of  a  Friendly  education.  An  illustrated 
note-book  in  my  college  library  establishes  kinship  with  the  Maxfield 
Parrish  whom  Kenyon  Cox  has  portrayed  for  the  admiration  of  the 
passing  throng. 

An  immense  woman  bumps  me  in  the  back.     A  voice  that  itself 


22  The  Haverfordian 

seems  fat,  exclaims,"  "How  sweet!"  She  is  looking  at  a  fresh  young  girl 
with  the  white  background  of  a  winter's  day,  who  has  received  the  gold 
medal.  The  picture  is  "sweet."  The  children  go  close  as  though 
finding  a  comrade. 

I  return  to  the  central  place  and  look  for  the  third  time  at  a  bronze 
dancing  girl — eight  inches  high. 

The  catalogue  says  that  nearly  everything  is  for  sale.  I  curse  the 
limitations  of  my  purse.  A  large  Jewish  person  comes  up  with  an  at- 
tendant. I  listen  fearfully  to  their  conversation.  The  little  inspiration 
is  going  to  his  cluttered  mansion.  I  wonder  she  does  not  topple  over 
and  end  it  all.  But  she  is  held  firmly  by  copper  wires  nailed  to  the 
green  cloth  of  her  pedestal.  Behind  her  is  the  polo  player  and  the 
"Blue  Book." 

Disgusted,  I  take  a  last  look  and  leave  her  to  her  fate. 

I  am  tired  of  standing  up.  A  soft  divan  gives  me  an  excellent  place 
from  which  to  look  once  more  at  the  people.  But  the  pleasure  has 
fled.  One  soon  becomes  sated  with  humanity  when  alone.  There  is  no 
one  to  whom  to  overflow.     Impressions  beat  in  and  stun. 

On  my  way  out  a  snatch  of  conversation  makes  me  smile  as  all  true 
Americans  should  at  audible  signs  of  appreciation  or  feeling. 

"Don't  you  think  there's  a  sort  of  poetry  about  that?  A-ah — sort  of 
easy — those  dark  grey  clouds — also."  It  is  a  red-haired,  freckled,  and 
rather  dumpy  lady  who  makes  this  flight. 

I  went  up  a  side  street  to  the  station.  A  building  in  process  of 
demolition  was  on  my  way.  A  man  and  three  women  stood,  absorbed 
in  the  sight.  I  had  seen  them  equally  absorbed  by  the  prize  pictures 
twenty  minutes  before. 

After  all  it  is  "the  thing"  to  go  to  an  Exhibit! 

— Eugene  M.  Pharo,  '15. 


tE^fje  (Jleniug  of  tfic  ^agt 

It  was  night,  and  the  wind  was  softly  blowing  through  the  trees, 
as  I  sat  reading  stories  of  the  past — tales  of  ancient  Egypt,  of  Babylon 
and  Syria  in  days  gone  by,  of  mysterious  Arabia  and  all  those  other  lands 
of  the  rising  sun.  I  mused  on  history  and  the  past,  and  over  it  all  I 
seemed  to  see  that  golden,  mystic  splendor  which  ofttimes  accompanies 
a  summer's  dying  day.  As  the  indefinite  masses  of  pure  white  cloud 
seem  to  us  on  earth  like  real  enchanted  castles  of  fable,  so  those  far-gone 
times  appeared  sweetly  beautiful  to  my  imaginative  fancy.  The  light 
of  vague  unreality  fell  over  them  all.  And  outside  the  wind  moaned 
drearily,  and  I  thrilled  to  the  sound  as  I  sat  in  the  warm  glow  of  my 
lamp. 

I  had  allowed  my  book  to  fall  into  my  lap  and  was  staring  vacantly 
into  space,  dreaming  of  all  this  beauty,  when  I  was  suddenly  startled 
by  the  appearance  of  a  figure  before  me.  It  was  a  woman  clad  in  white 
robes;  her  golden  hair  streamed  over  her  shoulders,  partly  covering  a 
neck  of  pure  whiteness;  her  features  exhibited  a  calm,  almost  stern 
beauty;  and  she  seemed  to  be  looking  through  and  beyond  me.  Startled 
surprise  and  admiration  held  me  as  in  a  trance  while  I  gazed  upon  her, 
and  as  I  gazed  I  saw  that  in  one  hand  she  held  a  tablet,  and  in  the  other 
a  stylus.  As  I  saw  these  things,  a  realization  of  her  identity  broke  in 
upon  me.  "Ah!"  I  thought,  "this  must  be  theMuseof  History."  And 
even  as  this  thought  passed  through  my  mind,  a  strange  change  came 
over  her.  The  face  became  wrinkled  and  drawn,  the  golden  hair  sick- 
ened into  straggly  locks  of  dead  gray  color,  the  well-carried  shoulders 
drooped  as  a  flying  standard  droops  when  the  wind  dies  out,  the  hands 
that  bore  the  tablet  and  stylus  shook.  This  transformation  took  place 
slowly  but  perceptibly  while  I  looked  upon  her.  And  after  the  change 
had  taken  place  I  thought,  "This  cannot  be  the  Goddess  of  History," 
but  she  carried  the  tablet  and  the  pen. 

And  then  for  the  first  time  she  spoke,  and  her  voice  told  of  sorrow 
and  suffering.  In  low,  sobbing  tones  she  said  to  me,  "If  you  would  see 
the  Plains  of  History  from  the  Mountain  of  To-day,  follow  me."  Scarcely 
knowing  what  I  did,  I  followed  her  out  over  paths  which  I  had  never 
trod  before,  up,  up  towards  a  rocky  summit.  A  gray,  death-like  twi- 
light sky  brooded  over  the  desolate  region  of  shadows.  At  length  we 
reached  the  top  of  the  mountain,  and  as  we  did  so  my  guide  raised  her 
arm.  At  this  gesture  the  sky  grew  lighter  and  lighter,  but  the  increased 
light  was  not  of  such  a  nature  as  to  render  the  scene  more  cheerful.  The 
spirit  of  horror  and  sadness  still  reigned  supreme. 


24  The  Haverfordian 

When  the  light  had  become  stronger,  objects  and  figures  on  the  plain 
became  visible,  though  far  away.  Strangely  clearly  could  I  see  the 
figures  of  men  despite  the  distance.  The  Muse  beside  me  spoke  and 
said,  "See  now  the  beautiful  and  wonderful  land  of  ancient  Egypt." 
As  she  said  this,  a  faintly  cynical  smile  played  on  her  withered  lips. 
I  turned  and  beheld  an  uncompleted  pyramid  rising  above  the  sandy 
stretch.  Perspiring  laborers  bent  with  toil  swarmed  over  the  huge  masses 
of  rock.  There  a  group  of  slaves  strained  at  ropes,  endeavoring  to  haul 
a  huge  rock  over  rollers  to  the  base  of  the  pyramid.  A  brute  wielded 
a  lash  among  them  and  the  blood  trickled  from  the  cut  backs  of  those 
whose  faces  expressed  a  cowering,  dog-like  simplicity  and  fear.  "Thus," 
said  my  guide,  "are  built  the  glorious  monuments  of  the  glorious  Pharaoh 
of  Egypt."  I  turned  my  eyes  away,  and  the  Muse  again  raised  her  hand. 
The  sky  darkened,  and  after  some  moments  grew  lighter  again. 

This  time  I  saw  a  great  battle  raging.  Two  long  lines  of  soldiers 
clad  in  steel  armor  were  fighting  hand  to  hand.  Shrieks  of  agony, 
brutal  battle  cries,  and  the  clash  of  swords  rose  from  the  battlefield. 
Here  and  there  a  man  would  fall,  but  the  line  closed  up  and  the  strife 
went  on  as  the  lines  swayed  forward  and  backward.  Towards  the 
horizon  a  cloud  of  dust  appeared,  from  which  after  a  time  could  be  dis- 
cerned advancing  a  great  host  of  horsemen.  This  troop  rode  down  upon 
one  flank  of  the  fighting  line  and  crushed  it.  With  their  flank  turned 
the  whole  line  fell  back  and  their  enemies  followed  after  them.  The 
retreat  became  a  rout  as  the  steel  lances  of  the  cavalry  plunged  through 
the  corselets  of  the  defeated  warriors  while  they  retreated.  Thus  was 
the  whole  expanse  of  field  soaked  with  the  blood  of  men.  "This,"  said 
my  guide,  "is  the  great  battle  in  which  the  Babylonians  crushed  an  army 
of  the  Syrians,  and  in  this  manner  was  built  up  the  magnificent  empire 
of  Babylon."  And  after  the  awful  battle,  women  could  be  seen  search- 
ing among  the  dead.  There  a  woman  discovered  a  dead  husband  or 
father  or  brother  or  son  and  a  broken  heart  was  evidenced  by  her  pros- 
trate figure.     Again  darkness  fell  over  the  scene. 

This  time  the  light  revealed  a  beautiful  Roman  home  of  white  marble, 
reposing  in  an  Italian  landscape.  On  the  portico  stood  a  Roman  of 
distinguished  appearance  with  his  hands  clasped  behind  him.  He  was 
watching  his  wife  and  children  playing  on  the  green  lawn  in  front  of  the 
villa,  but  as  he  watched  a  band  of  soldiers  appeared  in  the  distance. 
He  watched  them  with  an  anxious  expression  upon  his  face.  Along 
the  dusty  road  they  marched.  As  they  reached  the  entrance  of  the 
estate  they  turned  and  came  up  the  driveway.  At  this  moment  the 
mother  and  children  noticed  the  soldiers.     The  mother  was  startled  and 


Early  Morning  in  Washington  Square  25 

frightened,  but  the  children  were  overwhelmed  with  awe  and  admiration. 
The  centurion  who  was  in  command  of  the  company  approached  the 
father  and  said,  "By  the  Emperor's  orders  we  are  to  bring  you  to  Rome" 
Without  the  slightest  show  of  surprise  or  fear  the  man  turned  slowly  to 
his  wife  and,  speaking  in  a  low  tone,  said,  "  I  am  summoned  to  Rome"; 
and  then,  smiling  sarcastically,  "for  the  glory  of  the  empire  a  Roman 
must  die.  I  shall  never  return."  The  woman  grew  deathly  pale,  but 
did  not  speak.  Her  husband  embraced  her  and,  tearing  himself  away, 
departed  with  the  soldiers,  and  the  fitting  darkness  descended  once  more. 
The  Muse  led  me  down  from  the  mountain,  and  as  we  reached  the 
bottom  she  turned  and  said,  "You  have  seen  me  as  I  am,  and  as  for  the 
sake  of  poetry  and  beauty  I  must  appear."  So  saying,  she  changed 
into  that  form  in  which  she  had  first  appeared,  and  vanished  from  view, 
just  as  the  faint  streaks  of  dawn  colored  the  eastern  sky. 

— Donald  H.  Painter,  '17. 


Carlp  iWorning  in  ^agftington  Square 

The  dim  coils  of  the  river  lie  asleep, 

The  red  roofs  stretch  iyito  the  misty  hliie, 

But  far  away  beyond  the  smoke-dimmed  view 

There  is  a  spot  where  dawn  s  faint  colors  creep 

O'er  smiling  ripples  where  the  swallows  sweep, 

And  birds  sing  wondrously  and  woo 

Their  mates  with  notes  oft-sung  yet  ever  new, 

While  from  green  depths  of  leaves  shy  wood-folk  peep. 

Up  from  the  square  the  noise  of  heavy  grind 

Comes  mingled  with  a  wave  of  torrid  air 

Between  high  walls.     Swift  wheels  their  plaint  repeat. 

0  could  I  leave  the  tumult  far  behind 

And  wander  over  fields  without  a  care. 

While  larks,  on  high,  rain  music — ah,  so  sweet! 

—W.  S.  Nevin.  '18. 


iSn  Appeal  to  0viv  Appreciation  of  ^tvoiim  anb  a 
i^cto  ^tanbarb  for  ^afcierforb  jWen 

AGAINST  the  dark  background  of  the  horrible  tempest  in  Europe 
stands  out  to  Haverford  men  and  to  all  the  believers  in  youth 
and  idealism  the  splendid  work  of  young  Phil  Baker  and  his 
band  of  efficient  workers  in  the  relief  of  suffering  in  the  war  zone. 

That  Phil  Baker  spent  a  year  at  Haverford  and  became  a  loyal  and 
enthusiastic  Haverfordian  obliterates  a  good  deal  of  the  distance  which 
many  of  us  feel  intervenes  between  us  and  the  war,  and  we  suddenly  find 
ourselves  confronted  with  a  personal  "FRIEND  AT  THE  FRONT." 

The  letters  which  I  have  received  from  members  of  the  Ambulance 
Corps  have  quite  a  different  effect  from  the  bellowing  headlines  in  the 
newspapers,  and  they  give  a  startling  picture  of  the  humanity  and 
barbarity  which  are  so  tangled  in  that  distressed  region. 

The  appreciation  which  they  feel  of  the  relatively  small  amount  of 
help  which  has  come  to  them  from  America  makes  all  effort  here  seem 
worth  while,  and  sons  of  Haverford  would  be  glad  if  they  could  feel  that 
more  of  their  number  were  out  there  aiding  this  brilliant  young  English- 
man to  accomplish  his  work. 

For  members  of  the  Society  of  Friends  this  is  a  great  opportunity 
to  preach  effective  "peace  principles,"  and  to  strengthen  the  unity  of 
Friends  and  increase  the  value  of  their  contribution  to  reconstruction 
when  the  fighting  is  over.  To  those  Haverfordians  who  are  not  members 
with  Friends  the  work  of  this  group  with  its  efficiency  and  devotion  to 
their  ideals  must  always  be  a  satisfaction. 

An  American  Committee  in  aid  of  this  work,  which  contains  the 
names  of  such  Haverfordians  as  Rufus  M.  Jones,  Charles  J.  Rhoads, 
J.  Henry  Scattergood,  Frederic  H.  Strawbridge,  and  James  Wood,  has 
been  formed,  and  my  office  at  43  Cedar  Street,  New  York  City,  selected 
as  the  place  to  which  funds  should  be  sent  for  transmission. 

A  "Haverford  ambulance"  would  be  such  a  concrete  expression 
of  our  willingness  to  aid  Phil  Baker  as  could  not  fail  to  give  immediate 
aid  and  cheer  him  on  in  a  substantial  way. 

— L.  HoUingsworth  Wood,  '96. 
New  York,  February  19,  1915. 


THE  UNEASY  CHAIR 


Aspiring  young  writers  read  with  a  pleasure,  not  unmingled  with 
a  sort  of  envy,  the  delightful  editorials  which  come  from  the  occupant 
of  the  Easy  Chair  and  appear  monthly  in  the  pages  of  one  of  our  leading 
magazines.  Perspiring  young  editors  know,  without  inquiring  into  the 
architecture  of  that  particular  chair,  that  the  feeling  of  comfort  which 
such  a  piece  of  furniture  can  afford,  depends  largely  upon  the  state  of 
mind  of  the  occupant.  After  lying  awake  o'  nights  till  the  lights  go  out, 
in  a  vain  endeavor  to  assemble  material  for  a  readable  editorial,  he 
begins  to  realize  the  truth  of  the  old  saying,  Uneasy  lies  the  ear  that 
wears  a  pen.  He  also  resolves  that  he  will  emulate  the  immortal  pater 
patriae  and  avow  the  embarrassing  truth.  Hence,  the  new  caption  for 
this  department. 

It  would  be  quite  interesting  and  rather  easy  to  cover  a  page  or  two 
with  a  discussion  of  the  purpose  and  ideal  nature  of  college  periodicals 
in  general  and  of  the  Haverfordian  in  particular;  but  the  thing 
has  been  so  well  done  by  a  thin  red  line  of  editors  stretching  well  back 
into  the  misty  past,  that  we  shall  leave  the  reader  to  his  own  meditations 
on  the  subject.  Nodoubt  the  result  will  be  much  the  same.  It  may  even 
be  unnecessary  to  remark  that  the  success  of  the  Haverfordian  as  a 
representative  college  product  depends  entirely  upon  the  sympathetic 
co-operation  of  the  Alumni  and  undergraduates  with  the  editorial  board, 
but  we  feel  that  it  is  not  out  of  place  to  ask  that  each  reader  should  feel 
at  least  a  modicum  of  personal  responsibility  in  the  matter  of  making 
our  college  magazine  worthy  of  its  name.  To  this  end  we  repeat  the 
usual  invitation  for  contributions  and  constructive  criticism  from  both 
Alumni  and  undergraduates.  With  such  material  as  may  fall  into  our 
nets,  we  hope  to  make  the  book  readable  and  representative. 


Advertising  Haverford  is  the  attractive  slogan  of  a  progressive 
party  which  is  growing  in  influence  among  Haverfordians.  For  the  last 
three  years  sentiment  has  been  flowing  with  a  swelling  tide  in  this  direc- 
tion. The  organization  of  prep,  school  clubs  within  the  College,  has 
followed  the  formation  of  Haverford  clubs  by  graduates  in  various  cities. 
In  connection  with  this  movement,  the  question  naturally  arises.  Does 
Haverford  wish  to  be  larger?  We  take  pleasure  in  presenting  President 
Sharpless'  answer  to  the  question  in  this  number. 

The  same  gentleman  who  put  this  question  also  wished  to  know 


28  The  Haverfordian 

why  it  was  that  such  a  small  college  had  such  a  large  reputation.  This 
inquiry  seems  to  indicate  that,  even  in  the  absence  of  advertising,  we 
have  somehow  become  known.  Without  any  desire  to  undervalue  the 
beneficial  results  of  the  nascent  publicity  work,  it  seems  evident  that 
Haverford's  best  advertising,  in  the  future  as  in  the  past,  will  be  the 
influence  of  her  Alumni  upon  the  communities  in  which  they  live.  When 
a  community  or  institution  realizes  that  a  Haverford  man  is  present 
because  of  the  peculiar  spirit  which  prevails  in  it,  then  the  College  comes 
into  her  own  and  candidates  for  matriculation  become  more  numerous. 
This  is  also  true  of  the  influence  of  undergraduates  when  away  from 
the  College.  Even  if  we  find  it  easy  to  forget,  at  times,  that  we  are 
Haverfordians,  those  whom  we  meet  do  not  forget  it.  The  reputation 
of  the  College  stands  or  falls  with  us.  Whatever  modern  methods  may 
be  desirable  from  a  business  point  of  view,  we  cannot  at  any  time  afford 
to  forget  the  fact  that  we  are  at  all  times,  whether  we  will  it  or  not, 
display  ads.  in  large  type. 


The  Lenten  Season  is  a  subject  which  has  possibly  never  received 
attention  before  in  these  pages.  The  formal  observance  of  it  is  incom- 
patible with  Friendly  practice,  but  the  deepening  of  the  inner  life  which 
results  from  meditation  on  the  life  of  Jesus  and  a  conscious  communion 
with  God  is  a  thing  which  is  the  privilege  of  all  Christians,  irrespective 
of  sect.  At  this  time  when  two  great  churches  are  definitely  turning 
their  attention  to  the  deeper  things  of  life,  there  is  not  one  of  us  who  will 
not  be  benefited  by  waiting  quietly,  "in  deep  mid-silence,  open-doored 
to  God." 


A  Haverford  Ambulance  is  the  peaceful  part  suggested  by  L. 
Hollingsworth  Wood  for  Haverfordians  to  play  in  the  European  conflict. 
The  great  need,  together  with  a  more  or  less  personal  interest  in  the  work 
of  Philip  Baker,  ought  to  make  the  idea  attractive  to  us.  Mr.  Wood's 
appeal  appears  elsewhere  in  this  issue,  and  we  hope  that  it  may  be  ac- 
corded the  response  which  it  deserves. 


Sunday  has  come  and  is  about  to  go — William  A., we  mean,  of  course. 
At  the  present  writing  his  converts  total  over  thirty-five  thousand.  We 
suppose  that  many  of  our  readers  will  not  agree  with  either  of  the  views 
of  him  presented  in  this  issue.  We  can  hardly  open  these  pages  to  a 
word  war  in  regard  to  Mr.  Sunday's  merits  or  demerits,  but  we  shall  be 
glad  to  print  the  best  reply  which  may  be  submitted.  If  you  disagree 
to  the  point  of  rushing  into  print,  we  shall  be  glad  to  hear  from  you  on 
this  subject. 


BOOKS 


Sinister  Street,   by  Compton  Mackenzie.    D.  Appleton  6*  Co.,  Pub- 
lishers, New  York. 
$1.35  net. 

Several  years  ago  Mr.  Montague  Compton  Mackenzie  took  the 
reading  public  of  England  by  storm  with  his  delightful  book,  "Carnival," 
a  brief  carnival  of  life  and  love,  a  flutter  of  dainty  butterfly  wings  and 
the  tragedy  which  so  often  waits  on  carnival.  Its  author  became  famous 
in  a  day,  and,  to  quote  the  London  Outlook:  "Carnival  is  marked  out 
to  be  not  only  the  leading  success  of  its  own  season,  but  also  to  be  read 
afterward  as  none  but  the  best  books  are  read.' '  It  was  the  story  of  a  lit- 
tle girl  with  a  temperament  for  dancing,  and  Mr.  Compton  Mackenzie, 
who  has  always  been  closely  connected  with  the  stage,  made  a  delightful 
book  of  it.  Next  came  "The  Passionate  Elopement,"  which  added  but 
little  to  the  fame  of  its  author,  but  showed  that  he  still  maintained  a  high 
literary  standard.  "Sinister  Street"  Volume  1,  or,  to  give  it  its  Ameri- 
can title,  "Youth's  Encounter,"  was  a  wonderful  study  of  a  boy;  it  was 
the  romance  of  a  picturesque,  adventurous  youth,  with  ideals  higher  than 
the  average,  thoroughly  lovable  and  sympathetic.  The  character  study 
was  as  powerful  as  in  "Carnival";  Jenny  and  Michael  Jane  are  living, 
breathing  realities. 

Now  Mr.  Compton  Mackenzie  has  published  "Sinister  Street," 
which  in  England  is  Volume  2,  but  which  in  America  is  the  continuation 
of  "Youth's  Encounter,"  though  neither  the  publishers  nor  the  author 
tell  us  so. 

The  book  deals  with  the  life  of  Michael  Jane  at  Saint  Mary's,  Ox- 
ford, and  with  his  romantic  adventures  in  London's  moral  by-paths. 
Book  One,  "Dreaming  Spires,"  is  very  interesting;  a  wonderful  picture 
of  Oxford  and  the  Oxford  man.  Perhaps  Mr.  MacKenzie  has  made 
Michael  and  his  friends  too  typical  of  Magdalene  (or,  as  Mr.  Mackenzie's 
thin  pseudonym  has  it:  St.  Mary's);  but  the  atmosphere  of  England's 
greatest  university  is  faithfully  rendered. 

Book  Two,  "Romantic  Education,"  is,  I  think,  rather  inferior. 
Michael  Jane  goes  to  London  and  finds  he  is  still  in  love  with  Lily  Daven; 
this,  although  the  author  emphasized  the  fact  that  the  love  he  had  felt 
for  her  in  "Youth's  Encounter"  was  merely  a  boyish  infatuation.  How- 
ever, he  searches  all  over  London  for  her,  and  finds  her  to  be  nothing 


30  The  Haverfordian 

better  than  a  prostitute.  He  is  about  to  marry  her,  goes  away,  comes 
back,  finds  that  she  has  deceived  him  and  becomes  a  priest. 

The  weak  part  of  the  book  is  Micliael's  love  for  Lily.  Does  he  feel 
that'he  is  obliged  to  marry  her  because  of  his  boyish  words,  spoken  six 
years  before?  If  so,  he  is  very  noble;  too  noble,  in  fact,  to  abandon  her 
when  she  is  doing  what  he  had  forced  her  to  do  by  abandoning  her  six 
years  ago.  If  not,  then  he  is  really  in  love  with  her,  he  lets  jealousy 
conquer  love,  and  is  a  flat  contradiction  of  the  Michael  Jane  of  "Youth's 
Encounter." 

This  fault  is  the  only  one  in  the  book.  Certain  critics  have  blamed 
the  author  for  the  length  of  his  books;  "Youth's  Encounter"  and  "Sin- 
ister Street"  each  number  six  hundred  pages;  but  Mr.  Mackenzie  has 
such  a  fine  style  and  speaks  so  eloquently  that  it  is  a  pleasure  to  read 
every  page  in  the  book. 

Besides,  he  is  writing  a  book  no  longer  than  the  traditional  form  as 
handed  down  to  us  by  the  pioneers  of  the  novel ;  he  even  treats  us  to  an 
epilogical  letter. 

There  is  more  unity ;  in  Youth's  Encounter  "  there  were,  to  quote  Mr. 
Henry  James,  "a  hundred  subordinate  purposes"  which  did  not  gather 
themselves  for  application  into  one  idea. 

Mr.  Mackenzie  says  that  his  book  is  not  a  "biography  but  a  prolog 
of  a  life" ;  the  London  Nation  calls  his  book  not  a  work  of  art  but  a  prolog 
to  art.  However,  it  is  one  of  the  best  novels  of  the  twentieth  century, 
and  without  a  doubt,  though  only  thirty-two  years  of  age,  Mr.  Montague 
Compton  Mackenzie  is  one  of  the  leading  English  novelists.  There  is 
an  earnestness  and  a  charm  which  are  quite  unique  and  we  cannot  praise 
the  author  too  highly  for  his  masterly  novel.  As  Punch  says,  "Mr. 
Mackenzie's  future  is  bound  up  with  what  is  most  considerable  in  Eng- 
lish fiction." 

No  greater  tribute  could  be  paid  to  the  young  novelist ;  what  matter, 
indeed,  if  his  talent  has  been  labelled  the  talent  of  an  undergraduate  when 
his  character  study  and  impeccable  style  both  make  a  bid  for  imm.ortality? 

— Jack  G.  C.  Le  Clercq,  '18. 


THROUGH  THE  GLASSES 


"Poris  (gobounob" 

A  Review  and  an  Impression. 

The  Metropolitan  Opera  Company  created  qtiite  a  stir  among  Phil- 
adelphia opera-goers  when,  instead  of  one  of  the  old  standbys,  "  Carmen," 
''Faust"  or  "Aida,"  "Boris  Godoimov"  was  announced  as  the  opera 
loi  Tuesday,  January  iGth.  True,  this  work  of  the  little  known  Russian, 
Moussorgsky,  had  been  gi\'en  once  before  in  this  city;  Init,  inasmuch  as 
it  may  still  be  regarded  somewhat  in  the  light  of  a  no\-elt}i-,  a  few  words 
in  regard  to  its  composer  and  its  plot  will  not  be  out  cf  place. 

Modeste  Moussorgsky  was  born  in  Russia  in  1835.  Although  he 
evinced  early  musical  talent,  be  showed  no  inclination  to  become  a  pro- 
fessional musician,  and  obtained  a  commission  in  the  army.  He  soon 
discovered,  however,  that  his  true  lifework  lay  elsewhere;  and,  when 
the  conflict  between  his  military  duties  and  his  musical  proclivities 
became  too  acute,  he  resigned  his  commission  and  accepted  an  inferior 
position  in  the  ser\ice  of  the  government.  His  subsequent  career  was 
far  from  happy.  His  constant  [io\-erty  and  the  sordidness  of  his  sur- 
roundings dro\'e  him  into  dissipation  which  prematurely  wrecked  his 
health.  His  music  was  too  original  and  too  pre-eminenth'  national 
to  meet  with  general  recognition,  even  in  his  own  country, which  was,  at 
that  time,  in  large  measure  subject  to  the  musical  standards  of  Ger- 
many, France  and  Italy.  He  died  in  1881,  an  unappreciated  genius. 
After  his  death,  howe\"er,  the  originalit\-  and  picturesciueness  of  his 
work  commenced  to  excite  interest  and  attention;  and  he  is  now  fast 
attaining  the  musical  celebrity  which  is  his  due. 

"Boris  Godounov,"  Moussorgsky's  only  complete  opera,  is  based 
upon  a  historic  drama  of  that  name  by  Poushkin.  Boris  is  the  capable  and 
crafty  regent  for  a  weak-minded  Tsar.  The  only  obstacle  to  his  attain- 
ment of  aljsolute  power  is  Dmitry,  a  brother  of  the  Tsar.  After  an  in- 
ternal struggle  Boris  causes  the  brother  to  be  put  to  death,  and  rules 
with  firmness  and  ability  for  many  years.  But  a  renegade  monk,  claim- 
ing to  be  the  murdered  Dmitry,  raises  a  formidable  insurrection  in 
Poland  and  Lithuania.  Boris  is  overwhelmed  with  remorse  at  the 
recollection  of  his  crime,  and,  after  committing  the  future  government 


32  The  Haverfoedian 

of  Russia  and  the  suppression  of    the  rebellion  to  his  son,  he  perishes 
from  the  pangs  of  his  overwrought  conscience. 

Moussorgsky  has  done  full  justice  to  the  intensely  dramatic  char- 
acter of  his  plot.  The  scene  in  the  second  act  where  Boris  struggles  with 
the  haunting  spectre  of  his  crime  is  almost  worthy  of  Shakespeare's 
greatest  tragedies.  And  the  effect  is  tremendously  enhanced  by  the 
accompanying  music,  which  is  weird  and  sombre  in  the  extreme. 
While  "  Boris  Godounov"  resembles  Wagner's  music  dramas  in  the  close 
agreement  of  the  music  with  the  action  and  singing,  it  is  altogether 
original  in  its  musical  treatment.  There  is  little  direct  melody;  and 
many  of  the  best  effects  are  secured  by  the  skillful  shading  in  the  string 
choir. 

Another  peculiar  feature  of  Moussorgsky's  opera  is  the  importance 
which  is  attached  to  the  choruses.  Ordinarily  the  chorus  of  an  opera 
only  appears  on  stated  conventional  occasions,  such  as  a  wedding,  a 
triumphal  procession,  etc.  In  such  cases  it  is  little  more  than  an  ani- 
mated part  of  the  scenery.  But  Moussorgsky  uses  his  choruses  to  portray 
the  progress  of  the  action,  much  in  the  fashion  of  the  older  Greek  dram- 
atists. 

In  proportion  as  the  value  of  the  chorus  increases,  that  of  the  vocal 
star  decreases  in  "Boris  Godounov."  While  all  the  parts  in  the  opera 
require  considerable  histrionic  ability,  there  are  few  opportunities  for 
conspicuous  individual  ttiumphs  by  means  of  brilliant  and  extended 
arias.  Moussorgsky  evidently  did  not  believe  in  sacrificing  any  part 
of  his  general  effect  to  gratify  the  desire  of  two  or  three  distinguished 
soloists  for  individual  glory. 

Proper  scenic  background  plays  an  important  part  in  the  success 
of  the  opera.  Almost  every  scene  contains  some  distinctively  novel 
features,  while  the  opening  scene  of  the  third  act,  which  depicts  a  driving 
snowstorm,  is  a  genuine  artistic  piece  de  resistance  when  it  is  properly 
presented. 

But  the  predominant  impression  which  "Boris  Godounov"  left  upon 
my  mind  was  not  created  by  the  superb  scenic  effects  or  by  the  unusually 
fine  choruses.  Nor  was  it  altogether  the  product  of  Boris'  terrific  soul 
convulsions  or  of  their  powerful  musical  accompaniment.  It  was  rather 
inspired  by  the  feeling  that  all  these  separate  elements  were  united  to 
form  a  perfect  national  masterpiece.  Through  the  solemn  and  subdued 
chorals,  through  the  council  of  nobles  in  the  Kremlin,  and  the  crowd  of 
peasants  on  the  Polish  heath,  one  voice  seemed  to  be  speaking.  And 
that  voice  was  the  voice  of  Holy  Russia,  giving  forth  its  message,  whether 
for  good  or  for  evil,  to  the  western  world. 

— William  H.  Chamberlain,  '17. 


JLUMNI  DEPARTMENT 


Tlie  following  is  tln'  third  and 
final  article  by  Mr.  Samuel  E. 
Hilles  '74,  of  his  series  of  letters 
which  appeared  in  "Office  Appli- 
ances," Cincinnati,  Ohio: 

A  JAU.NT  TO  THE  FAR  EAST 
Nagasaki  was  naturalK'  one  of 
the  fi\e  ports  of  Japan  opened  by 
Commodore  Perry,  for  it  was  the 
only  town  where  the  Dutch  and 
Chinese  (no  other  foreigners)  were 
allowed  to  trade.  On  the  tiny  Is- 
land of  Deshima,  directh'  on  the 
water-front,  was  the  prescribed 
home  of  the  thrifty  Dutch,  who  for 
mori-  than  two  centuries,  from  1641 
lo  1858,  enjoyed,  or  one  might 
better  say,  in  view  of  the  gross  hu- 
miliation and  freeiuent  martyr- 
doms, endured  an  exclusi\e  foreign 
trade  with  Japan. 

The  influence,  also,  of  a  few 
noted  Europeans  sent  out  as  sur- 
geons to  the  settlement,  one  or  two 
in  a  century,  was  \ery  far-reach- 
ing in  its  after  effects  upon  Japa- 
nese exclusi\eness. 

In  one  night  coming  up  the  west 
coast  of  Kyushu,  the  chief  south- 
ern island  of  Japan,  daylight  found 
us  passing  through  the  narrow  but 
picturesciue  strait  of  Shimonoseki, 
separating  from  the  principal  island 
of  Hondo,  and  without  stopping, 
we  soon  passed  over  its  racing  tidal 
water  into  the  famed  Inland  Sea, 
with  its  many  enchanting  islands 
and  mountains. 


At  one  place  we  passed  through 
narrows  of  so  little  width  that  a 
semaphore  signal  on  shore  is  used 
to  show  pilots  if  the  way  is  clear, 
for  it  is  dangerous,  with  a  swirling 
tidal  current  of  sometimes  C|uite 
ten  miles  per  hour.  Near  this,  but 
in  a  beautifully  widening  bay,  I 
counted  at  one  time  si.\t>'  sailboats, 
studding  the  matchless  view  of 
high,  wooded  moimtains,  dark  seas, 
and  white  sprayed  shores. 

At  Kobe,  on  the  morning  of  Au- 
gust 2,  we  were  startled  by  the  war 
news,  and  Sunday  morning  extras 
certainly  made  a  sensation  in  our 
thoughts,  out  of  all  proportion  to 
the  small  size  of  the  sheet,  for  hav- 
ing been  out  of  reach  of  late  English 
papers,  the  rapid  developments  of 
the  four  days  since  leaving  Shang- 
hai came  as  a  very  distinct  shock 
to  all  our  passengers.  The  Eng- 
lish papers  of  Kobe — The  Chron- 
icle and  The  Herald — I  found  far 
above  the  average,  and  reminding 
one  of  the  best  papers  of  England 
or  Scotland. 

Journeying  northward  still,  I 
went  through  from  Kobe,  a  night's 
comfortable  ride  by  rail,  to  Tokyo, 
and  in  crossing  this  metropolis  of 
Japan  was  impressed  with  the  size 
and  beauty  of  the  new  railway 
station,  nearly  ready  for  occupancy; 
it  would  compare  favorably  in  size 
and  setting  with  almost  any  I  ha\'e 
seen,  and  speaks  elociuenth'  for  the 
new  regime  in  Japan. 


34 


The  Haverfordian 


NiKKO  The  Splendid 

The  Japs  say,  "  Nikko  miru- 
made,  Kekko  to  iu  na!"  "Until 
you  have  seen  Nikko,  do  not  say 
splendid!"  So  to  Nikko,  90  miles 
to  the  north,  I  devoted  my  last  day 
of  sight-seeing. 

For  four  (originally  forty)  miles 
out  from  this  famed  mountain  vil- 
lage, a  magnificent  avenue  of  cryp- 
tomerias  lines  the  wagon  road. 

Here  I  was  indeed  in  the  center 
of  Buddhist  and  Shinto  sanctity. 

The  thick  groves  of  these  noble 
trees  were  most  impressive.  At 
Nara,  near  Kyoto,  I  had  seen  fine 
trees,  but  here  were  hundreds  of 
giants,  towering  up  many  of  them 
over  a  hundred  feet,  four  or  five 
feet  in  diameter.  These,  called  in 
America  and  England  the  Japanese 
cedar,  are  quite  similar  to  the  red- 
wood of  California,  and  are  of  great 
value  for  building,  though  quite 
brittle. 

In  Nikko,  under  the  protecting 
shade  of  such  guardians,  are  set 
the  wonderful  temples,  which  beg- 
gar description.  By  an  old  decree 
the  chief  priest  of  Nikkois  always  to 
be  a  prince  of  the  Imperial  blood — 
and  in  various  ways  the  Govern- 
ment aids  in  keeping  up  these 
magnificent  shrines,  than  which 
there  is,  perhaps,  nothing  finer 
east  of  Agra,  India. 

Here  at  the  feet  of  these  stately 
sentinels  lies  the  dust  of  abbots  and 
bonzes,  of  shotguns  and  samurai, 
the  champions  of  a  system  that  is 
passing  away. 

It  was  only  in  1870  that  the  first 
foreigners   were    allowed     to    visit 


Nikko,  and  I  was  told  by  a  mis- 
sionary— a  lady  who  has  lived  there 
for  25  years — that  under  these  noble 
trees,  and  within  sound  of  the  great 
bells  calling  the  hours  or  summon- 
ing the  priests  to  their  worship,  it 
was  Phillips  Brooks  and  Dr.  Mc- 
Vickar  who  held  the  first  Protestant 
service  in  Japan. 

The  same  earnest  missionary 
there,  whom  I,  a  stranger,  had 
called  on,  from  happening  to  see 
over  a  gateway.  .  .  .  "American 
Church  Missionary,"  surprised  me 
by  her  knowledge  of  the  beloved 
Doctor  Henry  Hartshorne  and  his 
daughter,  and  it  was,  indeed, 
another  pleasant  connecting  link 
with  early  days  at  Haverford,  far 
away!  And  it  was  but  small  won- 
der that  he  so  loved  the  Japan  of  his 
day! 

At  Nikko,  as  perhaps  nowhere 
else,  in  the  life  of  the  mortal,  the 
hours,  the  days,  the  years,  seem 
every  moment  to  lose  themselves 
in  Eternity,  as  they  move  stately 
away. 

I  did  not  cross  the  Sacred  Bridge ; 
for  me  the  trees  and  tumbling  cas- 
cades with  their  liquid  music,  had 
a  greater  charm  than  the  works  of 
these  devotees,  beautiful  as  their 
creations  were,  in  their  gold  and 
lacquer,  and  bathed  in  the  incense 
of  a  faith  not  ours. 

Collier's  Weekly  of  November  21 
contains  an  interesting  photograph 
of  the  white-clad  priests  crossing 
this  remarkable  sacred  red  bridge 
on  their  way  to  ceremonials  in  one 
of  these  wonderful  shrines  of  Nikko, 
at    the    time    of   Japan's   entering 


Alumni  Department 


upon  the  war,  more  especially  for 
the  capture  of  Tsing-tao.  In  the 
most  sacred  Temple  of  lyeyasu, 
the  declaration  of  war  was  then 
announced  to  the  spirits  of  the  im- 
perial ancestors. 

There  is  also  a  most  interesting 
article  by  Eliza  Ruhamah  Scid- 
more,  lately  returned  from  Japan, 
in  the  Outlook  for  December 
2i,  1914,  on  "Japan's  Platonic 
War  With  Germany."  I  com- 
mend it  as  one  view  of  the  treat- 
ment of  a  foreign  foe  and  its  local 
subjects,  by  a  so-called  "heathen" 
nation. 

In  1902  a  great  a\'alanche  of 
water,  displaced  by  a  mountain 
slide  into  Lake  Chuzenji,  eight 
miles  away,  and  nearly  2,500  feet 
higher,  carried  away  the  older 
bridge  and  many  houses  in  this 
N'alley  and  scattered  the  remains 
for  a  hundred  miles  towards  the  sea. 

The  wonderful  road  to  the  lake 
was  a  hard  climb  of  five  miles  from 
the  end  of  the  car  line,  and  only 
misty  views  of  its  unusual  beauties, 
and  none  of  the  superb  Kegon 
waterfall  of  250  feet,  rewarded  me 
for  personal  and  perspiring  persist- 
ence. 

The  road  was  being  prepared  for 
a  visit  of  the  Emperor,  who  thus 
joins  the  throng  of  pilgrims  to  this 
Japanese  Mecca,  for  the  lake  is  a 
part  of  the  sacred  and  supposedly 
soul-purifying  journey  from  all 
parts  of  the  empire. 

Homeward  Bound 
Upon    finally    embarking    again 
on  August  5  at  Yokohama,  our  last 


port  in  Japan,  we  found  French, 
German  and  Austrian  reservists 
on  board,  called  home  on  short 
notice  and  thus  bringing  us  face  to 
face  with  one  of  the  many  phases  of 
the  great  European  duel. 

It  was  only  after  leaving  the 
inner  harbor  that  we  learned, 
through  a  dispatch  boat,  of  Eng- 
land's declaration,  and  that  of 
Japan  came  later,  when  we  were 
on  the  high  sea.  The  news  put 
upon  all  of  us,  including  the  re- 
servists themselves,  a  feeling  of 
sadness.  To  think  that  these  fine 
fellows,  more  than  a  score  of  them, 
friends  in  the  embassies  of  Tokyo, 
or  in  business  life  in  Japan,  were 
probably  to  march  against  each 
other,  on  murderous  European 
battlefields,  clear  on  the  other 
side  of  the  world ! — but  on  the 
"Korea" — with  the  Stars  and 
Stripes  at  the  stern,  all  was  har- 
mony, though  there  was  no  mood 
for  levity,  and  occasionally  I  found 
one  or  another  gazing  thoughtfully 
out  upon  the  peaceful  sea. 

For  days  we  got  no  further  news 
whatever;  but  finally  wireless  bul- 
letins from  Honolulu  were  given 
us  each  morning,  for  an  appetizer 
before  breakfast,  and  we  quietly 
took  our  impressions,  favorable  or 
unfavorable,  according  to  our  sym- 
pathies. 

On  board,  at  least,  there  was 
peace;  "Tros  Tyriusque  mihi  nullo 
discrimine  agetur" — (Trojan  and 
Tyrian  shall  be  treated  with  no  dis- 
tinction by  me. — Vergil's  Aeneid) 
— one  and  all  rejoiced  that  we  were 
on  an  American  boat,  and  had  no 


36 


The  Haverfordian 


occasion,  as  the  steamer  just  pre- 
ceding us,  to  slip  stealthily  in, 
through  the  Golden  Gate,  to  the 
coveted  goal  of  American  soil. 

The  Alumni  Department  is  glad 
to  publish  the  following  letter,  in 
view  of  the  fact  that  Mr.  Simkin, 
'03,  recently  spoke  before  a  meet- 
ing of  the  College  Y.  M.  C.  A. 
This  was  Mr.  Simkin's  second 
visit  to  Haverford  during  the 
present  college  year. 

February  5th,  1915. 
"It  is  again  time  to  ask  for  con- 
tributions of  Haverfordians,  past 
and  present,  for  the  support  of 
Robert  L.  Simkin,  Haverford's 
foreign  missionary  representative 
in  West  China. 

"Simkin  is  at  present  in  this 
country,  studying  at  Teachers'  Col- 
lege and  Union  Theological  Semi- 
nary, in  further  preparation  for  his 
educational    work. 

"In  a  recent  letter  he  states  that 
'  the  European  war,  as  yet,  has  had 
no  appreciable  effect  upon  the 
favorable  attitude  of  the  Chinese.' 
The  financial  drain  of  the  war  upon 
England,  however,  makes  it  all 
the  more  imperative  for  us  to  do 
our  full  share  in  supplying  the  funds 
for  his  support. 

"If  you  are  willing  to  contribute 
to  this  fund,  your  check  may  be 
sent  to  J.  P.  Magill,  who  acts  as 
Treasurer,  305  Land  Title  Build- 
ing,    Philadelphia. 

"Very  truly  your  friends, 
Asa  S.  Wing, 
a.  g.  scattergood, 
W.  E.  Cadbury,  Secretary 
J.   P.  Magill,   Treastirer." 


We  regret  to  announce  the 
deaths  of  James  R.  Magee,'59,  and 
James  B.  Thompson,  '74. 

James  Ronaldson  Magee  was 
born  in  Philadelphia,  Pa.,  in  1839. 
He  entered  the  introductory  de- 
partment of  Haverford  in  1854, 
and  after  graduation  engaged  in 
the  practice  of  law.  Mr.  Magee 
was  one  of  Haverford's  earliest 
cricketers  and  a  contemporary  of 
several  stars  of  the  crease.  He 
proved  his  continued  interest  in 
Haverford  by  a  bequest  of  $20,000 
to  the  Endowment  Fund,  and  in 
addition,  a  share  in  his  residuary 
estate. 

His  death  occurred  on  Novem- 
ber 3d, 1914. 

James  Beatin  Thompson  was 
born  in  Philadelphia,  Pa.,  on  Feb- 
ruary 20th,  1855.  He  entered  the 
Sophomore  Class  in  February,  1872, 
and  received  his  A.  B.  degree  in 
1874.  During  his  College  days 
Mr.  Thompson  was  one  of  the 
bowlers  on  the  cricket  team  and 
always  maintained  great  interest 
in  all  the  College  activities.  The 
time  of  his  death  was  January  8th, 
1915. 

President  Sharpless  attended 
the  annual  meeting  and  banquet 
of  the  New  England  Alumni  Asso- 
ciation of  Haverford,  which  was 
held  at  the  Copley  Plaza  Hotel, 
Boston,  on  February  eighteenth. 
R.  Colton,  '76,  is  president,  and  E. 
H.  Spencer,  '11,  secretary,  of  the 
Association. 


Alumm   1)i:partmi£NT 


37 


'75 
Charles  E.  Tebbetts,  (k'neral 
Secretary  of  the  American  Friends' 
Board  of  Foreign  Missions,  with 
hetidquarters  at  Richmond,  Ind., 
has  been  spending  a  few  weeks  in 
New  York  and  Philadelphia  in  at- 
tendance at  various  conferences 
held  in  the  interest  of  missions. 


The  engagement  has  been  re- 
cently announced  of  Edward  T. 
Comfort  to  Mrs.  Harry  M.  Dunn, 
of  Staten  Island,  New  York. 

'89 
C.  H.  Burr  recently  engineered 
the  special  agreement  with  Great 
Britain  by  which  wool  has  been 
taken  off  the  contraband  list.  Mr. 
Burr  is  now  in  constant  touch  with 
Washington. 

Franklin  B.  Kirkbridge  is  a 
collaborator  in  the  publication  of 
the  fourth  edition  of  The  Modern 
Trust  Co. 

Warner  Fite  has  recently  con- 
tributed several  articles  on  phil- 
osophy to  current  periodicals. 

Victor  M.  Haughton  informs  this 
department  of  a  very  exceptional 
Sunday  School  class,  numbering 
some  sixty  scholars,  of  which  he 
has  charge  in  Exeter,  N.  H.  He 
also  has  a  congregation  which  in- 
cludes nearly  one  hundred  students 
from  Philips  Exeter  Academy. 

'97 
R.   C.   Brown   has  left  his  posi- 
tion   in    the    book   department    at 


Strawbridge  and  Clothier's,  and 
is  now  in  the  employ  of  the  Phil- 
adelphia Quartz  Co. 

F.  N.  Maxfield,  of  the  psychology 
department  of  the  University  of 
PennsyKania,  has  recently  pub- 
lished "An  Experiment  in  Linear 
Space  Perception,"  the  result  of 
some  of  his  research  work  at  the 
Uni\ersity. 

'99 
The  engagement  of  F.  A.  Evans 
to  Miss  Anna  R.  Elkinton  has  been 
announced. 

'00 
W.  W.  Justice  recently  acted  as 
chairman  of  the  Alumni  Mid- 
winter Dinner  Committee.  The 
banquet  was  held  at  the  Bellevue- 
Stratford  on  Saturday,  January 
thirtieth. 

J.  S.  Hiatt  has  been  made  private 
secretary  to  Governor  Brumbaugh 
of  Pennsylvania. 

The  Class  of  1900  are  to  hold 
their  Fifteenth  Annual  Reunion 
in  June.  A  varied  program  last- 
ing several  days  has  been  arranged, 
and  a  number  of  men  who  live  at 
some  distance  from  Philadelphia 
will  attend. 

'01 
E.  Marshall  Scull  gave  an  illus- 
trated     lecture     on      "A     Cruise 
Through   the  Arctic  and   Alaska," 
at  the  College  on  February  25th. 

'02 
Through  the  kindness  of  Dr.  C. 
W.  Stork,  '02,  of  the  University  of 


38 


The  Haverfordian 


Pennsylvania,  we  had  the  pleasure 
of  hearing  Mr.  Vachel  Lindsay 
read  from  his  poems  on  the  evening 
of  February  twenty-second.  Mr. 
Lindsay  was  introduced  by  Mr. 
Stork,  who  also  said  a  few  words 
at  the  close  of  the  lecture  on  the 
value  of  the  former's  work  to 
America. 

A.  S.  Cookman  is  manager  of  the 
soccer  football  team  of  Englewood, 
N.  J.  He  brought  his  team  to 
Haverford  on  Saturday,  the  twen- 
ty-seventh of  February,  when 
Englewood  played  the  College  sec- 
ond team. 

'04 

C.  C.  Morris  has  been  coaching 
the  soccer  men  in  shooting  during 
the  evening  practices  held  in  the 
gymnasium  several  times  each 
week. 

'06 
R.  T.  Cary  has  been  made  secre- 
tary of  the  Social  Service  League, 
one  of  the  largest  and  most  active 
philanthropic  organizations  in  Bal- 
timore. Mr.  Cary  is  also  acting 
chief  of  the  Bureau  of  Municipal 
Research,  whose  work  has  been 
largely  responsible  for  securing  the 
employment  of  modern  business 
methods  in  the  city  government  of 
Baltimore. 

Ex-'08 
Clifford  C.  Collings,  who  was 
formerly  with  J.  W.  Sparks,  is  now 
associated  with  Reilly,  Brock  and 
Company,  306  Chestnut  St.,  Phil- 
adelphia. 


'11 
Henry     Ferris,     Jr.,     is    county 
manager    of    the     Farm    Journal 
for  Fairfield  Co.,  Ohio.       His  ad- 
dress is  Box  119,  Lancaster,  Ohio. 

John  S.  Bradway  announces  that 
he  has  opened  offices  for  the  general 
practice  of  law  at  918  Stephen 
Girard  Building,  Philadelphia. 

'12 
H.    Froelicher       was       recently 
elected   president    of    the  class  of 
1917   at  the  LTniversity  of   Mary- 
land Law  School. 

'13 
W.    Y.    Hare    is    now    at    Palm 
Beach,  Fla., where  he  holds  a  posi- 
tion with  the  Greenleaf  and  Crosby 
Co. 

F.  A.  Curtis  is  now  located  at 
the  Y.  M.  C.  A.  in  Dayton,  Ohio, 
where  he  is  working  for  the  Aetna 
Paper  Co.,  of  that  city. 

The  following  letter  is  by  Dr. 
William  Wistar  Comfort,  '94, 
several  of  whose  letters  have  ap- 
peared in  former  numbers  of  the 
Haverfordian.  We  reprint  it 
from  the  Nation  of  January  21st. 

It  is  probably  unnecessary  to 
repeat  that  Dr.  Comfort  was  spend- 
ing a  sabbatical  year  studying  in 
France,  but  was  compelled  by  the 
war  to  remove  to  England. 

CHRISTIAN  IDEALS  AND 
THE  WAR 
To  THE  Editor  of  The  Nation  : 

Sir:  The  attention  of  all  who  are 
engaged  in  private  heart-searchings 


Alumni  Deiwrtmext 


39 


at  the  present  time  in  America 
should  be  calbd  to  a  new  series  of 
Papers  for  War  Time,  the  first 
four  numbers  of  which  have  just 
been  put  on  sale  in  Oxford,  bearing 
the  following  titles:  "Christianity 
and  War,"  by  the  Re\-.  W.  Temple, 
M.A.;  "Are  We  Worth  Fighting 
For?",  by  the  Rev.  Richard  Rob- 
erts; "The  Woman's  Part,"  b\- 
Mrs.  Luke  Paget;  "Brothers  All: 
The  War  and  the  Race  Question," 
by  Edwyn  Bevan,  M.  A.  A  large 
number  of  other  papers  will  follow 
at  the  rate  of  two  each  fortnight, 
and  may  be  obtained  from  agencies 
of  the  O.xford  l'ni\ersity  Press  for 
twopence  each.  The  explanatory 
note  which  prefaces  each  sixteen- 
page  paper  gives  the  best  idea  of 
the  conception  of  this  original  and 
significant  undertaking: 

This  series  of  papers  embodies  an 
attempt  to  reach  by  common 
thought,  discussion,  and  prayer,  a 
truer  understanding  of  the  meaning 
of  Christianity  and  of  the  mission 
of  the  Church  to  the  individual,  to 
society,  and  to  the  world. 

Those  who  are  promoting  the 
issue  of  these  papers  are  drawn 
from  different  political  parties  and 
different  Christian  bodies.  They 
believe  that  the  truth  thc>-  seek  can 
be  gained  only  by  pro\'iding  for  a 
measure  of  diversity  in  expression. 
Therefore  they  do  not  accept  re- 
sponsibility for  the  opinions  of  any 
paper  taken  alone.  But  in  spirit 
they  are  united,  for  they  are  one  in 
the  conviction  that  in  Christ  and 
in  His  Gospel  lies  the  hope  of  re- 
demption and  health  for  society  and 
for  national  life. 

Those  who  are  contributing  to 
the  series  represent,  then,  different 
schools  of  thought  and  practice, but 


they  are  united  in  their  purpose  to 
find  out  where  wc  are  and  what  can 
be  done.  The  papers  will  form  the 
first  definite  attempt  made  by 
Christians  to  define  personal  duty 
under  the  present  circumstances, 
anil  to  consider  the  prospects  for  a 
better  society  in  the  future.  How- 
ever complacently  we  may  be  per- 
suaded that  the  present  war  was 
inc\"itable,  gi\en  the  false  civiliza- 
tion of  the  nations  invohed,  there 
is  one  cry  that  is  heard  on  all  sides: 
"  Never  again!"  Never  again  must 
such  a  tragedy  be  consummated. 
Never  again  must  commercial 
jealousy  and  militarism  and  culture 
and  smug  Phariseeism  be  allowed 
to  replace  righteousness. 

Consider  the  dilemma!    Here  are 


OVER  360  SAMPLES  OF 
GOOD  LETTERHEADS 


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arranged  that  you  can  see  the  entire 
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and  ink.  and  a  type  display  suitable  for  all 
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ACTON  IEJ?P&!lif^ 

29  SOUTH  SEVENTH  STREET 
PHILADELPHIA 


40 


The  Haverfordian 


millions  of  people  praying  for  suc- 
cess in  a  struggle  conducted  on  lines 
contradictory  at  every  point  to  the 
methods  used  and  proved  trium- 
phant by  Jesus  of  Nazareth.  What 
are  we  going  to  do  about  the  incon- 
sistency? What  is  ths  individual 
going  to  do  with  his  ideals  when  he 
comes  up  squarely  against  the 
present  conditions?  Shall  we  still 
believe  in  and  work  for  the  kingdom 
of  God  on  earth,  or  shall  we  say  with 
the  disillusioned  cynic,  "I  believe 
in  the  Holy  Catholic  Church  and 
regret  that  it  does  not  exist"? 
These  and  analogous  searching 
questions  are  discussed  in  a  way 
that  gives  one  much  to  think  about. 
There  is  no  British  self-complacency 
or  self-righteousness  in  these  pa- 
pers.      All  have  sinned  and  come 


short.  We  must  all  cry  "Peccavi, 
peccavi,"  and  beat  our  breasts  in 
penitence.  But  having  done  that, 
we  must  face  the  future  with  new 
resolves  and  new  standards  of 
honor  and  righteousness,  both  in- 
dividual and  national.  We  must 
cut  down  to  the  quick,  through  all 
the  shams  and  frivolity  of  a  genera- 
tion given  over  to  industrial  pana- 
ceas and  social  fads  and  wanton 
extravagance.  We  must  hew  down 
to  the  line  and  see  what  faith  there 
is  left  in  spiritual  values.  If  there 
is  no  faith  in  something  better  than 
the  way  we  are  now  following,  then 
let  us  jettison  our  cargo  of  creeds 
and  professions  and  float  on  down 
our  destiny  with  an  easy  con- 
science. 

But  here  are  people  who  believe 


nnnnnnnonnnnnnonnnnnnonnnnnnnnn 

°    A  FEW  REASONS    ° 


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SPRING  AND  SUMMER  SUIT: 


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MEN  AND  tiCKS 


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PHILADELPHIA. 


We  specialize  in  clothes  for  young  men  and  thor- 
oughly understand  their  ideas;  we  carry  the 
largest  assortment  of  Woollens  in  Philadelphia; 
our  prices  are  very  moderate  and  each  bolt  of 
cloth  is  plainly  marked;  the  workmanship  is  un- 
excelled and  the  cutting  right  up-to-the-minute 
in  style. 

Charge  Accounts  Opened  Upon  Approved  References 

We  are  READY  and  will  be  very  glad  to  see  YOU 

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Alumni  Dicpartment 


41 


there  is  a  prospect  oi  a  fairer  human 
society,  built  upon  the  practice  of 
Christian  teaching.  It  must  result 
from  the  consecration  of  individ- 
uals in  every  nation  who  see  the 
light  and  who  will  raise  their 
people  after  them  in  its  attainment. 
An  international  brotherhood, 
broader  than  the  British  Empire, 
stronger  in  its  convictions  than  the 
German  people,  must  be  formed 
out  of  the  present  welter  and  strife. 
And  each  individual  in  this  brother- 
hood will  yet  be  truly  patriotic, 
because  his  highest  desire  will  be  to 
pledge  his  life  that  his  nation  ma\- 
be  righteous. 

In  these  papers  conditions  are 
faced  as  they  exist ;  there  is  no  side- 
stepping the  thrust  of  conscience; 
nothing  is  taken  for  granted  except 
the  desire  to  do  better  next  time. 
And  there  is  immense  hope  in  the 
present  hour.  There  are  many 
symptoms  which  augur  a  more 
spiritually    minded    world    in    the 


near  future.  Men  are  drawn 
together  the  world  over  in  the 
bonds  of  pain  and  sorrow.  Social 
caste,  religious  differences,  political 
quarrels  are  wiped  out.  Men  and 
women  are  praying  on  the  battle- 
field and  in  the  home  when  they 
had  almost  lost  the  habit.  All  the 
petty  daily  round  of  frivolity  or 
money-getting  seems  trivial  now. 
How  can  we  conserve  the  seeds  of 
sweet  charity  and  piety  now  im- 
planted until  the  day  of  their  pre- 
destined fruition?  These  papers, 
regarding  the  present  war  as  an 
accomplished  fact,  helpfully  and 
hopefully  discuss  its  eventful  effects 
upon  human  society.  It  will  be 
well  if  de\out  and  responsible  per- 
sons in  all  lands  shall  read  them 
and  ponder  deeply  the  problems  of 
personal  duty.  For  no  one  pretends 
that  the  world  will  ever  again  be 
what  it  was  before  1914. 

W.  W.  Comfort. 
Oxford,  November  5,  1914. 


JOB  PRINTING 

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EDITORS 
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Douglas  C.  Wendell,  1916  William  H.  Chamberlain,  1917 

Robert  Gibson,  1917  Jack  G.  C.  LeClercq,  1918 

BUSINESS  MANAGERS 
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The  Haverfordian  is  published  on  the  tenth  of  each  month  during  college 
year.  Its  purpose  is  to  foster  the  literary  spirit  among  the  undergraduates  and 
to  provide  an  organ  for  the  discussion  of  questions  relative  to  college  life  and  policy. 
To  these  ends  contributions  are  invited,  and  will  be  considered  solely  on  their 
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Entered  at  the  Haverford  Post-Office,  for  transmission  through  the  mails  as  second-class  matter 

Vol.  XXXVIIt         HAVERFORD,  PA.,  APRIL,  1915  No.  2 


i;fie  CoUege  Hitirarp  ^eebsj 

the  following  copies  of  The  Haverfordian  to  complete 
its  files:— Vol.  XXVII:  Nos.  1,  2,  Vol.  XXXV:  Nos.  4, 
8.  If  there  is  anyone  who  can  furnish  these  copies  to  the 
Library,  the  gift  will  be  very  much  appreciated. 

JBouglas!  Carp  ^enbell 

has  been  elected  to  the  Haverfordian  Board.  We 
take  pleasure  in  welcoming  one  whose  work  our  readers 
have  already  had  considerable  opportunity  to  enjoy. 


3n  ZW  3ls!£(UE 

Special  Features 

The  Poetry  of  Vachel  Lindsay 

Charles  Wharton  Stork,  '02  45 

Temperance  and  the  College  Man      .  .C.  D.  Champlain,  '14  59 

Let's  Go  "Suping" Douglas  C.  Wendell,  '16  67 

In  Reply Edward  F.  Lukens,  Jr.,   '16  71 

Stories 

The  War  Veteran Kenneth  W.  Webb,  '18  49 

A  Natural  Mistake E.  J.  Lester,  Jr.,  '18  60 

Easter  Sunlight H.  P.  Schenck,  '18  69 

Verse 

Thomas  Chatterton Felix  M.  Morley,  '15  48 

Queen  Mob  is  a-pouting Robert  Gibson,  '17  54 

Horace  Odes  3  13 J.  W.  Spaeth,  Jr.,  '17  60 

A  Question Donald  H.  Painter,  '17  68 

Departments 

The  Uneasy  Chair 

What  Kind  of  a  College  do  We  Want} 72 

Baseball 73 

Books 

The  Open  Door Edmund  F.  Price,  '17  74 

After  Lunch  in  the  Library  ..Jack  G.  C.  LeClerco,  '18  75 

Through  the  Glasses 

Robert  Mantell  in  Hamlet W.  H.  Chamberlin,  '17  76 

Forbes-Robertson  in  Hamlet George  A.  Dunlap,  '16  77 

Alumni Robert  Gibson,  '17  78 


Jin  t{)e  ^ext  Ssisiue 

The  Ministry  of  Music David  Bispham,  '76 


THE    HAVERFORDIAN 


Vol.  XXXVIli  HAVERFORD,  PA.,  APRIL,  1915  No.  2 


Clje  ^oetrp  of  Vat^tl  %mhiap 

WHEN,  about  three  years  ago,  I  wrote  to  ask  my  friend  Mr. 
Arthur  Davison  Ficke,  of  Davenport,  Iowa,  what  new  work 
of  significance  was  being  done  in  the  West,  he  answered  that 
the  only  thing  he  knew  of  was  the  "  Rhymes  to  be  Exchanged  for  Bread  " 
by  a  certain  Nicholas  Vachel  Lindsay.  I  promptly  sent  my  last  book, 
"The  Queen  of  Orplede,"  to  Mr.  Lindsay's  address  in  Springfield, 
Illinois.  Shortly  after  I  received  a  letter  of  acknowledgment,  in  which 
Mr.  Lindsay  expressed  his  surprise  at  being  "worth  sending  poems  to." 
He  commented  very  agreeably  on  my  small  volume,  of  which  he  liked 
particularly  the  blank-verse  narrative  "Actaeon."  I  remember  being 
surprised  that  he  had  picked  out  so  academic  a  piece  as  his  favorite. 
In  return  Mr.  Lindsay  sent  me  the  "  Rhymes"  afore-mentioned,  and  that 
was  my  introduction  to  the  work  of  a  man  who  is  now  beginning  to  bulk 
large  in  the  field  of  contemporary  verse. 

A  little  later  Mr.  Lindsay  was  alluded  to  in  various  magazines  as 
"  the  tramp  poet."  It  was  his  practice  to  wander  without  money  through 
America  in  regions  as  remote  from  each  other  as  northern  Pennsylvania 
and  central  Mexico,  keeping  clear  of  towns  and  railroads,  preaching 
"the  Gospel  of  the  Hearth"  and  "the  Gospel  of  Beauty,"  and  giving  in 
return  for  board  and  lodging  his  "Rhymes  to  be  Exchanged  for  Bread." 
He  has  since  told  me  that  a  willingness  to  split  kindling  was  usually  a 
more  practical  recommendation  than  the  gift  of  his  poems.  Then, 
some  two  years  ago,  his  "General  William  Booth  Enters  into  Heaven" 
appeared  in  the  Chicago  magazine  Poetry,  and  was  given  the  prize  of 
the  year.  It  was  reprinted  everywhere,  and  after  that  Mr.  Lindsay's 
name  was  known  to  a  large  and  increasing  audience. 

So  far  Mr.  Lindsay  has  published  three  volumes;  one  taking  its 
title  from  the  poem  on  General  Booth  and  one  called  "Adventures 
While  Preaching  the  Gospel  of  Beauty,"  with  Mitchell  Kennerley; 
the  third,  "The  Congo  and  Other  Poems,"  with  Macmillan.  He  has 
just  arranged  for  two  more  books  with  the  latter  publisher;    one  on 


46  The  Haverfordian 

the  "Movies,"  the  other  to  consist  of  poems  to  be  illustrated  by  him- 
self. One  of  his  most  spirited  pieces,  "The  Kallyope  Yell,"  is  in  the 
"Adventures,"  reprinted  also  in  Mr.  Braithwaite's  "Anthology  of 
Magazine  Verse  for  1913";  his  last  poem,  the  delicately  imaginative 
"Chinese  Nightingale,"  has  just  appeared  in  Poetry  for  February. 

Mr.  Lindsay  comes  of  a  Virginia  family  (originally  Scotch-Irish, 
no  doubt),  which  early  moved  westward  through  Kentucky.  His 
father,  a  doctor,  was  desirous  that  he  should  have  a  college  training, 
but  the  young  man  failed  to  find  what  he  wanted  in  college  life.  He 
then  studied  art  for  three  years  in  Chicago,  and  afterwards  in  New 
York,  where  he  became  an  instructor  at  the  MetropoHtan  School.  But 
his  ideals  were  too  democratic  to  leave  him  in  peace  anywhere  so  far 
removed  from  that  part  of  the  American  people  who  were  farthest  from 
the  influence  of  art  and  therefore  most  in  need  of  it.  For  this  reason 
he  gave  up  his  position  and  began  the  tramps  which  were  to  bring  him 
close  to  the  mind  and  feelings  of  the  common  man.  As  long  as  he  read 
poetry  in  the  ordinary  way,  he  was  unable  to  hold  an  audience.  Thus 
it  occurred  to  him  to  introduce  into  his  delivery  some  of  the  elements 
of  the  vaudeville  stage,  which  he  did  with  an  effect  that  only  his  hearers 
can  realize.  As  he  says:  "First  I  pound  them  into  submission,  and 
then  sometimes  I  can  get  across  what  I  really  want  to  say."  Mr.  Lind- 
say does  not  intend  to  keep  on  writing  such  poems  as  "The  Congo" 
or  to  devote  his  life  to  recitation,  but  he  believes  in  reaching  "the  ninety 
million"  by  whatever  method  he  can.  Afterwards  he  hopes  to  have  a 
public  for  his  finer  thoughts  and  more  delicate  forms  of  expression. 

That  Mr.  Lindsay's  inspiration  is,  despite  his  vigor,  essentially 
delicate  may  be  seen  from  his  early  work  in  the  "  Rhymes  to  be  Exchanged 
for  Bread."     Note  the  charm  of  his  nature-love  in  the  following: 

"  The  great  hush  bloomed  with  parchments  fine 

Of  songs  that  feed  the  soul, 
All  new,  that  our  dear  earth  shall  hear 

When  poets  reach  their  goal. 

"  When  our  grown  children,  breathing  fire. 

Shall  justify  all  time 
By  hymns  of  living  silver,  songs 

With  sunrise  in  the  rhyme." 

There  is  often  a  homely  whimsicality  that  is  thoroughly  American, 
disarming  the  cynicism  of  our  so-called  humor.  The  sentiment  in 
"The  Grave  of  the  Righteous  Kitten"  is  preserved  by  the  last  Hne. 


The  Poetry  of  Vachel  Lindsay  47 

"  Until  his  death  he  had  not  caused 

His  little  mistress  tears. 
He  wore  his  ribbon  prettily, 

He  washed  behind  his  ears." 

Delightful,  too,  is  "An  Apology  for  the  Bottle  Volcanic." 

"And  then,  just  as  I  throw  my  scribbled 

Paper  on  the  floor, 
The  bottle  says,  '  Fe,  fi,  fo,  fum, ' 

And  steams  and  shouts  some  more. 

"Oh,  sad  deceiving  ink,  as  bad 

As  liquor  in  its  way — 
All  demons  of  a  bottle  size 

Have  pranced  from  you  today, 

"  And  seized  my  pen  for  hobby-horse 

As  witches  ride  a  broom. 
And  left  a  train  of  brimstone  words 

And  blots  and  gobs  of  gloom." 

The  highest,  most  serious  phase  of  Mr.  Lindsay's  work  is  found  in 
his  poems  of  protest  against  social  injustice.  One  cannot  easily  find 
today  lines  more  noble  than  these  from  "The  Leaden- Eyed " : 

"Let  not  young  souls  be  smothered  out  before 

They  do  quaint  deeds  and  fully  flaunt  their  pride. 

It  is  the  world's  one  crime:  its  babes  grow  dull, 
Its  poor  are  ox-like,  limp  and  leaden-eyed." 

For  my  own  part  I  think  I  like  best  "The  Kallyope  Yell,"  the  poem 
which  finds  the  symbol  of  America's  blatant  enthusiasm  in  the  steam- 
driven  music-machine  of  the  country  circus.  (Kallyope  is  here  trisyl- 
labic, with  the  accent  on  the  first  syllable.) 

"I  am  the  kallyope,  kallyope,  kallyope! 

Tooting  hope,  tooting  hope,  tooting  hope,  tooting  hope!" 

But  General  Booth  will  always  hold  its  place,  and  "The  Congo"  is    full 
of  sound  and  picture  so  blended  as  to  thrill  the  imagination  with  a 


48  The  Haverfordian 

double  stimulus.  In  his  experimenting,  the  poet's  instinct  has  never 
failed  to  show  him  that  any  popular  appeal,  today  as  in  the  days  of  the 
old  ballad,  must  be  made  by  a  regular  and  powerful  four-beat  metre. 
Mr.  John  Alford,  an  excellent  English  critic,  writing  of  Mr.  Lind- 
say in  Poetry  and  Drama,  discovered  that  "here  was  an  entirely  new  mind 
and  new  sensibility  working  in  poetry."  Very  discerningly  Mr.  Alford 
also  notes:  " He  has  seldom  found  it  necessary  to  remember  he  is  a  poet, 
a  rare  quality  among  his  contemporaries."  In  concluding  the  article  on 
recent  American  poetry  the  critic  sums  up:  "Only  one  man  appears, 
from  the  evidence  I  have  available,  to  present  either  new  thought,  new 
feeling  or  new  expression,  and  that  is  Mr.  Lindsay,  who  has  at  least  two 
of  these  qualities."  American  praise  has  been  more  flamboyant,  but 
less  judicial.  I  can  only  add  that  personal  acquaintance  with  Mr. 
Lindsay  deepens  the  impression  that  he  happily  unites  two  qualities 
which  have  long  been  thought  of  as  opposites;  he  is  a  true  poet  and 
a  true  American. 

— Charles  Wharton  Stork,  '02. 


tirijomasi  Ctiatterton 

(Died  at  his  own  hand  August  24,  1770;  aet.  17  yrs.  9  mos.) 

A  dusty  garret  and  a  lad  alone, 

Sitting  deserted  in  the  evening  glow. 

From  far  beneath  the  city's  restless  flow 
Breathes  softly  up,  by  summer  breezes  blown 
To  thee,  a  prophet  knowing  yet  unknown. 

Cursed  with  the  one  great  gift  the  gods  bestow. 

The  sunset  peace  that  soothes  all  human  woe 
Softens  thy  lips,  too  proud  to  beg  or  moan 
For  mercy,  where  mankind  nor  heed  nor  care. 

Thy  weary  eyes  dream  back  to  childhood  days 

By  sheltered  Redcliffe,  ere  so  tender  wings 
Too  boldly  ventured  in  the  envious  glare. — 

A  stray  beam  sets  the  empty  phial  ablaze 

As  from  defeat  the  soul  triumphant  springs. 

—F.  M.  Morley,  '15. 


Cfje  l^ar  Veteran 

ONE  evening  shortly  after  the  sun  had  set  and  while  the  twilight 
was  still  lending  the  sea  a  dull  leaden  hue,  the  figure  of  a  young 
man  might  be  seen  walking  slowly  along  the  broad  sea-wall 
that  stretched  from  the  town  of  Pietranera  for  several  miles  along  the 
coast  until  it  finally  turned  the  western  point  of  the  island.  For  some 
minutes  this  figure  had  been  walking  along  in  an  apparently  very  re- 
flective mood,  but  an  observer  would  have  been  surprised  to  see  him 
suddenly  stop,  say  something  to  himself  with  a  decisive  nod  of  the  head, 
and  then,  turning  to  the  right,  stride  rapidly  through  the  nurseries  that 
belonged  to  the  Suretan  estate. 

Ten  minutes'  walk  brought  Guiseppe  Suretan  through  a  vineyard 
and  a  terraced  garden,  and  then  to  the  door  of  a  low,  extensive  build- 
ing, to  which  it  seemed  that  wings  and  additions  had  been  made  as  the 
fortune  of  each  generation  permitted.  On  opening  the  door  into  a 
large  parlor,  Guiseppe  found  the  room  entirely  deserted.  "Well,"  he 
laughed,  "this  is  a  fine  reception — I  wonder  if  they  have  held  supper  for 
me — oh,  won't  they  be  surprised  when  they  hear  the  news!"  With  this 
he  passed  into  the  dining-room,  and  found  his  mother  and  younger 
cousin,  who,  having  finished  their  supper,  were  sitting  before  an  open 
fire.  Before  either  of  them  could  say  a  word,  Guiseppe  rushed  up  to 
his  mother,  kissed  her,  and  cried,  "Mother,  I  am  going  to  the  war — 
Italy  has  at  last  decided  to  fight." 

"What,  Peppe,  are  you  crazy?  Do  you  mean  Germany  has  finally 
dragged  our  country  into  the  war?     That  would  be  cowardly." 

"Cowardly,  mother?  It  is  Germany  that  we  are  going  to  fight. 
We  have  at  last  freed  ourselves  from  the  Triple  Alliance.  Here  is  a 
paper  with  the  declaration  of  war.  Mother,  I  sail  tomorrow.  Just 
think  of  it — in  a  month  I  will  be  fighting  for  my  country  like  every  other 
loyal  son,  and  I  will  be  with  our  brave  King  Emanuel  when  he  shows 
the  spirits  of  Hannibal  and  Napoleon  that  the  Alps  can  be  conquered 
from  the  south  as  well  as  the  north.  That  letter  which  Stephano  wrote 
from  Milan  says  that  feeling  has  been  rising  higher  every  minute,  that 
thousands  of  students  have  left  the  universities  and  are  drilling  daily, 
and  that  already  the  regular  army  has  mobilized  on  the  northern  fron- 
tier. Stephano's  letter  was  written  over  two  weeks  ago,  so  who  knows 
what  may  be  happening  at  this  very  minute!  Oh,  by  the  time  I  arrive, 
all  the  glory  will  be  won  and  the  spoils  divided!  Still,  it  is  something 
to  be  a  war  veteran.  The  name  has  a  nice  ring  to  it — besides  a  handy 
little  pension  as  a  nest-egg." 


so  The  Haverfordian 

"But  Peppe,  my  boy,  you  don't  know  what  you  are  saying — you 
don't  realize  what  war  means.  Think  of  us — don't  be  so  selfish.  Don't 
you  know  I  love  you  and  want  you  near  me,  now  that  I  am  growing  old?" 

"Of  course,  mother,  but  you  will  still  have  Giaconio — he  can  help 
you  manage  the  farm." 

"Yes,  I  suppose  so,  but  it's  you  I  want — not  the  farm.  If  you  only 
understood  a  mother's  love — Giaconio  and  you  are  all  I  have  left  now — 
and  to  war,  dear,  to  think  that  you  want  to  leave  me  to  go  to  the  war — 
oh,  I  can't  bear  it! — don't  go,  I  entreat  you." 

"Mother,  don't  say  that — it  hurts  when  you  talk  that  way.  It  is 
only  duty,  and  in  this  case  it  must  be  a  sacrifice  for  both  of  us.  Your 
sacrifice  for  La  Patria  is  a  great  one,  but  think  of  father — and  your 
French  blood.  Service  is  the  only  sacrifice  I  can  make,  so  please  don't 
stop  me.  I'll  go  upstairs  now,  pack  my  things,  and  go  to  bed.  Our 
ship  sails  from  Pietranera  tomorrow  at  nine  o'clock,  which  means  that 
I  must  make  an  early  start.  Tell  Viola  that  I  will  write  as  soon  as  I 
reach  Italy,  and  tell  her  to  be  sure  and  wait  for  me." 

In  his  little  room  upstairs  Guiseppe  tied  together  in  a  leather  bag 
a  curious  collection  of  articles  he  thought  fitting  and  proper  for  a  soldier, 
and  then  until  his  lamp  burned  down  he  pored  over  a  few  issues  of  Le 
Secolo  and  Revista  d'ltalia  which  gave  bits  of  descriptions  of  the  em- 
barkment  of  other  Italians  for  the  home  country.  That  night  Guiseppe 
went  to  sleep  a  mere  private  in  his  country's  army,  but  by  morning  his 
dream  had  raised  him  to  the  rank  of  general,  and  at  the  point  of  awak- 
ening he  was  consulting  with  King  Emanuel  as  to  the  size  of  the  indem- 
nity which  they  should  impose  on  Vienna,  smouldering  before  them  in 

the  ashes. 

********** 

In  the  blue  harbor  of  Messene  lay  the  St.  Anna.  A  short  week 
ago  she  had  left  on  a  short  but  dangerous  voyage,  and  now  she  lay 
anchored  in  the  shadow  of  Etna's  great  dust-cloud,  with  her  three  hun- 
dred passengers  in  an  acute  stage  of  expectancy  aroused  by  the  sight 
of  native  Italy.  Surrounding  the  steamer  were  also  anchored  a  large 
number  of  small  fishing  vessels,  and  the  little  harbor  was  alive  with 
sailors  putting  their  boats  to  right. 

Suddenly  a  cry  from  the  stern  drew  the  passengers  of  the  St.  Anna 
in  a  crowd  in  that  direction.  Along  the  shore  was  seen  speedily  ap- 
proaching a  low,  dark  cruiser.  The  next  minute  a  whistling  shell  crashed 
through  the  deck  of  a  small  skiff  at  a  distance  of  about  sixty  feet  from 
the  St.  Anna,  and,  exploding,  covered  the  surrounding  waters  with  a 
shower  of  huge  splinters  and  the  bodies  of  the  wretched  crew.     Instantly 


The  War  Veteran  51 

all  was  confusion  on  board  the  St.  Anna.  A  rush  was  made  to  the  bridge 
for  explanation,  and  when  an  ofificer  announced  that  the  intruder  was 
a  Turkish  gunboat  and  that  surrender  was  necessary,  despair  and  anger 
were  to  be  seen  on  all  sides. 

"But  we  number  three  hundred  men.  Can't  we  fight?"  yelled  the 
crowd. 

"Not  against  16-centimeter  guns,"  replied  the  ofificer,  and  vanished 
into  the  cabin. 

After  a  short  exchange  of  messages  concerning  the  details  of  sur- 
render, it  took  but  a  minute  for  the  hostile  cruiser  to  draw  up  alongside 
and  pour  into  the  St.  Anna  a  swarm  of  pirates  in  Turkish  uniforms.  Upon 
this  invasion  the  passengers  gazed  with  dumb  submission,  but  among 
their  number  there  was  one  man  who  suffered  a  very  great  disillusion- 
ment when  he  found  that  his  first  martial  engagement  had  been  one  in 
which  he  had  surrendered — not  to  a  red-blooded  foe  after  a  desperate 
hand-to-hand  struggle  in  which  blood  streamed  down  the  blades — but 
to  a  16-centimeter  gun  which  mechanically  shot  into  an  enemy  miles 

away  and  yet  never  even  saw  the  victims  of  its  carnage. 

********** 

"Paolo,  I  think  the  cholera  has  gotten  me  at  last.  I  was  praying 
it  would  come  a  year  ago  when  they  transferred  us  to  that  prison-ship. 
You  were  blessedly  unconscious  most  of  that  trip,  and  missed  a  sight 
to  make  a  man's  blood  boil.  One-third  of  us  died  the  first  two  weeks, 
and  the  rest  of  us  came  out  of  that  hold  changed  for  life.  It  was  the 
'Black  Hole  of  Calcutta'  jammed  down  into  the  bottom  of  that  dirty, 
stinking  Turkish  hulk,  and  no  one  can  ever  explain  to  me  how  we  man- 
aged to  drag  out  those  last  few  days.  Yet  look — here  we  are  digging 
holes  for  the  Turks  to  use  as  trenches  and  for  the  Russians  to  use  as 
graves.     Would  to  God  that  they  were  only  our  graves!" 

"Amen  to  that,  Guiseppe.  I  used  to  wonder  how  it  must  feel  to 
long  to  die,  but  I  know  now.  No  one  at  home  knows  where  we  are, 
and  nobody  in  Italy  cares.  As  long  as  he  is  winning  successes  in  Italy, 
Emanuel  doesn't  care  to  go  to  any  expense  about  a  hundred  or  so  human 
wrecks  at  Adrianople  calling  themselves  Italian  prisoners.  And  I  guess 
the  rest  of  us  will  die  soon  and  relieve  his  conscience  of  another  burden. 
Come,  let's  crawl  under  a  tent  and  get  a  little  shade  from  the  beating  sun; 
this  weather  and  the  foulness  of  our  camp  are  enough  to  give  anyone 
cholera." 

Guiseppe  and  Paolo  had  been  working  on  the  very  outskirts  of  the 
fortifications,  helping  to  dig  another  outer  line  of  trenches,  and,  since 
it  was  hot  mid-day,  the  temporary  camp  was  entirely  in  possession  of 


52  The  Haverfordian 

the  prisoners.  One  did  not  wonder  at  the  lack  of  guards  after  having 
looked  first  at  the  wasted  desert  stretched  in  front  of  the  camp  and  then 
at  the  wasted  forms  stretched  under  the  small,  yellow,  dirty  tents, which 
were  arranged  in  a  hollow  square.  The  miserable  laborers  were  in  such 
a  condition  that  only  a  fraction  of  the  whole  number  were  able  to  work 
in  the  trenches  at  any  one  period  during  the  day,  while  the  great  majority 
of  them  spent  the  time  in  semi-conscious  dreaming  and  raving — playing 
from  time  to  time  with  the  water-bags  and  pieces, of  coarse  black  bread 
thrown  in  their  tents  by  the  guards. 

When  Paolo,  with  Guiseppe  stumbling  at  his  side,  finally  reached 
the  shelter  of  their  small  patch  of  canvas,  he  took  down  his  water-bag 
hanging  on  the  tent-pole  and  bathed  the  face  and  wrists  of  his  friend 
with  the  cool  and  precious  liquid.  As  Paolo  did  so  he  noticed  the  driving 
pulse,  the  feverish  brow,  and  the  glistening  eyes  which  he  had  seen 
several  times  before  during  the  past  few  weeks,  and  to  himself  he  con- 
fessed that  it  would  not  be  long  before  he  would  lose  the  friend  given 
to  him  by  common  misfortune. 

Suddenly  there  rang  through  the  camp  a  rifle  discharge,  followed 
by  a  rush  of  cavalry,  and  when  Paolo  looked  out  he  saw  that  the  new 
arrivals  were  a  troop  of  Cossacks  which  had  stopped  at  the  other  end 
of  the  camp  for  a  minute  on  one  of  their  wild  raids.  Quickly  Paolo  crept 
back  into  the  tent,  seized  Guiseppe,  threw  him  over  his  shoulder,  and 
rushed  into  the  open,  impelled  by  no  clearer  purpose  than  the  thought 
that  here  was  a  final  hope  of  rescue  for  his  friend.  But  a  few  minutes' 
inspection  of  both  the  dead  and  alive  inhabitants  of  the  tents  had  shown 
the  Cossacks  that  there  was  nothing  worth  taking  in  the  camp,  and 
at  the  sharp  word  of  command  the  troop  was  off  again  in  a  cloud  of 
smoke.  Paolo,  however,  had  discovered  the  horse  of  a  straggler  stand- 
ing before  one  of  the  tents,  and  rushing  up  just  as  its  tall  and  sunburnt 
rider  leaped  into  the  saddle  with  a  rifle  and  a  water-bag  seized  from  one 
of  the  tents,  he  threw  the  limp  and  unconscious  body  of  Guiseppe  into  the 
Cossack's  arms,  and  made  a  hurried  sign,  entreating  him  to  take  his  bur- 
den in  search  of  medical  aid.  Paolo,  turning,  walked  slowly  and  thought- 
fully back  to  the  tent. 

It  was  five  years  after  Guiseppe  had  left  for  Italy,  and  Spring — 
the  most  beautiful  season  of  the  year  in  Corsica — was  just  opening  the 
blossoms  on  the  fruit  trees  in  the  nurseries  and  orchard  of  the  Suretan 
estate,  when  a  messenger  galloped  up  the  drive  and  left  two  letters  at 
the  house.  When  Mrs.  Suretan  opened  them  she  found  that  one  was 
merely  a  check  in  payment  for  the  last  shipment  which  Giaconio  had 


The  War  Veteran  53 

made  of  the  produce  of  the  farm  to  Marseilles,  but  in  the  midst  of  read- 
ing the  second  letter  she  sank  down  in  a  chair  with  a  sharp  cry.  The 
next  minute  Giaconio  and  Viola  had  rushed  in  to  learn  the  news  which 
had  so  startled  her. 

She  was  still  greatly  agitated.  "Children,"  she  cried,  "Peppe  is 
coming  home  today!" 

"What!    Alive?" 

"Yes,  alive.  This  letter  from  the  Paris  branch  of  the  Red  Cross 
Society  says  that  he  will  arrive  about  twelve  o'clock  in  a  very  weak 
condition  and  in  need  of  the  best  family  care." 

Viola  had  become  very  white.  "How  he  must  have  suffered! 
It  was  probably  that  last  great  siege.  But  what  has  he  been  doing 
since  then?" 

"Their  report,"  said  Giaconio,  who  had  taken  the  letter,  "says 
that  for  three  years  his  mind  was  a  total  blank  as  a  result  of  a  sharp 
attack  of  cholera,  and  during  this  time  the  hospital  at  Warsaw  was 
unable  to  learn  either  his  name  or  his  address.  Oh,  those  must  have 
been  terrible  years,  and  now  it  is  our  chance  to  show  what  affection  and 
careful  nursing  can  accomplish." 

Shortly  after  noon  a  closed  carriage  drew  up  before  the  house  and 
an  attendant  helped  a  bent  figure  out  of  the  carriage  and  led  him  up  to  the 
door.  It  was  his  mother  that  received  Guiseppe  within,  and  it  was  she 
who  helped  him  to  the  sofa,  where  he  fell  exhausted  into  a  reclining 
position.  She  thought  he  murmured  his  name  when  he  first  saw  her, 
but  it  was  several  minutes  before  he  fully  obtained  control  of  his  senses, 
and  in  this  space  of  time  the  three  people  bent  above  him  attempted  a 
minute  examination  of  his  changed  appearance.  His  face  had  com- 
pletely altered ;  instead  of  the  clear,  tanned  skin,  the  bright  eye,  and  the 
ready  smile  they  had  formerly  known,  they  now  saw  the  face  of  a  martyr, 
with  his  jaw  sunken  and  hollow  and  his  facial  muscles  drawn  by  deep  emo- 
tions, while  his  dull  eyes  matched  the  gray  tinge  which  had  added  itself 
to  his  hair.  His  whole  physiognomy  bore  the  stamp  of  weariness  and 
pain. 

"How  he  has  aged!"  exclaimed  Viola,  shrinking  back  at  the  re- 
membrance of  her  early  marriage  vow. 

"Yes,  I  have  aged,"  echoed  Guiseppe,  as  he  opened  his  eyes;  "aged 
so  much  that  I  seem  to  think  of  nothing  now  but  death.  It  feels  strange 
to  come  back  and  find  things  here  nearly  the  same  as  they  used  to  be 
with  nothing  torn  to  the  roots  by  war."  Then,  throwing  his  eyes  around 
the  house,  he  said,  "Things  certainly  have  prospered  under  your  hands, 


54  The  Haverfordian 

Giaconio,  and  I  suppose  the  reward  for  your  faithfulness  was  Viola; 
was  she  not?" 

Giaconio  nodded  in  the  affirmative. 

"I  thought  so,"  said  Guiseppe  wearily,  "the  first  year  or  so  she 
waited  for  a  hero  covered  with  glory  and  pensions,  next  she  waited  for 
news  of  his  death,  and  then  finally  she  took  his  death  for  granted.  Well, 
that  was  natural;  and  now  I  myself  have  come  back  without  even  a 
single  bullet-wound  to  ennoble  me,  ready  for  burial  instead  of  marriage. 
But  I  have  seen  life — oh,  I  have  lived  a  page  of  history  that  is  seldom 
written.  Five  years  of  hardship  and  suffering — and  yet  I  was  rewarded 
for  all  this  when  I  met  Paolo.  He  was  a  real  firend,  and  though  he 
knew  he  was  losing  his  last  chance  of  obtaining  his  freedom,  he  acted 
the  man  and  .  .  .  A  Corpe  Di,  if  he  should  still  be  alive!  And  as  for 
war,  few  people  would  recognize  the  kind  of  war  I've  seen.  A  war  vet- 
eran— that's  what  I  am — a  war  veteran.  I  used  to  think  that  name  had 
a  fine  ring  to  it — but  now  that  it's  mine,  what  can  I  do  with  it?  A 
pension — there's  my  ruined  life  as  my  pension.  No,  I've  nothing  but 
a  name.     Oh,  God!     I'm  nothing  but  a  war  veteran." 

—Kenneth  W.  Webb,  '18. 


There's  trouble  down  in  Fairyland, 

With  puckered  brows  and  angry  frowns; 

There's  discord  in  the  merry  land, 
For  good  Queen  Mab's  a-pouting. 

But  Oberon  has  set  it  right, 

And  jolly  are  the  elfin  towns; 
For  woman's  right  is  woman's  might, 

When  good  Queen  Mab's  a-pouting. 

— Robert  Gibson,  '17. 


^tmptrantt  anb  tfje  College  0im 

A  SUMMER  twilight  of  my  boyhood  returns,  bringing  with  it 
memories  of  an  unforgettable  experience.  While  strolling  leis- 
urely along  a  street  that  leads  to  the  town  hall,  I  heard  in  the 
distance  the  cries  of  boisterous  boys.  Instinctively  my  step  quickened, 
and  I  found  myself  in  two  minutes'  time  a  member  of  a  group  engaged  in 
teasing  an  incarcerated  inebriate.  At  first  I  felt  charitable  and  loath 
to  participate  in  the  childish  mischief.  But  the  mysterious  laws  of  psy- 
chology soon  set  my  thoughtless  tongue  at  play.  The  drunkard's  dirty 
face  and  bleary  eyes  leered  at  us  through  the  bars.  Curiosity  took 
me  close  to  the  man,  for  I  saw  his  lips  move  and  I  wondered  what  he 
was  saying.  As  the  face  appears  to  me  now  the  fine  features  of  intel- 
ligence shine  through  the  liquor-labeled  exterior,  and  even  as  a  lad  I 
thought  I  saw  the  signs  of  culture  beneath  that  surface  of  sin  and  de- 
pravity. As  I  drew  nearer  to  the  lockup  wall  the  intoxicated  wretch 
shouted:  "Shay,  fellows,  have  you  ever  heard  of  Shishero  and  Sheneca?" 
My  little  heart  leaped  and  urged  my  ears  to  listen  for  every  word.  Only 
a  moment  was  necessary  to  prove  that  this  booze-blasted  bum  had  been 
familiar  at  one  time,  not  only  with  Latin  literature,  but  with  Greek 
thought  as  well.  He  repeated  with  promptness  and  accuracy — an 
older  boy  nearby  vouched  for  the  correctness  of  the  recital — the  Greek 
alphabet,  and  he  declaimed  with  mock  feeling  the  famous  "Arms  and  the 
man  I  sing."  There  were  intermittent  outbreaks  of  horrifying  hilarity, 
which  can  come  only  from  rum  fiends  as  they  advance  to  the  verge  of 
ruin  and  destruction.  "Ha!  Ha!  I'm  ejucated,  I  am.  I've  been  to 
college.  I'm  smart,  I  am.  Ha!  Ha!"  It  is  needless  to  say  that  I  was 
shocked.  Indeed,  my  youthful  ideal  of  the  college  man  was  severely 
shaken.  I  could  not  see  how  a  man  who  had  received  so  much  educa- 
tion could  do  such  a  stupid  thing  as  to  get  drunk,  and  ever  since  I  have 
been  obsessed  with  the  notion  that  the  college  man  who  drinks  is  flinging 
into  the  face  of  his  alma  mater  this  challenge :  what  is  higher  education 
but  gloss  and  vainglory?  As  Matthew  Arnold  might  put  it :  Hellenism 
without  Hebraism  is  incomplete  and  futile.  Culture  without  character 
as  its  concomitant  is  empty  and  useless. 

Knowledge  is  not  power  except  when  properly  pondered  and  thor- 
oughly assimilated,  but  the  road  to  position  and  power  leads  through  the 
land  of  learning.  Culture  alone  cannot  create  character,  but  when 
backed  by  firm  convictions  and  when  placed  upon  a  strong  religious 
basis,  it  becomes  the  fuel  upon  which  moral  conduct  feeds.  Many 
are  the  men  in  history  whose  careers  ended  unhappily  and  whose  repu- 


56  The  Haverfordian 

tations  have  been  tarnished  by  their  association  with  strong  drink. 
Some  of  our  own  Americans  perished  on  the  path  that  was  bringing 
them  to  the  Hall  of  Immortals.  They  failed  to  sacrifice  the  passing 
pleasure  for  a  permanent  place  in  the  minds  and  hearts  of  posterity. 
Neither  quantity  of  information  nor  quality  of  genius  is  sufficient  to 
withstand  the  assaults  and  ravages  of  alcoholism.  The  strong  suc- 
cumb and  are  often  overwhelmed  as  ignominiously  as  the  weak.  All 
sorts  and  conditions  of  men  fall  before  the  temptation  to  steal.  It  is 
necessary  to  have  a  law  against  robbery.  Time  will  be  when  men  will 
have  sufficient  self-control  to  refrain,  but  until  this  age  of  reason  and 
rectitude  arrives  we  must  have  laws  against  the  manufacture  and  sale 
of  intoxicants  as  well  as  against  thieving  and  homicide. 

The  college  man  has  many  advantages  in  the  light  of  which  it  is 
difficult  to  find  an  excuse  for  certain  shortcomings.  Science  exposes 
the  folly  of  alcoholic  indulgence.  Chemistry  and  anatomy  tell  a  tale 
of  truth  that  is  firm  and  final.  College  men  know  the  facts  regarding  the 
effects  of  stimulating  beverages.  They  understand  that  there  is  a  moral 
principle  as  well  as  a  physical  detriment  involved.  They  are  familiar 
also  with  the  facts  of  political  economy  and  sociology.  They  appre- 
ciate the  added  burden  to  a  government  that  the  drainage  from  drink 
entails,  and  they  have  learned  that  social  progress  is  possible  only  when 
there  is  a  minimum  of  enticements  for  human  flesh  to  fall  before.  For 
some  individuals  the  presence  of  allurements  and  temptations  is  strength- 
ening. In  theory  this  is  beautiful  and  ideal,  but  with  society  in  its  pres- 
ent stage  of  development  the  practice  is  precarious  and  pernicious. 
College  men  are  versed  in  the  rise  and  fall  of  nations.  The  causes  of 
decline  in  national  vigor,  the  reasons  for  the  rise  of  a  fresh  young  country, 
the  explanation  of  the  high  cost  of  living,  these  and  many  things  more 
the  college  man  understands  as  can  no  other.  He  has  studied  con- 
science, and  he  knows,  therefore,  how  essential  it  is  for  success  and 
happiness  to  keep  unhampered  and  sensitive  this  guide  to  goodness. 

In  the  face  of  these  facts  what  is  the  right  attitude  for  the  college 
man  to  take  toward  temperance?  The  time  has  come  for  a  positive 
stand.  We  hear  much  about  the  "peepul"  and  their  influence,  but  it  is 
the  college  man  who  controls  the  balance  of  power  in  America.  He 
has  the  same  relation  to  the  masses  that  a  physician  holds  to  his  patient. 
An  intoxicated  doctor  will  endanger  the  life  of  the  invalid  and  an  in- 
temperate college  man  will  unwittingly  interfere  with  the  welfare  of  the 
unlettered  proletariat.  The  rabble  seem  on  the  surface  to  detest  those 
who  are  above  them  in  station  and  superior  to  them  in  wisdom,  but 
this  is  due  to  the  heartless  intellectual  snobs  who  slander  and  irritate 


Temperance  and  the  College  Man  57 

them.  At  bottom  the  ignorant  man  reveres  those  who  have  had  greater 
advantages.  Mark  how  the  saintly  citizens  of  Hickory  Ridge  bow  and 
bend  to  the  oracle  who  has  just  returned  from  a  week  in  New  York. 
The  unfortunate  day-laborer  emulates  in  every  way  he  can  the  more 
fortunate  college  man.  He  respects  his  more  reliable  judgment  and 
is  willing  to  follow  whithersoever  the  conscientious  college  man  may 
lead.  It  is  evident,  therefore,  that  the  cultured  classes  are  responsible 
for  existing  social  conditions.  Both  apathy  and  perversity  on  the  part 
of  the  61ite  have  prevented  moral  progress.  How  can  we  hope  to  rid 
the  slums  of  their  rum  shops  and  the  resulting  rioting  as  long  as  the 
Social  Fraternities  and  Country  Clubs  are  the  scenes  of  wine-sipping 
and  ribaldry? 

The  common  cry  is — personal  liberty;  but  what  a  flimsy  pretext 
this  is!  In  the  first  place  it  is  immoral  as  well  as  foolish  and  dangerous 
to  drink.  "Wine  is  a  mocker,"  says  the  Word  of  God.  Moderate 
drinking  is  as  wrong  as  drunkenness.  The  only  difTerence  is  that  it 
doesn't  sound  so  bad.  There  can  be  no  compromise  where  morality 
is  involved.  The  law  does  not  excuse  a  murderer  on  the  ground  that  the 
killing  was  his  first  ofifence  or  because  his  victim  was  an  infant.  Ethically 
it  is  no  worse  to  get  drunk  than  it  is  to  drink  only  small  amounts  occa- 
sionally. If  our  law  were  consistent  and  based  as  it  should  be  on  mo- 
rality, the  moderate  drinker  would  have  to  suffer  with  the  habitual  in- 
ebriate. The  difference  is  of  quantity  and  not  of  quality,  and  it  is  the 
quality  of  an  act  that  determines  its  Tightness  or  wrongness  and  its  good- 
ness or  badness.  Why  is  the  drunkard  arrested,  unless  it  is  that  the 
law  is  ashamed  of  its  own  handiwork?  It  lets  a  man  buy  booze  in  a 
place  from  which  the  government  receives  a  fee,  and  it  chuckles  with 
glee  over  the  fine  that  the  unfortunate  man  must  pay.  License 
fees  and  drunkenness  fines  are  a  disgrace  to  our  government.  They 
are  blood-money  too  tainted  for  the  hands  of  an  honorable  man  to 
touch.  Moreover,  a  study  of  the  facts  proves  that  they  are  quite  in- 
significant in  amount  when  compared  with  the  expense  caused  by  the 
crimes  and  suffering  that  ensue.  The  excuse  of  personal  liberty  cannot 
be  presented  when  a  moral  principle  and  the  social  welfare  are  involved. 
This  is  the  age  of  social  responsibility,  and  none  knows  better  than  the 
college  man  the  many  ways  in  which  the  spirit  of  altruism  is  expressing 
itself.  Even  though  the  ethical  side  be  relegated,  the  practical  aspect 
looms  up  sufficiently  formidable  to  convince  any  inquiring  mind.  Alco- 
hol hurts  the  individual  consumer,  his  friends,  and  society  in  general. 
The  facts  and  figures  to  substantiate  this  assertion  are  being  offered 
all  about  us. 


58  The  Haverfordian 

Some  will  doubtless  say  that  temperance  is  a  matter  of  discipline 
and  should  be  left  for  education  to  accomplish.  Very  true,  and  this  is 
what  education  has  accomplished :  we  need  and  must  have  a  prohibition 
law.  The  home,  the  church  and  the  school  have  been  admirable  weap- 
ons, but  the  ballot  is  essential  for  the  consummation  of  the  conquest. 
Knowledge  alone  cannot  save  men  from  the  evils  of  drink.  Ignorance 
is  not  the  only  cause  of  intemperance.  Experience  teaches  that  the 
world  is  full  both  of  educated  drunkards  and  of  ignorant  teetotalers. 
The  phrase  "as  drunk  as  a  lord"  is  proverbial.  Education  has  rendered 
a  noble  service,  and  now  needs  the  co-operation  of  a  legislative  enact- 
ment. And  after  this  concrete  crystallization  of  the  temperance  cam- 
paign, education  will  continue  her  assistance  by  helping  to  render  the 
new  law  efficiently  operative. 

College  men  should  be  most  active  in  the  fight  for  this  reform. 
They  should  be  totally  abstinent  and  they  should  encourage  others  to 
pledge  themselves  to  teetotalism.  A  pledge  is  not  an  oath  that  a  scrupu- 
lous collegian  need  fear  to  take.  It  is  merely  the  written  declaration 
of  a  resolve.  It  is  not  a  sacred  vow  which  would  destroy  a  man's  soul 
if  not  kept.  Students  are  continually  resolving  to  stop  the  use  of  tobacco 
or  to  get  a  piece  of  work  finished  by  a  set  time.  Frequently  they  fail, 
but  this  does  not  prove  that  it  is  wrong  or  wicked  to  make  oral  or  written 
determinations.  The  anti-drink  pledge  is  not  the  source  of  sin 
if  broken,  but  it  is  surely  the  means  of  a  splendid  species  of  salvation 
if  kept.  One  does  not  sign  away  liberty  in  pledging  oneself  to  total 
abstinence.  It  is  a  promise  to  self  and  society  to  abstain,  and  a 
method  of  pedagogical  practicability.  Its  visible  and  tangible  ad- 
vantages are  a  hearty  endorsement  of  its  merit.  Everyone  should  sign 
the  pledge,  and  no  college  man  need  have  compunctions  against  an  act 
so  sound,  safe  and  beneficial.  Merely  the  influence  of  the  example 
makes  it  well  worth  while. 

College  men  have  access  to  the  society  of  lawmakers.  There  is  a 
natural  feeling  of  fellowship  among  educated  men  which  enables  the 
college  man  to  become  a  more  influential  instrument  for  temperance 
than  the  average  proletariat  can  hope  to  be.  College  men  should  bring 
pressure  to  bear  upon  license-granting  judges  and  local  option  voting 
legislators.  Every  college  man  should  be  a  temperance  teacher.  His 
thoughts  and  convictions  should  be  disseminated  widely,  for  a  powerful 
public  opinion  can  thus  be  created.  He  should  join  groups  to  visit 
needy  and  reactionary  communities.  He  should  write  letters  and 
papers  whenever  spare  time  permits.  He  should  aid  in  the  campaigns 
of  temperance  candidates,  and  if  possible  run  for  some  office  himself. 


A  Correction  59 

The  masses  need  more  contact  with  college  men.  They  await  our 
scholarly  views,  our  courageous  leadership,  and  our  infectious  enthu- 
siasm. 

Broad-mindedness  and  conservatism  are  very  commendable,  but 
to  say  that  prohibition  is  undemocratic  and  a  return  to  taboo  govern- 
ment is  to  expose  one's  ignorance  of  the  philosophy  of  law  and  to 
forget  that  children  are  suffering,  souls  are  being  damned,  heinous  crimes 
are  being  committed,  homes  are  being  broken  up,  asylums  are  overflowing, 
taxes  are  exceedingly  high,  etc.  This  is  an  unpleasant  catalogue,  but 
it  cannot  be  overlooked.  College  men  can  express  gratitude  for  the 
knowledge  and  convictions  they  have  acquired  in  no  better  way  than 
to  act  as  temperance  missionaries.  College  men  must  lead,  for  we  alone 
are  equipped  for  leadership.  If  we  should  all  do  what  we  can  during 
idle  hours,  the  entire  country  would  soon  be  dry.  It  is  hard  for  us  to  come 
to  conclusions  on  problems  that  involve  contradictions,  and  we  are 
justified  in  our  deliberate  and  slow  approach  to  judgments,  but  the  tem- 
perance question  leaves  open  not  a  single  loophole  for  skepticism.  It 
is  fast  becoming  the  fashion  to  be  a  teetotaler,  and  men  of  all  ranks  and 
denominations  are  working  for  the  cause.  College  men  must  not  lag 
behind,  but  be  trail-breakers,  and  we  of  the  East  must  not  allow  our- 
selves to  be  outstripped  by  our  brothers  of  the  West.  Now  that  the 
testimony  has  been  heard  by  the  grand  jury  of  reason  and  right  and 
the  indictment  of  the  liquor  traffic  drawn  up,  let  us  press  to  a  successful 
finish  this  greatest  of  all  cases.  College  men,  let  us  help  make  America 
first  in  patriotism,  first  in  peace,  and  most  proficient  in  the  prohibition  of 
the  booze  business. 

— Carroll  D.  Champlm,  '14. 


^  Correction 

Editor  of  the  Haverfordian, — 

In  my  article  of  last  month  I  inadvertently  made  the  statement 
that  "Haverford  was  the  only  college  in  Pennsylvania  requiring  entrance 
examinations  from  all  candidates  for  a  degree."  I  was  of  course  referring 
to  men's  colleges  only,  and  should  have  so  stated,  for  there  is  no  college 
in  the  United  States  which  examines  more  rigidly  than  Bryn  Mawr  Col- 
lege. 

— Isaac  Sharpless. 


?|orace  O^besi  3  13 

0  thou  Bandusian  fount,  with  crystal  sheen, 
To  thee  I'll  pledge  a  cup  of  mellow  wine 
And  flowery  chaplets  cast  into  thy  depths, 
Fair  tribute  for  past  gifts  to  me  and  mine. 

Tomorrow  will  I  sacrifice  a  kid 
Whose  rugged  forehead  stunted  horns  doth  sprout, 
Full  fair  he  bids  to  hold  his  own  in  love 
And  frolic  with  Ms  mates  in  upland  bout. 

But  vain  are  all  his  gifts  of  budding  youth. 
This  offspring  of  a  he-goat's  wanton  mood; 
Tomorrow  will  he  make  incarnadine 
Thy  ice-cold  stream  -with  his  red,  tepid  blood. 

The  season  of  the  Dog-star's  blistering  heat 
Knows  not  to  warm  thy  cool,  refreshing  flow; 
Thou  givest  to  the  wearied  oxen  then 
Or  to  the  fleecy  flocks  that  come  and  go. 

Ay,  thou  shah  be  among  the  springs  of  fame 
When  I  have  tuned  my  song,  so  meet  for  thee, 
And  sung  the  oak  that  towers  o'er  the  rock 
Whence  gush  thy  waters  murmuring  sweet  to  me. 

—J.  W.  Spaeth,  Jr.,  '17. 


I 


^  i^atural  iWisitafee 

WE  halved  that  last  hole,  didn't  we?"  said  Mr.  Gordon  Mackay 
to  his  companion,  Hampton  Butler.  The  latter  was  a  robust, 
athletic-looking  man  of  about  thirty-five  years  of  age. 

"Yes.  Your  putting  is  certainly  right  there.  I'd  like  to  have  you 
give  me  some  lessons.  Well,  I  guess  we  are  ready  for  the  'Island  Hole' 
now." 

Mackay  had  just  made  a  superb  drive  and  Butler  was  in  the  act 
of  teeing  up,  when  a  messenger  boy  came  up  and  announced,  "Telegram 
for  Mr.  Butler." 

The  gentleman  indicated  straightened  up  and  said,  "I'm  the  man 
in  question.     Let's  see  what  you  have  for  me." 

After  hastily  tearing  the  seal  of  the  envelope,  he  was  confronted 
by  the  following  message  in  cipher:  "CARRIGAN  MEN  ON  WAR- 
PATH. WILL  ARRIVE  ON  4  O'CLOCK  TRAIN.  DODGE  THEM. 
COME  BACK  IMMEDIATELY.— C.  Stoddart." 

This  startling  message  did  not  seem  to  stagger  its  recipient  to  any 
great  degree;  he  calmly  drew  out  his  watch  and  remarked  to  his  friend, 
"  I'm  sorry.  Mack,  but  I'll  have  to  stop.  This  telegram  will  have  to  be 
attended  to." 

"That's  too  bad,  old  man,"  rejoined  the  other;  "nothing  serious, 
I  hope?" 

"No,  not  so  very." 

With  this  farewell  he  hurried  off  toward  the  clubhouse.  He  was 
evidently  much  more  affected  by  the  telegram  than  he  wished  to  show 
to  his  friend.  As  he  went,  one  thought  after  another  passed  through 
his  brain  in  rapid  succession.  How  had  Carrigan  found  out  his  where- 
abouts? Surely  he  had  taken  great  trouble  to  cover  his  tracks,  so  that 
he  might  be  free  from  worry  for  a  few  days.  But  Carrigan  had  found  out, 
and  now  it  was  up  to  him  to  leave  as  soon  as  possible.  That  need  not 
trouble  him.  There  was  a  train  at  3.39  and  Carrigan's  men  would  not 
arrive  until  four.  But  he  must  hurry.  It  was  already  twenty  minutes 
after  three.  We  would  not  have  time  to  do  anything  but  dress  and  run 
to  the  station. 

At  3.38  the  Grenfall  Express  drew  into  Lake  Pleasant  Station,  and 
Mr.  Butler  lost  no  time  in  climbing  aboard.  After  the  train  had  pulled 
out,  among  the  passengers  who  had  gotten  off  was  to  be  observed  a  man 
whose  face  resembled  the  one  who  had  just  boarded  the  train  so  strongly 
that  it  was  very  hard  to  believe  that  they  were  different  characters. 
Strangely  enough,  the  resemblance  did  not  stop  with  their  facial  ap- 


62  The  Haverfordian 

pearance;  it  extended  also  to  their  physical  characteristics,  and  after- 
wards it  was  found  that  there  was  not  three  inches'  difference  in  their 
height  nor  ten  pounds'  difference  in  their  weight. 

The  bus  driver  of  the  Lakewood  Hotel,  who  was  at  the  station  at 
that  time  for  the  purpose  of  carrying  guests  to  the  hotel,  not  being  a 
very  astute  man,  easily  fell  into  a  mistake  which  led  to  a  serious  adven- 
ture for  the  new  arrival.  Walking  up  to  the  gentleman,  he  relieved  him 
of  his  grip  and  stated  that  he  was  about  ready  to  start  for  the  hotel  and 
that  if  Mr.  Butler  would  follow  him  and  get  into  the  bus,  he  would  have 
him  there  in  no  time.  The  stranger  followed  these  instructions  with- 
out asking  any  questions. 

Upon  his  arrival  at  the  hotel,  he  was  immediately  attended  by  a 
bellboy,  who  offered  to  carry  his  valise  to  his  room.  On  being  given 
the  valise,  the  bellboy  stepped  inside,  inquired  at  the  desk  for  the  key 
to  Mr.  Butler's  room,  and  soon  had  the  new  guest  in  the  elevator.  The 
servant  then  guided  him  down  the  corridor,  and,  opening  the  door  of 
No.  41,  said,  "Here  you  are,  suh."  The  gentleman  then  reached  into 
his  pocket  and  brought  out  a  piece  of  money,  which  he  gave  to  the  boy, 
who  straightway  disappeared. 

The  stranger  then  shut  his  door  and  took  a  seat  in  the  rocking-chair, 
very  much  bewildered  by  the  very  cordial  reception  he  had  received. 
His  thoughts  appeared  rather  confused.  When  he  had  written  to 
engage  his  room,  he  had  little  idea  that  he  would  be  received  in  this 
princely  manner.  Yet  there  could  be  no  mistake.  The  bus  man  had 
said  Mr.  Butler,  and  the  bellboy  had  asked  for  the  key  to  Mr.  Butler's 
room.  And  unless  he  were  dreaming  he  was  certainly  Mr.  Clifford 
Butler,  of  Pencoyd,  Pa.,  traveling  salesman  for  Little  &  Co.,  Wholesale 
Hatters. 

Just  at  present,  however,  he  was  not  on  an  errand  for  the  estimable 
firm  of  Little  &  Co.  His  winter  trade  had  been  canvassed  and  it  was 
not  yet  time  to  see  his  customers  about  spring  styles.  No,  it  was  a  far 
different  reason  that  caused  Mr.  Clifford  Butler  to  be  sojourning  at 
Lake  Pleasant  at  that  particular  time.  The  fact  was  that  he  had  been 
disappointed  in  love.  Back  in  Pencoyd  there  was  a  girl  with  hazel 
eyes  and  bewitching  lips  that  he  thought  the  world  of.  But,  alas, 
thanks  to  her  bigot  of  a  father,  she  had  been  recently  betrothed  to 
another.  Anna  Lindsay's  father  had  said  that  no  daughter  of  his  should 
ever  wed  a  hat  salesman  when  a  man  like  Archie  Ringgold,  the  great 
banker's  son,  was  available.  This  decision,  which  fell  like  a  dirge  on  the 
disappointed  lover's  ears,  had  caused  him  to  seek  consolation  and  soli- 
tude in  a  mountain  resort. 


A  Natural  Mistake  63 

The  worst  blow  of  all  was  the  way  Anna  had  taken  it.  She  had 
made  him  think  that  she  was  reconciled  to  the  arrangement,  while  up 
to  this  time  he  had  thought  that  she  had  loved  him.  Oh,  dolt  that  he 
was,  to  give  his  heart  to  a  woman!  It  certainly  would  never  happen 
again.  He  hated  the  sex  and  vowed  that  he  would  never  have  anything 
to  do  with  woman  again. 

Time  passed  on  quickly  while  he  was  engaged  in  this  soliloquy. 
Outside  it  had  become  dark,  but  he  never  thought  of  lighting  the  light. 
There  never  was  such  a  miserable  mortal  as  he,  he  declared,  and  it  was 
all  on  account  of  a  woman. 

While  he  was  growing  more  comfortable  every  minute,  engrossed 
in  these  thoughts,  suddenly  there  came  a  tap  on  the  door.  He  looked 
up  in  an  indifferent  way  and  informed  the  visitor  to  come  in. 

The  door  opened,  and  there  in  the  doorway  stood,  of  all  things  on 
earth  most  abhorred,  a  pretty  girl!  The  light  from  the  hall  lamp  stream- 
ing over  her  showed  her  to  be  all  smiles  and  brightness.  "Aren't  you 
ever  coming  down  to  eat  supper  with  us,  dear?"  she  commenced. 

"No,  I'm  not  coming  down  to  eat  supper  with  you,"  he  returned 
hotly,  "  I'm  done  with  all  your  sex.  If  I  ever  speak  to  a  woman  again, 
I  won't  be  in  my  right  mind." 

Her  face  fell.  She  actually  looked  frightened.  "Why,  what  is 
the  matter,  dear?"  she  asked.  "You  never  talked  this  way  to  me 
before.     Won't  you  please  explain  yourself?" 

His  face  did  not  lose  a  particle  of  its  sternness  and  anger,  as  he 
replied,  "  I'll  explain  nothing.  I  don't  even  know  you.  And  now  get 
out  of  here  just  as  quickly  as  you  can." 

The  door  closed  and  the  sound  of  choked  sobs  could  be  heard  re- 
treating down  the  corridor.  The  young  lady  who  had  been  treated  to 
this  outburst  of  wrath  was  Adelaide  Perkins  by  name.  She  had  gone 
to  room  No.  41  expecting  to  find  an  affectionate  and  confiding  lover; 
instead  she  found  a  brute.  What  had  caused  the  change?  What  had 
she  done?  He  had  never  talked  like  that  before;  his  voice  had  never  been 
so  gruff  and  stern  and  unfeeling.  And  he  had  sent  her  away  without  tell- 
ing her  what  was  the  matter.  How  could  he  be  so  cruel?  She  did  not 
want  any  supper  now.  She  did  not  care  what  happened.  She  would 
go  to  her  room  and  stay  there.  And  so,  with  heavy  heart  and  tear- 
laden  eyes,  the  poor  girl  shut  herself  up  in  her  room,  in  a  wretched  way 
trying  to  accuse  herself  of  some  fault  which  would  justify  the  storm  of 
abuse  that  her  lover  had  mercilessly  showered  upon  her. 

Meanwhile  Mr.  Clifford  Butler  was  in  a  scarcely  less  amiable  state 
of  mind.     If  he  had  been  mad  before,  he  was  furious  now.   "Upon  my 


64  The  Haverfordian 

word,"  he  growled,  "it  has  come  to  a  pretty  pass  when  a  man  cannot 
be  free  from  the  presence  of  designing  females  even  in  his  own  private 
room  up  here  in  these  deserted  mountains.  I  cannot  stand  it  in  this 
room  any  longer.     I  am  going  out  to  take  a  walk  through  the  woods. 

In  a  few  minutes  more  Butler  was  in  the  road  and  making  his  way 
with  quick  strides  to  a  woodland  which  lay  at  no  great  distance  from 
the  hotel. 

Overhead  in  the  heavens  not  a  star  was  to  be  seen.  The  landscape 
gave  an  appearance  of  desolation  with  bare  trees  on  every  hand,  and  the 
violent  wind,  which  had  sprung  up  since  sundown,  made  a  doleful  sound 
as  it  whistled  through  the  tree  tops.  The  aspect  was  indeed  a  dismal 
one. 

But  the  tormented  man  noticed  none  of  these  things.  So  great 
was  his  absorption  in  his  thoughts  that  he  had  not  noticed  as  he  had 
come  out  upon  the  porch  of  the  hotel  that  two  men  were  pacing  it  with 
leisurely  steps,  that  on  his  appearance  both  men  seemed  to  wake  out  of 
a  reverie,  that  one  man  remarked  to  the  other,  "That  is  the  man  we 
want." 

Nor  had  he  noticed  that  these  men  had  left  the  porch  and  followed 
him  as  he  had  set  out.  As  he  drew  near  the  woods,  his  only  thought 
was  that  he  was  fleeing  from  trouble,  and  not  that  every  step  was  carry- 
ing him  into  far  more  serious  trouble. 

The  moment  he  reached  the  edge  of  the  woods,  his  trailers  seemed 
to  hasten  their  pace,  and  in  a  few  minutes  were  not  more  than  ten  yards 
from  him.  Still  he  was  unconscious  of  their  presence  and  totally  un- 
suspicious of  any  bodily  danger.  Now  they  were  almost  upon  him. 
Then  one  of  the  men  ran  stealthily  forward,  and,  raising  a  heavy  club 
aloft  in  his  right  hand,  brought  it  down  on  his  victim's  head  with  a  re- 
sounding crack.  Butler  reeled  and  fell.  Then  he  felt  all  consciousness 
leave  him  and  lay  doubled  up  in  the  road. 

How  long  he  lay  there  he  never  knew.  But  after  a  space  of  several 
hours  he  opened  his  eyes  and  looked  about  him.  There  was  a  horrible 
smell  of  whiskey  all  around  him,  and  as  he  raised  himself  on  his  hands, 
he  thought  his  head  would  crack,  so  great  was  the  pain.  After  several 
ineffectual  attempts  to  rise,  he  finally  managed  to  drag  himself  to  his 
feet.     He  felt  very  faint  indeed. 

Where  he  was  or  how  he  came  into  that  condition,  he  could  not  in 
any  way  recollect.  He  was  soon  conscious,  however,  of  a  sense  of  chil- 
liness which  warned  him  to  seek  some  shelter  from  the  sharp  night  air. 
Which  way  to  go  or  where  to  turn  he  did  not  know.  By  mere  chance 
he  took  the  direction  that  led  back  to  the  Lakewood  Hotel,  and  with 


A  Natural  Mistake  65 

faint  and  halting  footsteps  pursued  his  way  until  he  finally  arrived  at 
that  inn. 

At  sight  of  the  hotel,  a  dim  recollection  glimmered  in  his  bosom, 
and  after  a  little  reflection  he  remembered  that  he  had  a  room  there  and 
that  it  was  No.  41. 

He  approached  the  entrance,  and  stepped  inside.  Within  he  was 
confronted  by  a  man  who  said,  "I  am  a  newspaper  reporter  from  Gren- 
fall,  and  would  like  to  interview  you,  Mr.  Butler." 

Butler  looked  at  him  in  a  dazed  sort  of  way  and  then  said,  "  I'm 
sorry,  Mr.  Reporter,  but  you  can  see  I'm  in  no  condition  to  be  inter- 
viewed tonight.     I  have  a  terrible  headache." 

"Oh,  very  well  then,"  returned  the  reporter,  and  when  Butler 
had  passed,  he  shot  a  look  of  triumph  at  his  retreating  back  which  told 
plainly  that  he  was  not  at  all  disappointed  not  to  receive  the  interview. 

It  was  with  difficulty  that  the  victimized  managed  to  reach  his 
room,  undress,  and  crawl  into  bed.  He  soon  fell  into  a  deep  sleep,  from 
which  he  did  not  awaken  until  eleven  o'clock  the  next  morning. 

When  he  did  awaken,  it  was  to  find  Mr.  Hampton  Butler,  whose 
disappearance  has  been  recorded  at  the  beginning  of  this  story,  looking 
down  upon  him  with  a  look  of  stupefaction  and  intense  surprise. 

"You  must  have  gotten  into  the  wrong  room  last  night,"  said 
Hampton,  not  unkindly. 

Clifford  rubbed  his  eyes  and  then  said,  "What  is  that?  No,  I  think 
not.  This  is  the  room  they  gave  me  when  I  came  yesterday  afternoon. 
There  can  hardly  be  any  mistake  about  it,  for  they  called  me  Mr.  Butler." 

"Mr.  Butler?  Why,  that's  my  name,  too.  Let  me  see.  You  must 
be  the  Mr.  Butler  that  this  morning's  Grenfall  papers  said  was  in  'an 
utterly  deplorable,  drunken  condition'  last  night.  If  that  is  the  case, 
we  must  resemble  each  other  strongly,  for  I  was  supposed  to  be  that 
gentleman.     Let  us  look  at  ourselves  in  the  looking-glass." 

"Why,  we  are  regular  twin  brothers!  But  what  did  you  say  about 
a  drunken  condition  last  night?" 

"  I  can  clear  the  whole  mystery  up  for  you.  I  see  you  do  not  know 
what  happened  to  you." 

"I  guess  I  had  better  get  some  clothes  on  while  you  are  doing  it." 
And  going  to  his  suitcase,  he  extracted  a  change  of  clothing  and  was 
soon  making  himself  look  presentable. 

Meanwhile,  Hampton  had  started  his  narrative.  "In  the  first 
place,  I  had  better  tell  you  that  I  am  a  candidate  for  mayor  of  the  city 
of  Grenfall  at  the  coming  election  next  Tuesday.  Last  Tuesday  we 
finished  our  stumping  campaign,  and  on  Wednesday  I  came  up.  here 


k 


66  The  Haverfordian 

to  spend  a  short  vacation  with  my  fiancee,  Miss  Adelaide  Perkins,  who 
has  been  here  for  two  months.  Yesterday  afternoon  while  I  was  play- 
ing golf,  I  received  a  letter  from  our  campaign  manager,  informing  me 
that  my  political  opponents  were  planning  to  do  me  some  harm  and  that 
I  should  come  back  to  Grenfall. 

"I  we?it.  But  here  it  might  be  well  to  tell  you  something  about 
my  opponents.  They  are  an  unscrupulous  gang,  bossed  by  one  Carrigan, 
who  is  known  as  the  most  notorious  grafter  in  this  part  of  the  state. 
During  the  past  two  years,  however,  his  power  has  gradually  been 
crumbling  away,  until  now  he  has  but  slight  chance  of  electing  his  can- 
didate to  the  office  by  any  fair  means.  But  anyone  who  knows  Mr. 
Carrigan's  character  also  knows  that  he  would  employ  any  means  in  his 
power  to  win  this  election. 

"One  of  the  strongest  planks  in  our  platform  is  the  prohibition 
plank,  for  Grenfall  has  not  remained  uninfluenced  by  the  great  wave  of 
prohibition  that  is  sweeping  over  the  country.  Naturally,  any  man  who 
professes  such  policies  must  be  a  total  abstainer  himself.  Now  that  is 
just  where  Carrigan's  subtle  intellect  brought  itself  into  play.  The  one 
way  to  defeat  my  candidacy  was  to  prove  me  guilty  of  alcoholic  intem- 
perance. He  sent  his  accomplices  down  here  to  do  the  job,  and  with 
what  result  you  yourself  know  only  too  well. 

"As  I  said  before,  the  Grenfall  morning  papers,  mere  Carrigan  organs, 
filled  some  three  columns  this  morning,  deploring  my  degeneracy  and 
urging  the  necessity  of  the  election  of  Carrigan's  candidate.  Fortunately, 
I  was  able  to  present  an  excellent  alibi,  as  last  night  I  accepted  a  last- 
minute  invitation  to  give  a  lecture  at  Albion,  a  place  some  twelve  miles 
from  Grenfall. 

"So  far,  so  good.  But  the  best  part  for  you  to  hear  is  yet  to  come. 
Private  detectives  sent  down  here  by  our  campaign  manager  captured 
and  wrung  a  full  confession  from  the  worthies  who  clubbed  you  into 
insensibility  and  then  soused  you  with  whiskey.  This  confession  im- 
plicates not  only  the  thugs  themselves  but  also  Carrigan  and  his  candi- 
date for  mayor,  Grundy  by  name,  both  of  whom  will  be  prosecuted  with 
all  due  process  of  law.  It  is  quite  probable  that  Grundy  will  withdraw 
his  candidacy  and  leave  the  field  undisputed,  but  at  all  events  this  busi- 
ness of  last  night  is  bound  to  hurt  them  a  great  deal  more  than  it  helps 
them. 

"Those  detectives  looked  for  you  up  there  on  the  mountain  road 
after  they  had  caught  your  assailants,  but  could  find  no  trace  of — " 

Just  then  there  was  an  eager  rap  on  the  door  and,  when  Clifford 


A  Natural  Mistake  67 

Butler  opened  it,  he  was  confronted  by  a  personage  none  other  than  his 
beloved  sweetheart,  whom  he  thought  he  had  lost,  Anna  Lindsay. 

"Oh,  Clif,"  she  broke  out  passionately,  "  I  just  could  not  stand  that 
old,  fat  Reggie  any  longer,  so  I  have  run  away  from  home,  and  if  you  will 
have  me,  I  am  yours." 

"Have  YOU,  Anna!  Why,  I  would  die  if  I  did  not  get  you."  And 
they  embraced  each  other  with  a  warmness  that  is  only  shown  by  fond 
hearts  united  after  long  separation. 

This  scene  was  interrupted  by  another  knock  at  the  door,  this  time 
a  timid,  uncertain  knock. 

Hampton,  thinking  that  the  other  occupants  of  the  room  were  very 
busy  for  the  time  being,  stepped  to  the  door  and  opened  it  himself.  His 
face  was  wreathed  in  smiles  as  he  looked  upon  the  face  of  his  fiancee, 
Adelaide  Perkins. 

"Do  you  forgive  me?"  she  pleaded  in  a  very  meek  tone  of  voice. 

"Forgive,  dear?  Why,  there  is  nothing  to  forgive." 

Their  conversation  had  attracted  the  attention  of  the  other  two,  and 
then  followed  a  lively  scene  in  which  explanations  were  made  and  every- 
one concerned  was  considerably  enlightened. 

It  was  certainly  four  happy  young  people  who  then  went  downstairs 
and  took  their  seats  together  in  the  dining-room,  for  it  was  now  dinner- 
time. 

During  the  table  talk  that  ensued,  Anna  asked,  "Are  you  sure  you 
two  men  are  no  relation?  I  can  hardly  conceive  such  resemblance  without 
some  relationship." 

After  pondering  the  subject  for  a  moment,  Hampton  said,  "I  have 
it  now,  Clif,  I  think.  You  said  your  home  was  in  Pencoyd,  did  you  not? 
Then  doubtless  your  father  is  Gordon  Butler  of  that  place." 

"That  is  perfectly  correct,  Hampton.     But  how  did  you  know  it?" 

"Then  we  are  third  cousins.  I  distinctly  remember  father  speaking 
about  your  family  on  several  different  occasions  and  regretting  that  we 
never  heard  anything  of  you,  but  I  suppose  he  never  really  got  down 
to  the  point  of  writing  a  letter  and  that  is  just  the  reason  why  we  never 
made  each  other's  acquaintance  before." 

"We  will  forgive  our  fathers  the  oversight,"  said  Clifford,  smiling, 
"for  although  it  led  me  into  some  trouble,  'All's  Well  That  Ends  Well.'" 

—E.  J.  Lester,  Jr.  '18 


Ah,  where  is  all  the  joy  we  seek? 
Our  happy  moments  come  and  speak 
Unto  our  hearts  and  pass  away, 
And  we  are  left  in  darkness  then, 
Till  some  fair  moment  comes  again 
To  raise  the  leaden  clouds  that  lay 
Themselves  between  tis  and  the  day. 

We  dream  of  some  fair  fairyland. 
Where  all  the  shores  are  golden  sand, 
Where  sunshine  plays  on  waving  trees, 
Where  azure  waves  toss  in  the  breeze 
Of  one  eternal  summer's  day. 

And  bordering  on  this  heavenly  land 
The  icy-crested  mountains  stand, 
Soaring  aloft  to  mystic  height. 
Where  snowy  summits  in  their  might 
Of  silent  grandeur  ever  show 
Themselves  at  sunrise  all  aglow 
With  morning's  youthful  splendor. 

Then  when  the  day  has  reached  its  crest, 
And  when  the  sun  slopes  toward  the  west. 
Then  must  these  peaks  be  robed  at  last 
In  all  the  light  that  from  the  past 
In  dream-like  splendor  seems  to  flow 
Upon  our  sordid  selves  below. 

Vague  shadows  all,  that  ne'er  can  be! 
0  would  that  we  might  come  to  see 
Such  traits  of  beauty  everywhere: 
Some  beauty  that  would  make  seem  fair 
The  common  things  of  life! 

— Donald  H.  Painter,  '17. 


Het'g  (3o  "lupins" 

IF  you  want  to  rub  shoulders  with  opera  stars,  and  not  be  worried 
about  manners  or  embarrassment,  just  go  down  some  night  to 
the  Metropolitan  Opera  House  in  Philadelphia,  and  "supe." 

Then  you  will  know  what  it  feels  like  to  be  an  audience  within  an 
audience,  and  look  through  both  ends  of  the  opera  glass  at  once,  so  to 
speak.  A  super  with  a  sense  of  humor  and  a  little  taste  for  literature, 
has  an  unlimited  field  for  essays  on  "how  the  public  is  fooled." 

Usually  the  sound  of  a  galloping  horse  is  made  with  a  cocoanut  cut 
in  two,  but  there  are  simpler  ways,  as  the  following  will  show.  It's  the 
first  scene  from  "Manon  Lescaut,"  and  the  audience  is  looking  at  the 
walled-in  courtyard  of  a  French  18th  century  country  tavern.  A  gay 
cavalier  is  careering  along  in  the  distance,  on  the  way  to  see  his  Mistress 
Manon  at  the  inn.  He  reaches  the  inn  and  slows  up  his  prancing  horse, 
jumps  off,  throws  the  reins  to  a  lackey,  and  the  audience  sees  him  come 
swaggering  through  the  gate  into  the  courtyard.  Let's  look  at  it  through 
the  super's  eyes. 

Over  in  the  corner  of  the  huge  stage,  back  of  the  scene,  stands 
Caruso,  gargling  his  throat  preparatory  to  his  entrance  solo.  The  stage 
director,  dressed  in  a  stylish  frock  coat,  with  a  baton  in  one  hand  and 
an  operatic  score  in  the  other,  stands  behind  the  inn  wall.  The  score 
reaches  the  galloping  part.  Immediately,  in  the  most  serious  way 
imaginable,  Mr.  Director  starts  doing  what  seems  a  Highland  fling,  or  a 
jig,  on  the  resonant  floor;  the  thumps  of  his  heels  to  a  blind  man  would, 
on  oath,  be  the  titatunk,  titatunk  of  a  galloping  steed.  He  breaks  up 
the  rhythm  of  his  "jig,"  and  this  is  Caruso's  cue,  for  he  saunters  across 
and  the  moment  the  stamping  ceases,  he  flings  open  the  gate,  and  as- 
sumes his  cavalryman  role. 

Take  another  case.  Act  one,  from  the  "Jewels  of  the  Madonna," — 
a  period  of  silence  before  Vespers,  outside  a  nunnery,  when  the  audience 
sees  the  beautiful  ivy-clad  walls,  and  the  gray  old  building  behind  which 
the  sun  is  setting.  There  peal  out  over  the  parquet  circle  the  sweet 
tones  of  the  Vesper  bells.  But  to  the  poor,  prosaic  super,  our  friend 
the  stage  director  is  merely  touching  the  four  gradated  pipes  hung  up 
in  a  corner  behind  the  scene.  The  above  opera  is,  I  believe,  laid 
in  Naples,  and  during  one  of  the  scenes  a  canal  is  in  the  background.  Of 
course  when  a  gondola,  moving  silently,  glides  across  the  stage,  and 
gently  stops  in  the  middle  of  its  course,  it  is  merely  a  part  of  the  act. 
The  super,  however,  has  the  pleasure  of  seeing  the  unhappy  stagehands 
work  feverishly  to  get  back  in  place  the  wily  recalcitrant  rope  on  to  its 


70  The  Haverfordian 

pulley — the  rope  being  the  good  ship's  only  source  of  propulsion  along 
its  supposedly  watery  course. 

And  what  a  disillusionment  those  soldier  choruses  are.  When,  after 
you  and  other  supers  have  marched  across  the  stage  over  a  forest  path, 
two  by  two,  rounding  the  edge  of  the  hill  out  of  sight,  and  there  comes 
back  to  the  audience  a  swinging,  rollicking  marching -song,  supposedly 
sung  by  the  soldiers,  you  see  the  melody  being  produced  by  a  slovenly, 
garlicky,  collarless,  well-fed  group  of  Austro-Italians,  urged  and  ruled 
by  the  man  with  the  baton. 

Go  and  "supe"  and  then  you  too  will  remember  that  funny  little 
nervous  French  costume-property  man  who  frets  and  rattles  out  staccato 
oaths,  patient  and  good-natured  withal ,  and  the  mumbling,  dreaming, 
hook-nosed  Cyrano  de  Bergerac,  swelled  with  dignity  and  as  full  of  pecu- 
liarities as  you'd  expect  in  a  "star"  who  takes  the  part  of  an  18th  century 
town  sheriff.  And  you  won't  forget  the  maze  of  passage-ways,  the  prodig- 
ious number  of  drop-curtains,  and  the  interesting  but  inapproachable 
young  women  studying  grand  opera,  wearing  pageants  of  costumes,  and 
doing  the  chorus  work.  Everything  is  so  big  and  full  of  kaleidoscopic 
changes,  that  you  may  go  down  there  to  the  Metropolitan  and  gather  a 
crop  of  impressions  as  you  would  mushrooms,  and  when  you  have  di- 
gested them  you  want  to  go  for  more.  There  is,  however,  one  impres- 
sion, ever  changing,  yet  always  the  same,  and  that  is  embodied  in  the 
left  side  of  the  tremendous  stage,  whence,  spread  out  over  the  three 
hundred  square  feet  of  electric  switchboard,  come  the  glorious  stage  sun- 
rises and  sunsets.  There  you  will  see  a  man  running  about  the  long  plat- 
form like  a  squirrel  in  a  cage,  working  his  myriad  switches.  And  that 
man  has  no  sinecure. 

We've  done  our  part  in  the  "suping"  now,  and  after  hurrying  down 
and  hustling  into  our  street  clothes,  we  work  our  way  out  the  stage 
entrance,  with  a  ticket  — our  reward — to  get  into  the  front  of  the  theatre, 
among  that  serried   line  of  bodiless  faces— the  onlookers.     We  join 

them,  and  pick  our  seats And  the  last  act  is  staged.  Yet  our  love  of 

appearance,  our  zest  to  be  fooled — to  take  as  real  the  external — is  no 
whit  less  than  that  of  others  who  have  not  "suped";  and  our  sympathy, 
our  sadness,  or  our  joy,  in  the  make-believe  characters  on  the  stage, 
ebbs  and  flows  with  the  rest,  even  more  strongly. 

— Douglas  C  Wendell,  '16. 


THE  tender  bkdes  of  grass  covered  all  the  hillside,  and  the  blossoms 
were  on  the  trees.  The  fresh-plowed  earth  gave  forth  its  fra- 
grance. Tulips  and  hyacinths  and  palms  adorned  the  ancient 
balcony  of  the  monastery.  The  old  men  labored  sadly  in  the  fields, 
making  ready  for  the  early  planting  of  seed.  Women  sobbed  as  they 
busied  themselves  about  their  little  huts.  Children  mustered  themselves 
and  marched  about  with  sticks  as  weapons.  The  Imperial  Edicts  were 
tacked  on  walls  and  doorways.  From  time  to  time  the  toilers,  in  passing, 
stopped  and  listened  as  the  cut€  read  the  posted  page  to  them,  cheering 
in  a  half-hearted  way  at  times  and  sometimes  preserving  an  ominous 
silence.  Occasionally  a  fierce  hate  was  expressed  in  the  visage  of  some 
old  veteran.  Soft  breezes  stirred  over  the  rolling  hills  as  the  bells  of  the 
cathedral  rang  out  in  low,  reverberating  tones.  Gradually  the  singing 
of  the  returned  songsters  died  out  with  the  setting  sun.  The  stars 
appeared  one  by  one  and  the  moon  in  its  radiant  beauty  poured  a  soft 
glow  over  the  landscape.     It  was  Eastertide, — and  tomorrow  Easter. 

As  the  chimes  announced  the  midnight  hour,  the  birth  of  a  joyous 
holiday,  the  chanting  of  the  choir  arose.  The  boyish  voices  sang  the  old 
anthems  with  a  joy  that  only  forgetfulness  of  the  times  made  possible. 
Melodies  flowed  from  the  pipes  of  the  old,  medieval  organ  and  arose  until 
they  mingled  with  the  songs  of  the  bells.  The  vast,  vaulted  cathedral, 
mellowed  by  ages  and  sanctified  by  time,  lifted  its  Gothic  tower  proudly 
to  heaven. 

The  hour  for  worshipers  had  come,  but  the  place  of  worship  re- 
mained deserted  excepting  for  the  churchmen  and  the  choir  boys.  Favre, 
an  old  priest,  marveling  at  this  strange  emptiness,  gathered  together 
three  of  his  associates  and  left  the  holy  building  by  a  side  door  and  then 
walked  hastily  toward  the  nearest  group  of  houses.  The  doors  stood  wide 
open,  and  within  everything  was  in  disorder.  Frightened  by  this  weird 
condition,  they  searched  further.  Finally,  in  a  hut  on  the  edge  of  the 
town,  they  found  an  old  man,  crippled  by  disease,  who  had  been  left 
behind  in  the  flight.  He  was  seated  in  a  chair,  leaning  forward,  his  head 
resting  on  his  arms  and  moaning.  As  he  sensed  their  presence  he  shrieked 
aloud. 

"Don't  torture  me,"  he  cried. 

They  spoke  and  he  recognized  them. 

' '  Flee,  flee ! "  he  moaned .    ' '  They  come !  They  come ! ' ' 

Tenderly  they  bore  him  to  the  church  and  seated  him  upon  a  chair. 
The  services  had  continued.    The  youths  had  dropped  off  to  sleep  as 


72  The  Haverfordian 

their  duties  ended,  but  the  venerable  cure  had  arisen  and  addressed  the 
empty  auditorium.  As  the  old  cripple  sank  to  his  knees  to  pray,  a 
thunderous  knocking  arose  at  a  hidden  side  entrance  of  the  ancient 
building.  The  door  was  opened  and  three  French  artillery  officers 
rushed  through  the  narrow  opening  and  ran  past  the  surprised  priests 
and  climbed  up  into  the  tower.  They  were  followed  somewhat  later  by 
soldiers  bearing  two  machine  guns  and  a  heliograph. 

Morning  came.  The  kindly  priests  awakened  the  choir  boys,  and 
as  the  first  beams  of  the  morning  sun  fell  upon  the  gray  buttresses  and 
illuminated  the  great  stained-glass  windows,  the  organ  once  more  re- 
peated the  old  melodies  of  Easter.  The  songs  of  the  Resurrection  and  of 
good  tidings  were  heard  by  only  one  shriveled  old  man  who  rocked  back 
and  forth  on  his  seat  as  he  moaned  and  shook  his  head.  In  the  tower 
men  were  hurrying  back  and  forth,  but  they  were  not  robed  in  the  gar- 
ments of  any  church;  they  were  enveloped  in  the  uniforms  of  national 
hate.  They  were  not  laboring  for  the  uplift  of  souls ;  they  were  engaged 
in  preparations  for  the  destruction  of  life.  That  little  shaft  of  sunlight 
transmitted  the  secrets  of  an  empire. 

The  hour  for  prayer  found  the  holy  place  filling  with  French  soldiers. 
As  they  knelt,  their  comrades  above  at  the  guns  were  getting  the  range 
of  a  battery  of  hostile  guns,  lately  drawn  up  on  a  hill  beyond  the  town. 
As  yet  all  was  quiet. 

"Peace  on  earth,"  the  voice  of  the  cut€  trembled  as  he  thought  of 
the  old  Christmas  message,  "good  will  to  men." 

The  soldiers  bowed  their  heads. 

"  He  died  and  He  has  arisen.  Rejoice  ye  therefore  and  be  exceedingly 
glad." 

A  puff  of  smoke  enshrouded  the  battery  on  the  hill.  The  old  tower, 
the  treasure  of  architectural  triumph,  the  gem  of  Gothic  sculpture, 
crumbled  and  fell  to  one  side,  passing  directly  through  the  roof  of  the 
main  part  of  the  cathedral,  and  buried  the  choir  stalls  in  debris.  The 
religious  gloom  of  the  interior  was  flooded  with  the  light  that  passed 
through  the  collapsed  arches.  The  cure  fell  upon  his  knees  with  hands 
upraised  to  heaven  and  a  prayer  upon  his  lips.  Again  the  thunder  of 
heavy  guns.  A  shell  struck  one  of  the  walls  with  terrific  force  and 
exploded.  The  flying  buttresses  crumbled  into  dust  and  the  great  mass 
of  masonry  quivered  as  it  bent  in  falling. 

The  Easter  sunlight  fell  upon  a  huge  rubbish  heap.  The  trees 
nearby  had  been  defoliated  and  the  birds  had  been  frightened  away. 
Ruined  walls  were  still  smoking  in  the  devastated  town.  Silence  reigned 
over  all.  — H.  P.  Schenck,  '18. 


3n  Ecplp 

The  grcaU'sl  religious  awakenini;  which  has  ever  occurred  in  this 
great  City  of  BrotherK"  Lo\'e,  and  which  is  leading  thousands  to  Jesus 
Christ  and  better  H\ing,  has  been  brought  about  and  fostered  by  this 
"thoroughly  unchristian  agent"  of  the  Church,  the  Kev.  William  A. 
Sunday.  The  men  and  women  and  children  who  are  feeling  the  powerful 
influence  of  this  "vulgar  fanatic,"  are  not  merely  "hysterical,  broken- 
down  human  wrecks";  many  of  them  are  intelligent,  clear-minded  people 
who  feel  the  desire  aroused  in  them  to  pursue  good.  Christian  lives. 
The  great  result  of  the  campaign  is  not  in  the  number  of  those  who  have 
"hit  the  trail,"  liul  in  the  general  awakening  which  is  seen  and  tell 
throughout  the  city.  The  numbers  in  the  churches,  Sunday-schools, 
and  Bible  classes  are  increasing  rapidly,  and  unquestionably  far  surpass 
that  handful  of  intelligent  (?)  men  who  are  being  alienated  from  their 
religion. 

The  Church  is  stirred,  and  the  ministers  who  have  been  so  horribly 
"abused  and  taunted"  are  getting  down  to  real  business.  Anyone  visit- 
ing a  Philadelphia  church  today  can  easily  see  and  feel  the  dynamic 
influence  for  good  which  this  "uncultured  and  uneducated"  man  has 
had  upon  the  ministry.  If  Mr.  Sunday  has  only  stirred  the  ministry 
to  greater  action,  he  will  have  done  enough. 

Finally,  a  word  on  Mr.  Sunday  himself.  LIndoubtedly  "Billy's" 
greatest  fault  is  his  narrow-mindedness  (he  admits  himself  that  his  temper 
is  his  worst  enemy).  We  cannot  understand  his  opposition  to  science 
and  knowledge,  and  some  of  his  theology  seems  almost  foolish.  Again, 
he  pays  too  much  attention  to  criticism  and  becomes  irritated  by  little 
things,  but  we  must  remember  first,  that  the  strain  under  which  he  has 
been  laboring  has  been  terrific,  and  secondly,  that  he  is  not  divine. 
Every  human  has  faults,  and  the  great  glow  from  the  work  that  Mr. 
Sunday  has  accomplished  should  blind  us  to  his  smaller  weaknesses, 
whatever  they  may  be. 

— Edimrd  F.  Liikens,  Jr.,  '16. 

(Editori.\l  Note. — As  promised  last  month,  we  print  above  the  best 
reply  to  the  adverse  article  on  Billy  Sunday.  We  have  now  given  space 
impartially  to  both  sides  of  the  question,  and  beg  to  have  it  considered  closed 
as  far  as  The  H.werfordian  is  concerned.) 


What  Kind  of  a  College  Do  We  Want?  It  is  a  question  which 
presents  itself  with  more  or  less  force  to  every  Freshman  or  Sophomore 
who  finds  his  path  marked  out  for  him  through  the  dreary  and  terrifying 
wilderness  of  required  courses  which  he  does  not  wish  to  take.  After 
being  told  that  he  will  sometime  realize  that  all  this  disagreeable  experi- 
ence will  make  a  man  of  him  in  a  way  which  he  is  still  too  immature  to 
realize,  he  resigns  himself  to  his  fate.  Though  his  will  is  puzzled  enough, 
he  grunts  and  sweats  throughout  the  weary  courses,  until  he  finally 
emerges  into  the  freer  air  of  the  upper  classes.  Things  go  merrily  after 
that  until,  at  last.  Commencement  and  the  prospect  of  a  drop  into  self- 
supporting  life  begin  to  grow  big  on  the  horizon.  An  oppressive  feeling 
of  inadequacy  comes  on  as  the  Senior  contemplates  the  future  and  wonders 
what  he  is  good  for.  As  he  remembers  the  smell  of  the  dimly  burning 
lamp  that  might  not  be  quenched  when  the  incandescents  ceased  to 
glow,  he  feels  that  not  all  of  his  time  has  been  wasted  for  the  four  years 
just  ending,  and  that  something  ought  to  come  of  it.  Yet  he  knows, 
as  he  reads  the  Civil  Service  list  or  the  prospective  employer's  kind  but 
disturbingly  practical  letter,  that,  while  he  is  loaded  to  the  decks  with 
fundamental  principles,  there  are  very  few  definite  things,  such  as  the 
world  appears  to  want  done,  that  he  is  able  to  do.  He  no  longer  quarrels 
with  required  courses,  being  free  of  them,  but  wonders  whether  he  would 
not  haAC  done  better  at  a  technical  school.  The  conclusion  is  of  no 
importance,  for  it  is  too  late  to  retrace  the  way.  Perhaps  a  year  at  a 
university  is  to  follow  anyway,  perhaps  not.  In  either  case,  the  Senior 
is  not  sorry  for  his  four  years  at  Haverford,  for,  whate\'er  might  have 
been,  he  is  conscious  of  ha\-ing  gained  something  which  could  have  been 
gained  nowhere  else.  He  is  quite  willing  to  allow  the  future  to  justify 
him.     And  the  interesting  thing  is  that  it  usually  does. 

There  comes  a  time,  however,  when  the  question  comes  up  again. 
And  this  time,  it  does  not  come  to  an  undergraduate  to  be  settled  for 
him,  but  to  an  alumnus  to  be  settled  for  somebody  else.  Somebody  may 
be  a  pupil  or  a  friend  or  a  son.  In  the  Alumni  Department  of  this  issue 
will  be  found  a  statement  of  the  case  from  the  point  of  view  of  a  father 
whose  son  is  ready  for  college.  The  education  which  this  father  wants 
his  son  to  have  may  or  may  not  be  the  kind  which  other  fathers  desire 
for  their  sons,  but  we  believe  that  the  viewpoint  may  represent  in  a 


Till'   I'xF.Asv  Chair  75 

general  \va\-  that  of  many  others.  Tliis  does  not  raise  the  general  ques- 
tion, which  is  old  enough  to  be  decenth-  interred,  as  to  whether  a  classical 
education  is  superior  to  a  practical  education.  Opinions  on  this  subject 
may  lie  inevitably  in  the  background  of  the  discussion,  but  the  matter 
which  it  brings  before  us  as  Havcrfordians  is  whether,  in  an  age  which 
has  a  place  for  institutions  giving  both  types  of  instruction,  we  want 
Haverford  to  be  essentially  practical  or  essentially  cultural.  It  may  be 
pointed  out  that  there  is  no  reason  why  it  cannot  be  both,  but  the  question 
of  emphasis  still  remains. — What  kind  of  a  college  do  w-e  want? 

—E.  C.  B. 

B.\SEB.\LL.  Spring,  with  her  retinue  of  \ernal  charms,  is  almost 
here.  As  youth  and  blood  grow  warmer,  concomitant  with  doctor  bills 
and  quinine  tonics,  the  winter  fat  is  stored  with  yesterday's  ten  thousand 
years;  and  "young  America"  (that  much  abused  stereotype  ranging 
between  the  ages  of  ten  and  forty)  turns  to  its  annual  traditions  of  love 
and — baseball.  "We"  of  course  assume  that  the  class  of  sportsmen  is 
meant  which  is  not  content  to  brush  away  the  flies  with  a  soda  cracker, 
beneath  the  \illage  chestnut  tree.  Perhaps  an  explanation  will  clarify 
matters. 

A  number  of  men  who  do  not  participate  in  the  usual  spring  athletics 
at  Haverford,  have  organized  a  baseball  club.  This  association  has 
assumed  the  name,  "The  Ha\erford  Baseball  Club,"  thus  restricting 
its  identity  with  the  college  until  it  has  won  recognition  as  a  major  sport 
by  its  own  merit.  Its  purpose  is  to  afTord  a  healthy,  pleasurable,  and 
democratic  exercise  to  those  students  who  otherw-ise  would  "rust  un- 
burnished."  The  future  of  baseball  at  Haverford  is  naturally  a  question 
— and  a  question  of  some  importance  to  those  who  have  the  game  at 
heart. 

It  would  be  trite  to  enumerate  the  advantages  of  baseball  as  an  exer- 
cise, and  to  present  its  comparative  merits  with  other  sports.  The 
accusation  which  seems  to  protrude  beyond  all  others  is  that  baseball 
has  rowdyism  for  its  consort.  Is  this  true?  The  national  sport  in  its 
minor  phases  need  have  no  more  elements  of  impoliteness  or  billingsgate 
than  other  amusements.  Let  it  be  pointed  out  that  the  man  determines 
the  character  of  the  game  he  participates  in.  "Murder  will'  out,"  and 
boorish  qualities  will  evince  themselves,  whether  it  be  in  the  mild  ver- 
nacular of  a  "checkmate,"  or  the  wild  "Slide,  Kelly,  Slide!"  of  the  dia- 
mond maniac.  There  is  no  reason  why  a  good,  clean  game  of  baseball 
cannot  be  played  with  zest  and  competition,  retaining,  withal,  a  spirit 
of  chivalrous  sangfroid. 

This  is  neither  a  challenge  nor  a  plea.  It  is  simply  a  statement  of 
facts.  Other  things  being  equal,  there  is  no  reason  w-hy  baseball  cannot 
take  its  place  as  a  sport  at  Haverford.  — R.  G. 


The  Open  Door,  by  Hugh  Black.     Fleming  H.  Revell  Co.,  N.   Y. 

Dr.  Black  has  introduced  a  topic  of  especial  interest  to  the  college 
man  in  his  latest  book,  "The  Open  Door."  Life  is  compared  to  a  gallery 
of  doors,  each  openmg  out  into  the  unknoA^n  and  each  inviting  someone 
to  enter.  The  college  man  particularly  feels  this  freedom  of  choice,  and 
though  there  are  countless  doors  in  this  gallery,  representing  all  vocations, 
it  is  required  that  one  and  one  alone  be  taken.  And  more  than  the  mere 
choosing  of  a  door:  as  a  man  travels  on  he  realizes  the  impossibility  of 
retracing  his  steps  once  they  have  been  set  in  a  certain  direction,  and  upon 
entering  the  door  of  his  choice  he  can  almost  hear  the  others  as  they  close 
behind  him. 

The  figure  is  fascinating  in  its  direct  application,  and  is  maintained 
throughout  the  small  essays  which  constitute  the  book. 

One  of  these  essays  called  "The  Doorways  of  Tradition"  contains  a 
thought  which  it  is  doubtful  if  the  conservative  reader  could  uphold. 
"Youth  ought  to  be  radical,  asking  insistent  questions,  even  pouring 
contempt  upon  our  smug  ways  and  respectable  institutions." 

It  is  to  be  questioned  how  far  this  statement  can  be  accepted.  We 
are  surrounded  every  day  by  false  prophets  and  their  insidious  teachings. 
Sometimes  we  can  scarcely  discern  the  good  from  the  bad.  Hundreds 
blindly  follow  a  demagogue  to  establish  a  new  political  system,  a  new 
school  of  art,  or  even  a  new  religion  and  yet  youth  is  here  encouraged  to 
say  to  the  world,  "Go  to,  mine  eyes  have  seen  a  nobler  vision.  Follow 
thou  me." 

Surely  in  this  vacillating  twentieth  century,  when  creeds  and  dogmas 
are  shattered  daily,  there  was  never  greater  need  for  stability.  And 
accordingly,  as  we  read  on  in  the  essay,  we  find  Dr.  Black  also  cautioning 
against  absolute  rejection  of  the  past,  and  asking  us  in  his  naive  way  to 
catch  the  spirit  of  the  unknown.  As  he  expresses  it,  "We  stand  at 
the  doorways  of  tradition,  blind  to  the  open  door  of  our  own  new  day." 

Other  doors  are  discussed  in  separate  essays.  There  is  the  "Magic 
Door  that  ushers  to  the  very  land  of  dreams";  the  Door  of  Opportunity, 
which  to  the  foreigner  like  Hugh  Black  opens  into  America;  and  last  of 
all  there  is  the  great  open  door  called  Death,  from  which  there  is  no 
return. 

In  its  two  hundred    pages  there  are  many  new  thoughts  brought 


After  Lunch  in  the  Library  77 

forward  !>>■  striking  simile.  All  are  told  in  the  easy,  conx'ersational 
st\"le  which  is  recognized  by  those  who  ha\e  heard  Dr.  Black,  and  many 
others  who  ha\e  not  had  that  privilege  will  be  glad  to  renew  an  acquain- 
tance made  among  the  pages  of  his  "Friendship,"  years  ago. 

— Edmund  T.  Price,  '17. 

AFTER  LUNCH  IN  THE  LIBRARY 

California.  By  Gertrude  Alhertoii.  A  very  interesting  book  dealing 
with  the  histor>-  of  the  state.  The  author  herself  describes  her  book  as 
a  "rapid  narrali\c,"  yet  it  is  quite  thorough. 

The  Winning  of  the  Far  West.  By  R.  N.  McElroy,  Ph.  D.  The 
Edw-ards  Professor  of  History  at  Princeton  University  has  written  a 
"History  of  the  Regaining  of  Texas,  of  the  Mexican  War  and  the  Oregon 
Question ;  and  of  the  Successive  Additions  to  the  Territory  of  the  LInited 
States  within  the  Continent  of  America."  It  is  a  masterly  work  by  a 
scholar  who  knows  his  subject  to  perfection.  Many  good  maps  and 
illustrations;    a  good  index.     Foot-note  bibliography. 

Le  Mariage  de  Loti.  By  Pierre  Loti.  An  excellent  novel ;  one  of  the 
earliest  of  the  man  who  wrote  "Ramunteho. "  Written  in  1878  and 
dedicated  to  Mme.  Sarah  Bernhardt.  A  charming  novel  with  its  pic- 
turesque setting  and  its  author's  delightful  style.  The  book  made  us 
wonder  if  M.  Loti  is  as  fond  of  Turkey  as  ever. 

La  Vie  Privee  de  Michel  Teissier.  By  Edouard  Rod.  One  of  the 
Swiss  novelist's  "etudes  passionets."  A  typical  French  novel  by  a 
famous  writer.     Style  and  subject  eminently  Gallic. 

L'  Annonce  Faite  a  Marie.  By  Paul  Claudel.  A  modern  play  by 
one  of  the  younger  French  dramatists;  one  of  the  repertoire  of  M. 
Lugne-Poe's  Theatre  de  1'  Oeuvre.  The  playwright's  style  and  inspira- 
tion are  unique. 

The  Amazons.  By  Sir  A.  W.  Pinero.  One  of  the  leading  dramatist's 
successful  plays,  as  interesting  as  everything  he  writes.  The  play  was 
produced  at  the  Court  Theatre,  London  in  1895. 

The  Poems  of  Henry  King,  D.  D.  Notes  and  comment  on  the  too 
little  known  poet  of  the  seventeenth  century  by  L.  Mason,  Ph.D.  A 
remarkabh'  interesting  volume  on  a  subject  which  is  of  interest  to  litera- 
ture. 

The  Words  of  Jesus.  By  Gustaf  Dalman.  The  famous  Leipsic 
professor's  work  translated  by  Professor  D.  M.  Kay,  of  the  University 
of  Saint  Andrew's,  Scotland.  The  utterances  of  Christ  are  "considered 
in  the  light  of  post-Biblical  Jewish  writings  and  Aramaic  languages. 


THROUGH  THE  GLASSES 


EobErt  iWantell  in  ||amlEt 

That  Shakespeare  is  still  able  to  compete  on  a  fair  basis  with  musical 
comedy  and  farce  was  amply  demonstrated  by  the  large  and  enthusiastic 
crowd  which  filled  the  Lyric  Theatre  to  see  Mr.  Robert  Mantell  in  Shakes- 
peare's most  highly  intellectual  tragedy.  Nor  was  their  enthusiasm  mis- 
placed; for  Mr.  Mantell  and  his  company  gave  an  eminently  faithful 
and  satisfactory  rendition  of  the  extremely  difficult  play. 

If  there  was  one  quality  which  predominated  in  Mr.  Mantell's 
acting  it  was  his  evident  earnestness  and  the  complete  subordination  of 
his  personal  idiosyncrasies  to  his  conception  of  the  dramatic  require- 
ments of  his  part.  This  spirit,  which  seemed  to  extend  even  to  the 
humblest  members  of  the  cast,  assisted  materially  in  making  the  per- 
formance educational,  as  well  as  fascinating,  in  its  character. 

It  is  hard  to  write  an  extended  criticism  of  a  uniformly  excellent  and 
faithful  production;  but  a  few  features  of  particular  interest  might  be 
noted. 

One  of  the  few  questionable  points  in  the  rendition  of  the  drama  was 
theplaying  of  thewholecharacter  of  Poloijius  in  a  spirit  of  comicburlesque. 
With  all  his  faults,  the  timeserving  old  politician  has  a  sincere  affection 
for  his  son  and  daughter;  and  the  genuine  humor  of  the  other  side  of 
his  character  is  rather  spoiled  by  the  treatment  of  the  entire  character 
as  a  joke. 

Another  place  in  which  the  original  idea  of  the  dramatist  seemed  to 
be  disregarded  was  at  the  end  of  the  closing  scene,  which  is  customarily 
marked  by  a  dead  march  and  procession  across  the  stage.  The  omission 
of  this  feature,  however,  might  plausibly  be  defended  on  the  ground  that 
such  a  pompous  pageant  is  an  anticlimax  after  the  titanic  tragedy  of  the 
scene  itself. 

Mantell's  interpretation  of  the  character  of  Hamlet  was  spirited 
and  intellectual,  with  a  slight  tendency  to  overemphasis  in  certain  places. 
He  more  than  atoned  for  this  slight  fault,  however,  by  the  grandeur 
and  refinement  of  his  interpretation  of  man^•  other  noted  passages;  his 
delivery  of  the  widely  known  soliloquy  being  especially  effective.  Man- 
tell's Hamlet  is  a  character  interpretation  of  dignity,  refinement,  and  in- 
tellectuality, which  gives  every  promise  of  still  further  dramatic  and 
poetic  progress  in  the  future.  — William   H.    Chamberlin,    '17. 


Jforbcsi^ofaertson  in  J^amlet 

To  say  of  an  actor  that  he  "hxcs  his  part"  when  on  the  stage  seems 
hackneyed,  but  it  is  singularly  apt  in  the  case  of  Sir  Johnstone  Forbes- 
Robertson's  interpretation  of  Hamlet,  which  has  proved  one  of  the  sensa- 
tions of  his  farewell  tour.  From  his  first  entrance  Forbes-Robertson 
throws  aside  his  own  personality  and  disguises  himself  under  the  form  of 
the  tmhappy  Prince  of  E>enmark.  His  presentation  of  the  part  is  the 
result  of  a  life-time  study;  as  he  himself  says,  "I  do  not  remember  when 
I  first  learned  the  lines  of  Hamlet."  Every  gesture,  action,  shading  of 
voice  and  glance  of  eye  is  the  product  of  years  of  study  and  experiment. 
Thus  it  may  be  truly  said  that  he  throws  part  of  his  life  into  his  portrayal 
of  Shakespeare's  much  discussed  hero. 

Of  what  character  is  Forbts-Robertson's  Hamlet?  Is  he  immoral;, 
is  he  incapable  of  loving  or  being  loved?  Is  he  mad  or  does  he  merely 
feign  madness?  These  are  a  few  of  the  stereotyped  problems  which  every 
prospective  actor  of  Hamlet  must  solve  for  himself,  and  shape  his  por- 
traiture accordingly.  Sir  Johnstone's  Hamlet  is,  above  all  else,  human; 
man's  idiosyncrasies  and  passions  pulsate  through  and  through  him. 
At  the  beginning  of  the  drama  he  portrays  Hamlet  as  a  young  man  of 
broad  intellect  and  extensive  study,  who  is  naturally  congenial.  But 
later  in  the  play,  after  the  appearance  of  the  Ghost,  Sir  Johnstone  con- 
verts himself  into  a  man  of  two  characters,  a  sort  of  Dr.  Jekyll  and  Mr. 
Hyde.  To  the  King,  the  Queen  Mother,  Ophelia  and  others  about  the 
court,  he  acts  as  a  morose,  sullen  man,  who  is  apparently  preoccupied 
with  the  solution  of  some  vital  problem.  They  call  him  mad.  But 
to  his  bosom  friend,  Horatio,  he  presents  an  entirely  different  character, 
and  becomes  confidential,  disclosing  all  that  has  been  gnawing  at  his 
heart  and  urging  him  to  take  vengeance  upon  his  criminal  uncle. 
Forbes- Robertson  shows  by  his  acting  at  this  stage  of  the  play  that  he 
adheres  strictly  to  a  belief  in  Hamlet's  sanity. 

The  English  actor  further  reveals  this  assurance  of  Hamlet's  ration- 
alit\'  in  his  handling  of  the  scene  with  the  Queen  in  the  fourth  act.  He  is 
most  human  and  shows  that  Hamlet  was  torn  by  two  conflicting  emotions, 
love  for  his  unworthy  mother,  and  an  insatiable  desire  for  revenge  upon 
her  husband.  The  Queen  is  moved  to  tears,  and  it  is  not  strange,  for  a 
Hamlet  with  the  w-onderful  voice  of  a  Forbes-Robertson  would  move 
the  most  hard-hearted  to  tears.  What  a  wonderful  voice  it  is,  and  what 
a  great  part  its  sympathetic  flexibility  plays  in  his  success  as  Hamlet! 
That  voice  and  his  genius  in  general  have  somewhat  transmitted  them- 
selves to  his  co-workers,  resulting  in  a  smoothly-balanced  and  finished 
performance.  — George  A.  Diinlap,  '16. 


G.  M.  Palmer,  '97,  has  sub- 
mitted the  following  letter  on 
"The  Size  of  Haverford";  which 
he  says  expresses  the  ideas  of  a 
number  of  those  who  are  deeply 
interested    in    the    College. 

March  4th,  1915. 

Sometimes  when  starting  an 
advertising  campaign  it  helps  to 
know  what  kind  of  competition 
one  is  to  meet.  I  have  been  in- 
terested in  reading  of  the  efforts 
to  make  a  bigger  Haverford. 

I  am  a  Haverford  Alumnus,  and 
am  proud  of  it.  I  number  among 
my  fondest  memories  those  that 
cluster  around  the  small  group  of 
buildings  as  they  stood  in  '95,  '96, 
and  '97.  I  do  not  underestimate 
the  value  of  the  Haverford  idea, 
and  the  Haverford  ideal — so  far  as 
they  go — but — 

I  have  an  only  son.  I  want  to 
send  him  to  college  in  the  next 
half-dozen  years,  and  he  will  not 
go  to  Haverford. 

This  is  because  he  is  not  inclined 
to  seek  either  a 

(1).  Classical  education  to  fit 
him  to  become  a  teacher. 

(2).  A  scientific  education  to 
fit  him  to  become  a  dabbler  in 
science  as  a  hobby,  or 

(3).  A  culture  course  amid  sur- 
roundings that  are  agreeable, 
healthful,  and  restful  with  no 
thought  for  the   future. 


My  son  must  and  already  does 
look  upon  life  as  a  serious  problem 
demanding  concentration  on  lines 
that  will  equip  him  for  the  struggle. 

The  keenest  disappointment  of 
my  life  was  to  find  myself  insuffi- 
ciently educated  to  take  up  a 
chosen  profession.  My  ambitions 
had  grouped  themselves  around  a 
college  which,  for  lack  of  informa- 
tion on  the  subject  of  colleges  and 
their  aims  and  ideals,  had  to  be 
Haverford.  I  wished  to  concen- 
trate on  learning  a  profession. 
Though  in  sufficiently  equipped 
in  other  lines,  Haverford  fortun- 
ately was  able  to  give  me  just  what 
I  wanted — all  the  chemistry  that 
could  be  crowded  into  a  few  col- 
lege years,  but  I  was  not  permit- 
ted to  spend  any  great  share  of 
my  time  on  chemistry;  I  was  com- 
pelled to  devote  even  more  to  cul- 
ture courses — all  well  enough  in 
themselves,  but  not  necessary  and 
not  practical. 

My  disappointment  was  tem- 
pered by  the  fact  that  I  did  not 
know  how  other  colleges  were,  even 
then,  offering  practical  scientific 
courses.  When  through  college, 
insufficiently  educated  in  any  one 
line,  and  woefully  lacking  in  chem- 
ical knowledge  which  Dr.  Hall 
could  have  given  if  permitted,  I 
must  needs  cut  and  try  at  one  call- 
ing and  another,  and  seven  years 
of  my  life  after  leaving  college  were 


Alumni  Df.partment 


81 


spent  in  gaining  experience  that 
might  have  been  saved  by  such  an 
education  as  I  fulK'  expected  of  m\- 
college  arid  which  some  other  col- 
lege would  ha\e  giv'en  me.  Under- 
stand. I  am  not  belittling  the  whole- 
some intUience  of  Haverford. 
Those  influences,  together  witli  the 
proper  courses  of  study,  would 
make  Haverford  liie  most  desir- 
able seat  of  learning  in  the  country- 
Those  influences  will  make  Haver- 
ford tile  college  for  the  limited 
number  who  want  the  kind  of 
education  Ha\-erfor(l  is  fitted  for, 
but — 

Ha\erford  cannot  expect  to 
compete  with  a  college  like  Shef- 
field Scientific  School  at  Yale, 
which  offers  thorough  technical 
training  in  any  one  of  a  number  of 
scientific  pursuits,  and  on  top  of 
that  a  full  year's  course  in  luisincss 
practice. 

I  should  be  proud  to  have  Haver- 
ford enlarge,  and  get  over  the  94 
student  mark  of  '97  or  the  187 
mark  of  1915.  1  should  like  to 
have  my  boy  breathe  the  Haver- 
ford air  and  imbibe  the  Ha\erford 
ideals;  but,  on  the  other  hand,  we 
cannot  afford  to  belittle  the  ideals 
of  sister  colleges;  and  my  boy 
cannot  afford  to  dissipate  his  time 
on  non-essentials  and  culture 
courses,  and  wait  until  he  is 
through  college  to  start  to  prepare 
for  the  realities. 

I  am  aware  that  the  average 
Ha\-erfordian  looks  with  a  great 
deal  of  contempt  upon  the  utilita- 
rian in  learning;  and  has  the  high- 
est regard   for  abstract  science! — 


but  that  is  the  reason  wh\-  Haver- 
ford is  a  small  college  and  had  best 
be  satisfied  to  remain  so  until  she 
has  the  laboratories  and  the  pro- 
fessors, and  the  disposition  to 
cater  to  the  larger  number  of  the 
coming  generation  who  look  upon 
college  as  a  training  school  for  the 
real  issues  in  life. 

The  Haverford  New  York  So- 
ciety held  its  annual  dinner  at  the 
Columbia  University  Club,  18 
Gramercy  Park,  on  Wednesday 
evening,  March  thirty-first.  Presi- 
dent Sharpless  was  one  of  the  speak- 
ers, and  William  A.  Battey,  '99, 
was  chairman  of  the  dinner  com- 
mittee. 

President  Sharpless  introduced 
Secretary  Bryan  at  the  great  total 
abstinence  meeting  which  was  held 
on  March  fifteenth  in  the  Sunday 
Tabernacle,   Philadelphia. 

There  will  be  a  Cricket  Week 
after  college  closes,  under  the  super- 
vision of  A.  G.  Scattergood,  '98, 
and  C.  C.  Morris,  '04.  Among 
the  teams  we  play  are  the  Philadel- 
phia Cricket  Club  and  the  German- 
town  Cricket  Club. 

'61 

Mr.  Samuel  Parsons  has  just 
issued  a  book  called  "The  Art  of 
Landscape  Architecture"  (New- 
York;  G.  P.  Putnam's  Sons). 
In  this  work  Mr.  Parsons  gives  his 
theories  of  landscape  beautifica- 
tion,  based  on  years  of  experience. 
The  fault  with  recent  landscape 
gardening  in  America  is  that  it  has 


82 


The  Haverfordian 


suffered  from  too  much  wealth. 
Landscapes  cannot  be  made  at  a 
moment's  notice,  and  so  our  mil- 
lionaires have  turned  their  atten- 
tion to  quicker  results,  such  as 
horticultural  displays.  Size  is  not 
a  requisite  in  landscape  making. 
The  tiny  backyard  can  be  made  a 
thing  of  beauty  by  judicious  re- 
arrangement. 

Mr.  Parsons  has  been  the  leading 
landscape  artist  of  the  country  for 
nearly  forty  years.  The  title  of  his 
first  book  was  "Landscape  Garden- 
mg. 

He  was  superintendent  of  the 
parks  of  New  York  City  from 
1884  to  1897.  The  fourteen-hun- 
dred-acre  park  of  San  Diego,  Cali- 
fornia, was  designed  by  him,  as 
were  also  many  of  the  impro\'e- 
ments  in  Central   Park. 

'81 
Isaac  T.  Johnson,  whose  home 
is  in  LTrbana,  Ohio,  is  chairman 
of  the  "No  Saloons  for  Urbana" 
committee.  He  is  also  president 
of  the  Johnson  Mfg.  Co.,  of  that 
city,  a  Sunday-school  superin- 
tendent, and  an  ardent  supporter 
of  the  American  Friend.  His  hobby 
is  a  large  farm. 

'87 
Allen  B.  Clement  has  announced 
his  engagement  to  Miss  Bertha  E. 
Jones,  of  Haddonfield,  N.J. 

'92 

Stanly  R.  Yarnall  was  elected  a 
member  of  the  Board  of  Managers 
at  a  meeting  on  March  19th. 


'96 
C.  Russell  Hinchman  was  mar- 
ried on  March  10th  to  Mrs.  Anna 
Lynch  Barbee-Babson.  Mr.  and 
Mrs.  Hinchman  will  be  at  home 
after  October  1st,  at  4103  Spruce 
Street,  Philadelphia. 

'98 
Richard  D.  Wood  has  recently 
been  elected  one  of  "the  Overseers 
of  the  Public  School,  founded  by 
charter  in  the  Town  and  County  of 
Philadelphia,  in  Pennsylvania." 
This  corporation,  chartered  first 
in  1701  b\'  William  Penn,  manages 
the    Penn    Charter    School. 

'99 

Rev.  William  Bode  has  recently 
published  a  volume  entitled  "The 
Book  of  Job,  and  the  Solution  of 
the  Problem  of  Suffering  It  Offers." 
The  book  is  di%-ided  into  three 
sections.  The  first  is  introductory, 
concerning  Job  as  an  "All  Men's 
Book,"  and  "the  Enigma  of  Life" 
— the  universal  problem  of  suffer- 
ing. 

The  second  section  brings  out 
the  various  cycles  of  speeches  in 
the  book  of  Job,  and  their  signif- 
icance. 

The  third  section  contains  the 
relative  values  of  solutions  offered 
for  the  enigma.  The  book  is  in- 
structive and  inspiring,  and  is 
especially  adapted  for  the  Bible 
student. 

'01 
C.    O.    Carey,    who   is  Assistant 
Professor  of  Surveying  in  the  Uni- 
versity of  Michigan,  has  received 


Al.UMM    I)i:i'AKTMENT 


83 


the  a(l\anrL'i.l  dcgrcf  nf  Ci\'il  En- 
gineer f«r  research  work  done 
on  concrete  columns,  (k'termining 
the  action  of  cohimns  reinforced 
with  a  spiral  of  steel  when  untler 
load. 

Clement  ().  Meredith  has  been 
made  Dean  of  Guilford  College, 
where  he  has  been  teaching  for 
se\eral   years. 

'05 
Sigmund    G.    Spaeth    is    writing 
another  opera  libretto. 

'06 

R.  J.  Shortlidge  is  associated  in 
the  management  of  Camp  Marien- 
feld,  at  Chesham,  X.  H.  This  is 
one  of  the  largest  and  most  success- 
ful boys'  camps  in  this  part  of  the 
country.  Mr.  Shortlidge  is  still 
on  the  teaching  staff  of  the  Choale 
School,   Wallingford,   Conn. 

Frances  R.  Taylor,  of  the  Phila- 
delphia Bar,  is  President  of  the 
Montgomery  County  No-License 
Campaign,  which  is  waging  a  hard 
and  aggressive  fight  against  the 
saloon  and  brewing  interests  in 
that  county. 

Warren  K.  Miller,  of  the  Lehigh 
County  Bar,  was  married  last  De- 
cember to  Miss  C.  Frances  Jordan 
Sieger.  Their  home  is  in  Allen- 
town,  Pa. 

Roderick  Scot  returned  last 
May  from  his  post  in  Russia, 
where  he    was    studying    the   lan- 


guage in  preparation  for  the 
office  of  Secretary  of  the  Russian 
Student  Christian  Movement.  On 
the  thirteenth  of  last  August  he 
married  Miss  Agnes  Kelly,  of  Rich- 
mond, Indiana,  daughter  of  Presi- 
dent Kelh-  of  Krlham  College. 
The  war  has  pre\-entcd  his  return 
to  ills  work  in  Russia  for  the  pres- 
ent. Meanwhile  he  is  Associate 
Secretary  in  the  city  Y.  M.  C.  A., 
of  Vincennes,  Ind. 

Ex.-'06 
T.    P.    Harvey   has  been  elected 
to   the   Indiana  State   Legislature. 
His  address  is  3271   Central  Ave., 
Indianapolis,    Ind. 


Moving  and  Hauling 


Pianos  Moved 


RYAN  BROS. 

Auto  TracI^  Service 

Phone,  Bryn  Mawr  216-D 

ROSEMONT,  PA. 

Smedley  &  Mehl 

Lumber 

and  Coal 
BUILDING  MATERIAL 


Phone   No.  8 


ARBMORE 


84 


The  Haverfordian 


'07 
Alfred  B.  Morton  is  associated 
with  William  Martian  and  Com- 
pany, in  the  real  estate  business, 
at  3  N.  Calvert  St.,  Baltimore, 
Md. 

'08 
M.  Albert  Linton  was  recently 
awarded  the  hundred-dollar  prize 
for  the  best  paper  presented  before 
the  American  Actuarial  Society 
by  a  member  of  two  years'  stand- 
ing. 

T.  Morris  Longstreth  is  planning 
to  take  a  group  of  sixteen  boys  out 
to  the  San  Francisco  E.xposition  in 


a  special  car  this  summer.  The 
trip  is  to  last  about  four  weeks. 
Mr.  Longstreth  has  also  agreed  to 
write  a  book  for  the  Outing  Publish- 
ing Co.,  dealing  with  weather  condi- 
tions  and   prophecy. 

At  the  annual  dinner  of  the 
Class  of  1908,  held  at  the  College 
on  the  fifth  of  March,  the  following 
members  were  present:  Brown, 
Burtt,  Bushnell,  Elkinton,  Emlen, 
Guenther,  Hill,  Linton,  Longstreth, 
Thomas,  and  Wright.  At  the 
meeting  held  after  the  dinner 
W'right  was  elected  President; 
Strode,  Vice-President,  and  Burtt, 
Secretary  and  Treasurer. 


nnnnnnnounnnnnonnnnnnonnnnnnnnn 


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°    A  FEW  REASONS    g 


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FOR  YOU  TO  CONSIDER  IN  THE  PURCHASE  HERE  OF  YOUR 
SPRING  AND  SUMMER  SUIT: 


Pyle,  Innes 
b  Babbieri 


TAILORS 

<*'    son-    ■» 
MEN  AND  BOVS 


1115  WALNUT  ST., 
PHILADELPHIA. 


We  specialize  in  clothes  for  young  men  and  ihor- 
oughly  understand  their  ideas;  we  carry  the 
largest  assortment  of  Woollens  in  Philadelphia; 
our  prices  are  very  moderate  and  each  bolt  of 
cloth  is  plainly  marked;  the  workmanship  is  un- 
excelled and  the  cutting  right  up-to-the-minute 
in  style. 

Charge  Accounts  Opened  Upon  Approved  References 

We  are  READY  and  will  be  very  glad  to  see  YOU 

$25 


Suits,  -  .  - 

Full  Dress  and  Tuxedo  Suits, 


to  $50 
to  $70 


^ple,  3nncg  &  parbicri, 

LEADING  COLLEGE  TAILORS 

1115  Walnut  Street,         -  .  -         Philadelphia 


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Alumni   Dei'ahtmknt 


85 


Ex-'08 
T.  C.  Desmond  is  now  Assislani 
Engineer  of  the  New  York  Realty 
and  ImproN'cmcnt  Co.,  and  is 
busily  engaged  in  the  construction 
of  certain  sections  of  the  new  sub- 
way. 

'09 

A  son,  Christian,  was  born  to 
Mr.  and  Mrs.  William  S.  Febiger 
on  February  24th,  at  their  home 
on  Randolph  Ave.,  Milton,  Mass. 

'11 
John  S.  Bradway  has  been  work- 
ing activeh-  with  Mr.  F.  R.  Taylor, 
'06,  in  addressing  meetings  through- 
out Montgomery  county  in  behalf 
of  the  No-License  Campaign. 


two  out  of  three  lunnired  men  left 
,il   the  college. 

'12 
Lance  B.  Lalhem  ga\e  a  recital 
at  the  Merion  CVickct  Club  on 
F"riday,  March  fifth,  with  Mr. 
Merville  A.  Yetter,  tenor,  and 
Guerney    Mattox,    \-iolinist. 

A  son,  Douglas  Crosman  was 
born  to  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Clyde  G. 
Durgin  on  March  third. 

'14 
The  engagement  of  Thomas  W. 
Elkinton    to    Miss    Elizabeth    W. 
Roberts,  of  Moorestown,  New  Jer- 
sey, has  been  recently  announced. 


'11  Howard  West  Elkinton  has  an- 
L.  A.  Post,  who  is  now  a  Rhoades  nounced   his  engagement   to   Miss 
Scholar    at    New  College,   Oxford,  Katharine     Mason,     of     German- 
writes   that    there   are   onlv   sixl\-  town.    Pa. 


JOB  PRINTING 

OF    EVERY    DESCRIPTION 
PROMPT  AND  REASONABLE 

MAIN  LINE  PRINTING  GO. 

10  ANDERSON  AVENUE 
ARDMORE,  PA. 


COLLEGE  WORK 
A  SPECIALTY 


ESTIMATES  GIVEN 
PHONE  1087 


OPEN  EVENINGS 


Aubrey  Howell 


Richard  S.  Dewees 


Insurance 

HOWELL  &  DEWEES 

SPECIAL    AGENTS 

Provident    Life  and    Trust    Co. 

Fourth  and  Chestnut  Streets 
Philadelphia 


For    the    gentlemen    who    appreciate 

the  refinement  of  good  grooming. 

Our    Barber   Shop   was   inaugurated 

50  years  ago.      No  Tipping. 


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PhiU 


The  Haverfordian 


INSURANCE 

Fire  or  Burglary  Insurance  on  Students'  per- 
sonal effects  while  at  College  or  elsewhere. 

Tourists'  Floating  Insurance  on  personal  ef- 
fects against  all  risks  in  transit,  in  hotels, 
etc.,  both  in  this  countrj'   and   abroad. 

Automobile  Insurance  covering  damage  to  car 
and  liability  for  damage  to  property  or  for 
injuries  to  persons. 

Longacre  &  Ewing 

Bullitt  Building       141   S.    Fourth  St. 
Philadelphia 

R  epairing   of   Hall,    Chimes  and  French 
Clocks  a  Specialt)^ 

A.  A.   FRANCIS,  Jeweler 

115  W.  Lancaster  Ave.  phone  144D 

Ardir.ore,  Pa. 


C.  W.  Scott  Company 

Bryn  Mawr,  Pa. 
Carriages,  Wagon.s  and  Autoinol)il(',s 

"Careful  Handling  and  Quality" 

Send  us  Your  Suitings  to  be 

Dry-Cleaned,   Scoured 
and    Pressed 

At   Reasonable  Rates 


Our  College  Agent 

Mr.  I.  Thomas  Steere 


S.  p.  Frankenfield  Sons 

Undertakers 
ARDMORE,  PA. 

Successors  to 
JOSIAH  S.  PEARCE 

33  E.  Lancaster  Avenue 

Phone,    Ardmore    9 

J.  OWEN  YETTER 
General  Shoe  Repairing 

ARDMORE,  PA. 

Will  Collect  Shoes  Monday  Evening  and  Deliver 
Thursday  Morning 
T.   B.  Whitson,   College  Agent 


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At  Popular  Prices 

A. 

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Pa. 

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118  S.  15th  Street  Philadelphia 

Phone   258 

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Confectioner 

ICE  CREAM   AND   FANCY  ICES, 

FANCY  CAKES 


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The  Haverfordian 


EDITORS 

Edgar  C.  Bye,  Editor-in-Chief 

Douglas  C.  Wendell,  1916  Robert  Gibson,  1917 

George  A.  Dunlap,  1916  William  H.  Chamberlin,  1917 

Jack  G.  C.  LeClercq,  1918 

BUSINESS  MANAGERS 
Edward  R.  Moon,  1916  (Afgr.)  Arthur  E.  Spellissy,  1917  (,Asst.  Mgr.) 


Price,  per  year 


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Single  copies $0.15 


The  H.werfordiaN  is  published  on  the  lenlh  of  each  month  during  college 
year.  Its  purpose  is  to  foster  the  literary  spirit  among  the  undergraduates  and 
to  provide  an  organ  for  the  discussion  of  questions  relative  to  college  life  and  policy. 
To  these  ends  contributions  are  invited,  and  will  be  considered  solely  on  their 
merits.  Matter  intended  for  insertion  should  reach  the  Editor  not  later  than  the 
twentieth  of  the  month  preceding  the  date  of  issue. 

Entered  at  the  Haverford  Post-Office,  for  transmission  through  the  mails  as  second-class  matter 


Vol.  XXXVII 


HAVERFORD,  PA.,  MAY,  1915 


No.  3. 


Not  Vol.  XXXVIII  as  indicated  during  the  last  two  months. 
Also,  please  note  that  the  Oct.  1914  to  Feb.  1915  issues  be- 
long to  Vol.  XXXVI  and  not  to  Vol.  XXXVII  as  marked. 

George  ^rttur  Bunlap 


has  been  elected  to  the  Haverfordian  Board.  It  gives  us 
pleasure  to  have  as  a  member  of  the  Board,  one  who  has 
shown  considerable  ability  in  literary  and  dramatic  criticism 
and  short-story  writing. 


Special  Features 

The  Ministry  of  Music David  S.  Bispham,  76    89 

The  Need  for  Iconoclasm W.  H.  Chamberlin,  '17     98 

Joanne,  A  Dramatic  Sketch Colby  Van  Dam,  '17  103 

Our  Southern  Poets Robert   Gibson,  '17   107 

Stories 

A  Product  of  Hoshkosh George  A.  Dunlap,  '16    93 

Her  Real  Hero Edward  Thorpe,  Jr.,  '18  112 

Verse 

Spring  Twilight Walter  S.  Nevin,  '18    92 

Sirmio    {Catullus,  31) J.    W.    Spaeth,  '17    97 

Departments 

Books 

The  American  College Douglas  C.  Wendell,  '16  119 

Through  the  Glasses 

Marie-Odile J.  G.  C.  Le  Clercq,  '18   121 

Alumni Robert   Gibson,  '17   123 


3n  tijc  ^ext  3fl!£Sue 

Cricket Alfred  Scattergood,  '98 

The  Religions  Life  of  Haverford H.  J.  Cadbury,  '03 


THE    HAVERFORDIAN 


Vol.  XXXVII.  HAVERFORD.  PA.,  MAY,   1915  No.  3 


Ctje  Minisitrp  of  iWusic 

IN  the  spring  of  1914  I  was  on  my  concert  tour  on  the  Pacific  Coast, 
I  was  singing  in  vaudeville,  and  received  a  letter  from  President 
Sharpiess  of  Haverford  College,  saying  that  the  Board  of  Managers 
had  decided  to  confer  upon  me  the  Honorary  Degree  of  LL.D. — Doctor 
of  Laws.  To  say  that  I  was  surprised  does  not  convey  in  any  adequate 
manner  an  idea  of  the  state  of  my  feelings.  That  I,  a  descendant  of 
two  of  the  original  Quaker  families  who  had  founded  Philadelphia,  the 
grandson  of  one  of  the  Founders  of  Haverford  College — I,  a  grand  opera 
singer,  a  concert  singer,  and  a  vaudeville  artist;  I,  whose  life  had  been 
so  unusual  in  regard  to  its  public  activities,  should  find  myself  being 
honored  by  my  former  companions  and  by  the  friends  of  my  parents, 
by  being  made  a  Doctor  of  Laws  by  the  College  which,  of  almost  all  those 
in  America,  has  upheld  religion  and  scholarship  at  the  expense  of  art 
and  music,  was  indeed  astounding. 

Had  anything  happened  to  me,  or  was  it  that  something  had  hap- 
pened to  Haverford?  Nothing  had  happened  to  me  except  the  daily, 
monthly,  yearly,  continual  application  of  a  mind  that  could  do  nothing 
else  to  musical  and  histrionic  pursuits.  Therefore  something  must 
have  happened  to  Haverford.  The  rising  generation,  and  those  of  the 
former  generation  who  still  remain  upon  its  governing  board,  had  lived 
to  see  the  time,  not  contemplated  by  the  Founders  of  our  Alma  Mater, 
when  music  and  the  drama  and  those  who  occupy  themselves  therewith 
had  become  recognized  factors  in  the  daily  life  of  the  community.  No 
longer  are  they  to  be  looked  upon  as  wicked,  or  at  least  idle  pastimes, 
but  as  educators — educators  as  much  as  a  school  is  an  educator, — and 
therefore  the  musician  and  the  actor  may  be  looked  upon  as  educators. 
Hence  it  was,  I  suppose,  that  I  was  given  a  place  among  educators,  and 
I  am  proud  to  have  been  considered  worthy  of  the  distinguished  honor 
which  our  College  has  conferred  upon  me. 

I  replied  to  President  Sharpless's  letter  in  that  spirit,  and  suggested 
that  at  Commencement  in  June  I  would  like  to  say  a  few  words  to  the 
audience,  and  that  if  there  were  no  objection  I  would  also  sing.     There 


90  The  Haverfordian 

was  no  objection.  Indeed,  with  the  courtesy  which  is  always  his,  Presi- 
dent Sharpless  both  wrote  and  at  Commencement  said  to  the  audience 
in  introducing  me  that  he  would  leave  entirely  to  my  own  judgment 
the  substance  of  my  remarks. 

As  I  sat  upon  the  platform  on  that  warm  summer  day,  June  12, 
1914,  robed  academically,  capped  and  hooded,  I  felt  a  great  sense  of 
responsibility.  As  Friends  of  old  would  have  said,  "It  was  borne  in 
upon  me"  that  I  had  a  message  to  deliver  to  those  present,  and  I  hoped 
to  be  able  to  acquit  myself  manfully  of  my  duty.  I  cannot  recall  the 
words  I  used,  but  I  remember  the  gist  of  my  remarks  was  something  like 
this: 

I  alluded  to  the  time  when,  in  the  autumn  of  1872,  and  during  the  sub- 
sequent four  years  of  my  residence  at  Haverford  I  was  forbidden  by  the 
Board  of  Directors  to  retain  at  the  College  my  zither.  No  guitar,  banjo, 
or  other  instrument  of  music,  no  pipe,  tabor,  harp,  psaltery,  or  instrument 
of  ten  strings  was  permitted  to  resound  through  the  sombre  halls.  Even 
the  human  voice  was  discouraged  when  raising  itself  into  choral  song. 
I  was  obliged  to  betake  myself,  zither  in  hand,  to  the  retirement  of  a 
room  at  the  Haverford  station  on  the  Pennsylvania  Railroad,  where  the 
ticket  seller's  wife  offered  me  sanctuary  and  an  asylum  where  I  might 
practice  my  beloved  art  in  such  seclusion  as  might  be  obtained  between 
the  passage  of  rumbling  trains.  But  presently  there  came  a  change 
over  the  spirit  of  the  dreams  of  those  who  guided  the  destinies  of  Haver- 
ford. Before  my  graduation  the  beginnings  of  a  glee  club  and  of  a 
clandestine  dramatic  association  became  manifest.  It  has  been  said 
that  my  influence  set  these  movements  going;  it  may  be  true,  I  was  not 
aware  of  it.  But  I  am  happy  indeed  to  find  that  now  music  is  encouraged, 
and  to  know  that  in  the  "Cap  and  Bells"  even  the  drama  is  lifting  up 
its  head  in  your  midst. 

I  would  suggest  that,  as  time  goes  on,  music  and  the  drama  be  not 
encouraged  only  for  the  sake  of  pastime.  That,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  is 
what  our  Quaker  forefathers  objected  to.  Let  them  be  studied  with 
intention,  for  music  is  an  inherent  quality  in  human  nature  and  there- 
fore should  not  be  left  to  run  wild ;  but,  as  with  any  other  valuable  growth 
or  quality,  it  should  be  cultivated.  It  and  its  history  should  be  studied 
by  all  who  feel  so  inclined,  as  a  matter  of  common  information,  if  for 
no  other  reason,  just  as  literature,  mathematics,  science  and  art  are  stud- 
ied. In  this  connection  I  am  reminded  of  a  story  that  is  told  upon  myself. 
When  I  was  in  the  business  house  of  my  uncle,  David  Scull,  along  in  the 
early  '80's,  I  was  heard  humming  to  myself  as  I  walked  by  two  men  in 
the  street.     Years  afterward,  when  I  was  singing  in  Grand  Opera,  the 


The  Ministry  of  Music  91 

younger  of  the  two  told  me  that,  as  I  passed,  the  elder, — a  very  plain 
Friend, —  looking  after  me,  said,  "Does  thee  see  that  young  man? 
Well,  I  tell  thee  he'll  never  come  to  any  good,  because  he's  always  fooling 
round  after  music!"  I  agree  with  the  aged  Friend  in  so  far  as  fooling 
around  with  anything  is  concerned.  No  one  should  "fool  around"  with 
so  pure  and  beautiful  a  thing  as  music ;  on  the  contrary  according  to  my 
belief  if  should  be  included  among  the  elective  subjects  in  all  schools  and 
colleges  for  every  normal  human  being  is  "moved  by  concourse  of  sweet 
sounds."  Everyone  has  a  voice,  a  musical  instrument,  in  his  throat 
which  should  be  trained  in  speech  as  well  as  in  song  from  early  childhood. 
It  is  not  necessary  to  purchase,  at  great  expense,  instruments  of  music 
for  every  individual,  but  the  instrument  which  nature  has  given  should 
be  cultivated,  for  from  it  may  be  obtained  great  solace  through  life.  I 
do  not  advocate  that  all  persons  should  go  far  into  musical  study,  for  it  is 
exacting,  and  only  those  especially  gifted  should  be  encouraged  to  bring 
their  talents  before  the  public.  But  music  should  pervade  every  home, 
for  it  has  been  sung  by  poets  and  by  prophets  as  an  alleviator  of  grief, 
the  bringer  of  joy,  a  solace  for  the  waking  hours  of  toil,  twin  sister  to 
the  balm  of  sleep. 

I  desire  to  call  to  the  attention  of  everyone,  particularly  the  members 
of  the  Society  of  Friends,  and  other  religious  bodies  who  discountenance, 
or  at  least  do  not  encourage  greatly,  the  practice  of  music,  the  fact  that 
the  Bible  in  speaking  of  Heaven  constantly  refers  to  music;  and  whether 
there  is  any  "other  world,"  "future  life,"  "world  to  come,"  or  not,  we  can 
make  the  future  that  is  to  come  in  this  world,  a  heaven  through  harmony, 
and  largely  by  means  of  music  and  song. 

I  also  call  to  the  attention  of  any  who  may  still  have  a  lingering 
doubt  as  to  the  dignity  of  music  and  the  drama  as  professions,  and  who 
feel  that  ministers  of  the  Gospel  are  more  entitled  to  honor  than  are 
workers  in  other  fields,  that,  as  I  ended  by  saying  on  last  Commencement 
Day,  there  are  many  unworthy  preachers  in  the  pulpit  and  many  noble 
men  and  women  upon  the  stage.  We  must  no  longer  think  that  any  line 
of  endeavor  is  in  itself  "common  or  unclean."  That  great  sheet  that  the 
Apostle  saw  in  his  vision  being  let  down  by  the  four  corners  is  filled,  not 
only  with  food  for  the  body,  but  with  opportunities  for  the  mind,  and  to 
us  in  these  days  is  afforded  the  priceless  gift  of  an  enlarged  vision.  Let 
us  then  regard  life  in  its  fullest  scope  and  do  away  with  all  narrowness 
of  spirit  and  of  outlook.  The  world  that  is  to  come,  the  life  of  the  future, 
is  full  of  possibilities ;  men  and  women  are  entering  upon  a  new  era  which 
I  seem  to  recognize  as  the  longed-for  millennium.  And  now  is  the  time 
to  prepare  in  all  joyfulness  to  meet  and  enter  into  the  joy  of  our  Lord. 


92  The  Haverfordian 

After  having  spoken,  I  sang  that  noble  emanation  of  the  genius  of 
Schubert,  "  Die  Allmacht ", — Omnipotence,  thus  desiring  in  song  to  glorify 
God.  My  contribution  to  the  exercises  of  the  day  ended  by  singing  the 
Prologue  to  the  opera  "  Pagliacci,"  in  which  man  upon  the  stage,  that  is 
the  actor,  is  shown  to  men  in  the  world  about  him  as  being,  beneath  his 
assumed  disguises,  at  heart  just  as  all  men  are,  "a  man  for  a'  that." 

And  herein  lies  the  whole  point  of  what  I  would  have  people  under- 
stand ;  that  as  individuals  we  must  do  and  nobly  do  what  God  has  given 
us  to  do;  that  there  is  nothing  wrong  about  any  occupation  in  itself, 
but  that  it  rests  with  the  individual  to  make  his  work  good  or  bad,  to 
make  himself  a  shining  example,  and  to  ennoble,  by  his  attitude  toward 
it,  everything  that  he  may  lay  his  hand  to.  As  saith  the  poet — 
"Who  sweeps  a  room  as  by  God's  law 
Makes   that   and    the   action  fine." 

— David  S.  Bispham,  '76. 


rtns  ^tDiUsijt 

Sad,  sad  the  sunset  fades  away, 

Dim  grow  the  trees  and  sky, 
Robins  chant  dirge — a  perfect  day 

Forever  has  gone  by. 

Clear  chimes  the  thrushes'  silver  bell: 

For  Geraldine  they  mourn. 
Soft  winds  of  perfumed  night  tales  tell 

Of  roses  newly  born . 

One  after  one  the  stars  shine  bright, 

Black  etched  the  branches  seem. 
Dull   sounds   the   boom   of  night-hawks'  flight; 

I  listen  while  I  dream. 

Far,  far  away  enchantment  calls. 

And  twilight's  golden  hue 
Sends  forth  its  gleam  that  softly  falls 

On  lands  where  dreams  come  true. 

—Walter  S.  Ntvin,  '18. 


3  product  of  i|o£(po«;ti 

I'M  from  Hoshkosh.  This  will  be  further  impressed  upon  you,  no 
doubt,  as  you  read  the  incidents  of  this  narrative.  For  the  present, 
suffice  it  to  say  that  Hoshkosh  is  a  countrified  town  in  the  Middle 
West,  of  about  thirty  thousand  inhabitants,  boasting  a  city  hall,  a 
political  boss  and  a  jail,  a  baseball  team  and  a  "daily."  On  the 
latter  it  was  my  proud  task,  several  years  ago,  to  act  as  reporter,  and 
"get  kicked  all  around  man." 

One  experience  of  those  early  days,  I  recall  now  very  well,  for  it  was 
one  of  those  rare  occasions  upon  which  I  did  not  "get  kicked  all  around." 
It  was  an  interview,  and,  strange  to  say,  I  returned  from  it  with  a  pro- 
found respect  for  my  victim,  if  I  may  so  call  him.  Usually  a  press  rep- 
resentative met  with  a  cold  reception  in  Hoshkosh,  or,  more  often,  a 
warm  one,  which  was  decidedly  worse.  This  time,  however,  I  was  treated 
as  a  human  being,  and,  at  that,  it  was  a  criminal  whom  I  interviewed. 

A  certain  Thomas  White  had  been  convicted  of  a  daring  hotel  rob- 
bery in  which  a  prominent  member  of  Hoshkosh's  "younger  set"  had 
been  on  the  losing  end.  It  was  this  White  whom  I  was  to  "see"  and  get 
material  for  a  feature  story,  if  possible.  Being  somewhat  ignorant  of 
the  ways  of  the  world,  I  expected  to  find  a  forbidding  person  of  re- 
volting appearance  who  would  bite  me  if  I  was  not  careful.  Therefore 
I  was  surprised  to  find  in  the  little  narrow  cell  where  they  had  thrust 
him,  a  young  man  of  my  age,  with  a  striking  and  distinguished  appear- 
ance. He  looked  more  like  a  college  athlete  than  a  thief.  Those  bluish- 
gray  eyes  which  looked  unflinchingly  into  mine,  that  high  forehead  and 
clean-cut  mouth.  "He  certainly  was  not  an  ordinary  criminal,"  I 
thought.     I  was  not  mistaken. 

He  was  perfectly  willing  to  tell  me  his  story.  "I  was  born  in  Chi- 
cago," he  said.  "My  parents  were  poor  but  economical.  My  father 
carefully  saved  some  of  his  small  salary,  and  invested  in  a  promising  mine 
speculation.  It  turned  out  to  be  an  utter  swindle,  and  all  of  his  small 
fortune  was  lost.  He  never  recovered  from  the  shock;  he  was  taken 
sick,  lost  his  position  as  a  consequence,  and  worry  and  idleness  combined 
with  a  severe  attack  of  pneumonia  resulted  in  his  death  at  the  height  of 
his  powers.  My  mother  soon  followed  him.  I  escaped  the  orphan 
asylum  through  the  intercession  of  a  socialistic  neighbor,  Abraham 
Isaacs,  who,  taking  pity  on  my  destitution,  agreed  to  raise  me  if  I  would 
act  as  his  apprentice.  I  was  then  about  ten,  and  unable  to  understand 
the  significance  of  the  work  which  I  was  being  taught.     To  be  brief,  I 


94  The  Haverfordian 

became  a  thief.  My  tutors,  Isaacs'  young  sons,  were  skilled  in  their 
trade,  and  I  was  an  adept  pupil. 

"Now,"  he  finished,  proudly,  but  not  boastingly,  "there  is  no  more 
successful  'gentleman  crook'  in  the  entire  West." 

'''  Why  did  you  become  a  'gentleman  crook,'  as  you  call  it? "   I  asked. 

"Well,"  he  replied,  "I  learned  to  hate  those  rich  people  who  gain 
their  wealth  by  swindling  the  unsuspecting  poor  out  of  their  well-earned 
incomes.  My  companions  encouraged  these  views,  and  the  knowledge  of 
my  father's  loss  engendered  in  me  a  desire  for  retaliation.  Thus  it  has 
been  my  part  to  play  the  gentleman,  to  mingle  among  the  rich,  as  if  I 
were  one  of  them,  and  rob  them  behind  their  stupid  backs.  It's  a  great 
game!"  he  cried,  and  his  dark  eyes  flashed  expressively.  I  asked  White 
for  details  of  his  latest  act,  the  one  which  had  culminated  in  his  arrest. 
He  was  reticent  about  the  affair,  however,  and  I  learned  little  more  than 
I  had  ascertained  already. 

"Oh,"  he  said,  "it  was  absurdly  easy.  I  togged  myself  out  in  my 
dress  suit  and  silk  hat,  put  on  my  most  dignified  manner,  and  stalked 
into  the  hotel  dining-room.  Finding  a  place  vacant  at  a  table  occupied 
by  three  prosperous  men  who  looked  likely  victims,  I  intruded  upon 
them.  By  making  myself  entertaining,  I  passed  oiif  as  a  'hail-fellow- 
well-met,'  and  got  into  their  good  graces.  The  result  was  a  fat  wallet 
and  a  big  haul ;  but  luck  was  against  me,  and  that's  why  I  am  here,  resting 

in  this  single  apartment,  for  a  short  time." 

*  *  **  *  *  *  * 

It  was  about  twenty  years  later.  Fortune  had  been  kind  to  me  in 
the  interim  and  paid  to  me  that  one  visit  of  a  life-time,  which  all  of  us 
mortals  are  supposed  to  enjoy  from  her.  I  had  made  good  use  of  her  call, 
and  left  rural  Hoshkosh  for  busy,  hustling  New  York.  I  was  dining,  one 
evening,  in  a  well-known  New  York  restaurant,  one  noted  for  its  atmos- 
phere of  respectability  and  good  fellowship.  A  tall,  slightly  stoop- 
shouldered  man,  about  forty,  with  iron-gray  hair  pushed  back  from  a 
high  forehead,  entered  and  sauntered  towards  my  table.  He  glanced 
keenly  at  me,  and  then  nodded  pleasantly. 

"I  see  that  you  are  a  member  of  the Brotherhood,"  he  said, 

pointing  to  the  badge  of  that  order  on  my  coat  lapel. 

I  nodded. 

"My  name  is  Simson,"  he  then  said,  "and  I  am  the  pastor  of  a 
church  in  Harringford,  New  Jersey." 

I  then  introduced  myself;  we  shook  hands,  and  I  invited  him  to  sit 
down  at  my  table.  He  accepted,  and,  after  giving  his  order  to  the 
waiter,  turned  to  me,  and  began  an  interesting  discussion.     He  proved 


Af  Product  of  Hoshkosh  95 

to  be  very  entertaining  and  iiiuisually  amusing  for  a  preacher,  I  thought. 
The  conversation  turned  upon  the  West,  and  its  great  progress. 

"  I  am  a  native  of  Chicago,"  he  was  saying. 

"I'm  from  Hoshkosh,"  I  said  smiHng,  and  not  dreaming  that  he 
had  ever  heard  of  the  place. 

Simson  started  at  the  name,  as  if  he  had  heard  it  before.  "Hosh- 
kosh, yes.  I  know  the  place.  It  was  there  that  — ,"  but  here  he  stopped 
abruptly,  checking  himself  as  if  afraid  of  revealing  something  he  desired 
kept  secret.  His  momentary  embarrassment  quickly  passed  into  a 
look  of  defiance.  Something  in  the  glance  of  his  black  eyes  and  the 
manner  of  his  speech  struck  me  as  strangely  familiar.  But  I  could  not 
place  him,  and  renewing  the  conversation,  told  him  of  my  former  business 
out  West,  and  humorously  mentioned  my  connection  with  the  Hoshkosh 
Bugle.  He  kept  his  eyes  fastened  intently  on  my  face,  while  I  was 
speaking,  as  if,  in  turn,  to  place  me  in  his  inner  memory.  His  lips  moved 
as  if  to  interrupt  me,  several  times,  but  he  said  nothing  until  I  had  stop- 
ped, and  then  he  changed  the  subject  entirely.  His  former  complacency 
returned,  and  I  found  his  remarks  extremely  diverting. 

After  we  had  finished  our  demi-tasse,  we  chatted  a  little  longer,  and 
then  arose  to  go.  He  politely  offered  to  pay  both  bills  at  the  cashier's 
desk,  and  had  his  wallet  out  for  that  purpose.  I  was  remonstrating  with 
him  when  he  dropped  his  wallet,  and,  while  leaning  over  to  pick  it  up, 
knocked  mine  out  of  my  hands,  on  to  the  floor  near  the  other  one.  He 
rescued  both,  and  begged  my  pardon  for  the  accident.  He  then  pushed 
in  and  paid  the  bills  before  I  could  stop  him.  Soon  afterwards  we  parted, 
and  I  had  a  feeling  of  regret  that  our  ways  were  so  widely  divergent. 

I  was  walking  toward  the  subway  ten  minutes  later  with  the  inten- 
tion of  going  home,  when  a  clanging  ambulance  passed  me.  Involun- 
tarily I  watched  it,  and  saw  it  come  to  a  stop  near  the  cafe  I  had  recently 
left.  A  crowd  seemed  to  have  gathered  there,  and  I  could  not  resist  the 
impulse  to  find  out  the  cause  of  it. 

As  I  reached  the  place,  I  heard  a  young  dude  on  the  outskirts  of  the 
crowd  ask  a  bystander,     "Heart   failure,  was  it?" 

"Yes,  I  suppose  so,"  the  other  answered.     "A  fine  face,  hasn't  he?" 

I  pushed  forward  through  the  throng  and  caught  a  shadowy  glimpse 
of  the  unfortunate  victim  as  he  was  being  gingerly  lifted  into  the  ambu- 
lance. It  was  my  late  companion  who  was  thus  stricken.  I  was  so 
startled  and  shocked  by  the  recognition  that  I  let  the  auto  drive  off  with- 
out making  an  effort  to  disclose  his  identity,  or  go  with  him  to  the  hospi- 
tal, as  an  acquaintance  should  have  done.  The  crowd  gradually  dispersed 
its  several  ways,  and  I  was  about  to  move  away  also,  when  I  noticed  a 


96  The  Haverfordian 

black  object   lying  in   an   obscure   corner,    near   the   restaurant    door. 

"What  is  that  you  picked  up  there?"  a  stern  voice  suddenly 
inquired.  I  looked  up  to  see  a  sturdy  figure,  and  an  inscrutable  face 
which  I  at  once  took  for  that  of  a  plain-clothes  man.  My  surmise  proved 
correct. 

"This  is  my  wallet,"  I  said,  puzzled. 

"Oh,"  he  said.     "Just  drop  it,  did  you?" 

"No,"  I  said.  "I  don't  know  how  it  got  there,  and  I  don't  know 
how  this  other  wallet  here,  got  into  my  pocket,  for  I  thought  my  own  was 
there,  as  usual."  I  showed  him  a  wallet  similar  to  mine  but  almost 
empty,  which,  to  my  surprise,  I  had  pulled  out  in  place  of  my  own 
fat  one. 

"Ah,"  he  said,  "that's  some  of  Tom  White's  work,  all  right.  He  is 
a  specialist  in  exchanging  pocketbooks,  you  know, — lean  ones  for  fat 
ones,  especially." 

"Who's  Tom  White?  "    I  asked. 

"You  know  that  old  fellow  they  took  away  in  the  ambulance? 
That's  Tom." 

"Who?  That  poor  gray-haired  man  who  was  stricken  down  with 
heart  failure?" 

"Heart  failure?" 

"That's  what  somebody  in  the  crowd  said,  and  I  believed  him." 

"He  no  more  had  heart  failure  than  you  have  now.  That  was  Tom 
White,  a  master  crook,  whom  we  have  been  after  for  years.  He's  a 
slick  crook  who  makes  a  business  of  posing  as  a  society  man,  lawyer, 
doctor  or  something  of  the  kind.     But  we've  got  him  this  time." 

"That  man's  a  thief,  is  he?  Well,  I  took  him  for  a  preacher.  That's 
what  he  said  he  was." 

"Yes,  that's  the  kind  of  game  he  plays,  and  you  bit  for  it  pretty 
hard,  didn't  you?  I  thought  I  spotted  him,  about  an  hour  ago,  as  he  went 
into  this  eating  place,  so  I  waited  to  catch  him,  red-handed,  as  he  came 
out.  He  almost  bumped  into  me,  as  he  was  bidding  a  joyful  'so  long' 
to  you.  Up  went  his  hands,  when  he  caught  sight  of  my  little  'silencer.' 
I  searched  him  and  pulled  out  your  wallet,  but  just  then  he  began  to  get 
frisky.  In  the  scufifle  I  dropped  the  pocketbook  and  here  it  must  have 
lain  ever  since.  Too  bad  nobody  saw  it,  isn't  it?  I  didn't  like  to  shoot 
the  old  boy,  didn't  think  it  necessary.  But  he  was  so  obstreperous  that 
I  had  to  use  some  of  my  old  holds  on  him.  As  a  result  I  almost  broke 
his  arm,  but  he  fell  down  on  the  stone  and  cracked  his  head  a  little.  Not 
serious,  though.  Guess  he'll  come  to  all  right,  and  live  to  serve  a  number 
of  years  yet." 


SiRMIO  97 

I  was  rather  shamefaced  at  the  end  of  the  detective's  story.  "  I 
know  now  who  White  is,"  I  said.  "I  interviewed  him  years  ago  out  in 
Hoshkosh  in  the  Middle  West.  I'm  a  native  of  Hoshkosh,  you  know,  and 
fifteen  years  in  Manhattan  don't  seem  to  have  remedied  that  mis- 
fortune." 

"I  thought  maybe  you  were  from  Hoboken,"  the  detective  said 
laughingly. 

— George  A.  Dunlap,  '16. 


9irmio 

{Catullus,  31) 

Sirmio,  gem  of  all  headlands  and  islands, 
In  lakes  of  the  inlatid  with  crystalline  spray. 

Or  'midst  the  rough  billows  of  far-reaching  ocean. 
Ay,  all  that  Poseidon  has  raised  to  his  sway, — 

How  gladly,  rejoicingly  free  I  behold  thee, 
My  own  native  home  in  my  dear  fatherland! 

I  thought  I  should  never  leave  Phrygia's  pastures 
Nor  come  to  thee  from  distant  Thynia's  sand. 

Ah,  what  is  more  blessed  than  freedom  from  caring, 
When  the  mind  puts  aside  its  so  wearisome  load, 

And  we  to  our  hearthstones  from  labor  returning 
Find  rest  on  the  couch  we  so  longed  for  of  old? 


Reward  in  abundance  is  this  for  great  labors. 

So  hail  to  thee,  Sirmio,  joy  of  thy  lord! 
Rejoice  do  ye  also,  0  Garda's  clear  waters, 

A  nd  bring  forth  what  laughter  your  ripples  afford! 

~J.  W.  Spaeth,  '17. 


tKlje  ^erb  for  3conocla£!m 

IN  criticisms  of  books  and  plays  we  often  see  the  disapproving  phrase : 
"The  purpose  of  this  work  is  purely  destructive."  We  are  sedulously 
taught  that  belief,  however  illogical  and  weakly  founded,  is  always 
better  than  negation ;  that  we  must  never  attack  a  theory,  no  matter  how 
obviously  untrue,  unless  we  can  put  something  better  in  its  place.  In 
short,  we  are  led  to  look  upon  the  destruction  of  an  old  idea  as  the  sign 
of  weakness  and  decadence,  upon  the  creation  of  a  new  one  as  the  token  of 
strength  and  virility.  It  is  rather  difficult  to  see  why  iconoclastic  or 
katabolic  criticism  has  acquired  this  unfavorable  reputation.  In  the 
first  place,  every  creative  genius  must  destroy  a  number  of  old  ideals 
which  are  inconsistent  with  his  advanced  thought.  So  Copernicus, 
when  he  demonstrated  that  the  earth  revolved  about  the  sun,  undoubted- 
ly annihilated  the  medieval  idea  that  the  earth  was  the  centre  and  focus 
of  God's  universe;  but  this  idea  stood  in  the  way  of  scientific  progress, 
and  no  one  now  regrets  its  extinction.  In  the  second  place,  destruction 
requires  fully  as  much  acuteness,  and  much  more  courage,  than  creation. 
A  man  may  express  a  new  thought  and,  if  it  does  not  openly  conflict  with 
any  established  and  orthodox  theories,  he  may  have  it  received  with 
tolerance  and  even  with  favor.  But  woe  betide  the  unfortunate  iconoclast 
who  ventures  to  attack  an  old  and  popular  illusion!  Immediately  he  is 
either  overwhelmed  with  a  storm  of  abuse  and  calumny,  betrayed  by 
intentional  and  unintentional  misunderstanding,  or  stifled  by  the  still 
more  effective  and  insidious  weapon  of  stony  silence  and  neglect.  And 
who  shall  say  that  the  despised  and  underrated  iconoclast  is  not  rendering 
as  important  a  service  to  humanity  as  the  most  brilliant  creative  genius? 
For  every  original  thinker  needs  a  certain  amount  of  cleared  ground  upon 
which  to  erect  his  edifice;  nothing  of  lasting  value  can  be  built  in  the 
unhealthy  shade  of  dogma  and  illusion.  A  study  of  a  few  of  the  most 
notable  iconoclasts  of  the  last  century  may  help  to  show  how  far  removed 
the  genius  for  tearing  down  is  from  weakness  and  unproductiveness. 

Out  of  the  fiords  and  cloud  mists  of  his  native  Norway  Henryk 
Ibsen  evolved  some  of  the  strongest  and  subtlest  productions  of  the 
modern  drama.  If  there  is  one  quality  peculiarly  characteristic  of  every 
phase  of  Ibsen's  work  it  is  rugged  strength  and  power.  There  is  in  him 
absolutely  nothing  of  the  weakness  and  barrenness  commonly  associated 
with  destructive  criticism.  And  yet  this  same  Ibsen  was  one  of  the  most 
thoroughgoing  iconoclasts  of  his  epoch.  Scarcely  any  of  the  moral, 
political  and  aesthetic  principles  generally  held  by  his  fellow-countrymen. 


The  Need  for  Iconoclasm  99 

escape  his  bitter  and  sweeping  attack.  Two  of  his  plays,  "  Brand"  and 
"Peer  Gynt,"  the  one  in  the  form  of  a  tragedy,  the  other  in  that  of  a  satire, 
are  primarily  philippics  against  the  moral  cowardice  and  indecision, 
the  sordidness  and  pettiness  which  he  associated  with  the  Norwegian 
national  character.  In  "An  Enemy  of  the  People,"  a  very  old  and  highly 
cherished  tradition,  the  divine  right  of  the  majority,  is  torn  to  pieces  with 
the  most  ruthless  contempt  for  the  feelings  of  its  advocates.  "The 
Doll's  House"  and  "  Ghosts,"  besides  being  plays  of  gripping  psychological 
interest,  are  also  polemics,  the  former  against  the  traditional  attitude 
towards  femininity,  the  latter  against  the  conventional  avoidance  of 
vital  problems  of  eugenics.  Even  in  such  a  pure  art  work  as  "Ros- 
mersholm"  we  find  touches  of  satirical  protest  against  the  bigotry  of 
the  conservatives  and  the  demagoguery  of  the  liberals.  So,  all  through 
Ibsen's  work,  eminently  constructive  as  it  is,  many  important  passages  are 
devoted  to  attacking  and  tearing  down  theories  which  conflicted  with  the 
dramatist's  ideals  of  progress. 

Arthur  Schopenhauer  has  been  unjustly  condemned  on  the  ground 
that  his  pessimistic  philosophic  conclusions  reveal  a  mind  whose  atti- 
tude towards  life  was  barren  and  unprofitable.  The  most  casual  glance 
through  his  numerous  miscellaneous  essays  will  show  that  he  formed 
theories  upon  almost  every  conceivable  subject,  both  practical  and  ideal. 
These  theories,  of  course,  are  by  no  means  infallible ;  but  they  go  far  to 
prove  that  Schopenhauer's  pessimistic  and  destructive  philosophy  in 
no  way  impaired  the  working  of  his  keen,  powerful  and  splendidly  bal- 
anced intellect.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  the  courage  to  reject  the  easy  and 
comfortable  paths  of  optimism  often  develops  remarkable  strength  and 
dignity  in  an  artist's  work.  The  breaking  of  the  idols  is  usually  the 
prelude  to  the  worship  of  the  true  artistic  gods,  who  have  hitherto  been 
obscured  or  concealed  by  the  mists  of  fallacy  and  misapprehension. 

By  far  the  most  radical  change  in  the  conception  of  the  true  function 
of  music  was  inaugurated  in  the  last  century  by  Richard  Wagner's  theory 
of  the  music  drama.  True,  the  idea  that  music  could  be  united  with 
poetry  and  stage  action  had  been  conceived  by  a  number  of  famous 
German  poets  and  writers  of  an  earlier  period,  notably  by  Schiller 
Lessing,  Herder,  Wieland  and  Jean  Paul.  But  no  musician  had  even  re- 
motely attempted  to  put  this  bold  theory  into  practice.  The  early  operas 
almost  invariably  subordinate  plot,  poetry  and  music  to  a  few  brilliant 
arias.  There  was  little  hope  of  material  success  for  a  composer  who 
sought  to  replace  the  light,  frivolous  and  popular  works  of  Bellini  and 
Donizetti  with  masterpieces  fraught  with  profound  intellectual  and 
poetic  significance,  nor  is  it  true,  as  has  sometimes  been  asserted,  that 


100  The  Haverfordian 

Wagner  was  driven  to  create  his  "artwork  of  the  future"  by  sheer  in- 
ability to  write  in  a  popular  and  melodious  vein.  His  first  opera,  "  Rienzi," 
written  in  the  Italian  style,  was  received  with  great  popular  enthusiasm. 
And  there  is  no  doubt  that,  if  he  had  so  desired,  he  could  have  written 
twenty  more  operas  like  "Rienzi,"  attained  a  liberal  measure  of  wealth 
and  popularity,  and  escaped  all  the  storms  of  obloquy  that  later  fell  upon 
him  and  his  work.  But  Wagner,  impelled  by  his  sublime  egoism,  preferred 
the  steep  and  thorny  path  of  the  iconoclast  and  innovator  to  the  broad 
and  easy  road  of  the  flatterer  of  popular  taste.  Ever  rising  higher,  like 
the  climax  of  "Tristan  and  Isolde,"  his  most  sublime  work,  he  literally 
forced  upon  his  blind  and  uncomprehending  contemporaries  an  art 
heritage  whose  priceless  value  is  now  not  only  recognized  by  all  musical 
authorities,  but  also  felt  by  thousands  who  have  little  or  no  knowledge 
of  the  technical  principles  of  music.  And  this  Wagner,  the  creator  of 
the  music  drama,  after  Bach,  perhaps,  the  most  original  of  all  composers 
in  his  discovery  of  new  devices  of  orchestration,  this  Wagner  has  often 
been  accused  of  wanton  and  needless  iconoclasm,  of  unseemly  disrespect 
for  the  traditions  and  principles  of  classical  art.  And  this  accusation  is 
justified:  for,  both  in  his  prose  writings  and,  far  more  effectively,  in  his 
music,  Wagner  attacks  and  tears  to  pieces  old  ideals  after  the  fashion  of 
the  most  merciless  iconoclast.  But,  as  in  the  case  of  Ibsen,  the  old 
dogmas  and  conventions  stood  in  the  way  of  the  new  art;  the  conflict 
was  inevitable,  and  the  new,  virile,  iconoclastic  thought  triumphed  over 
the  old,  worn-out  static  belief. 

During  the  latter  part  of  the  first  half  of  the  nineteenth  century, 
French  literature  had  fallen  completely  under  the  spell  of  romanticism. 
Lamartine  and  Victor  Hugo  vied  with  each  other  in  the  glorification  of 
the  ideal,  and  impractical.  George  Sand  shocked  the  conservatives  of 
the  epoch  by  the  bold  unconventionality  and  unchecked  romanticism 
of  her  novels.  Schiller's  famous  maxims:  Wage  du  zu  irren  und  zu 
traumen  (Dare  thou  to  have  illusions  and  to  dream  dreams)  was  carried 
out  to  the  fullest  extent.  Even  Balzac,  keen  satirist  and  psychologist 
as  he  was,  yielded  to  the  prevalent  tendency  and  introduced  into  many 
of  his  novels  the  spirit  of  devout  mysticism  that  is  the  usual  accom- 
paniment of  a  romantic  period.  Franz  Liszt,  the  famous  composer  and 
pianist  of  the  age,  was  strongly  affected  by  the  romantic  movement, 
wrote  a  number  of  sentimental  and  melancholy  "Liebestraiime"  and 
"Consolations,"  and  modeled  one  of  his  finest  orchestral  productions, 
"Les  Preludes,"  on  a  poem  of  similar  title  by  Lamartine. 

But,  while  the  Parisian  salons  were  echoing  with  the  sighs  of  Liszt 
and  Lamartine,  the  northern  province  of  Normandy  was  giving  to  the 


The  Need  for  Iconoclasm  101 

world  a  stern  genius  whose  work,  a  rare  combination  of  rugged  strength 
and  perfect  style,  was  destined  to  eclipse  and  outlive  all  the  sentimental 
and  poetic  rhapsodies  of  the  contemporar}'  romanticists.  This  northern 
giant  was  Gustave  Flaubert,  another  example  of  a  man  who  destroyed 
an  older  style,  not  through  inability  to  use  it,  but  through  capacity  to 
see  beyond  it  the  vision  of  a  new  and  higher  form  of  expression.  In 
"  Madame  Bovary  "  Flaubert  threw  down  the  gauntlet  to  all  the  prevalent 
romantic  tendencies.  This  novel  may  well  be  called  the  finest  literary 
outgrowth  of  realism.  The  author  conscientiously  satisfies  the  most 
rigorous  demands  of  the  realist.  Taking  his  characters  from  the  least 
picturesque  orders  of  society,  adopting  a  plot  at  once  repellent  and 
threadbare  in  subject,  sternly  rejecting  e\'ery  extraneous  charm  of  vivid 
description  or  rich  local  coloring,  Flaubert  makes  his  novel  one  of  the 
world's  most  signal  artistic  triumphs  through  sheer  grandeur  and  delicacy 
of  style,  piercing  psychological  analysis,  and  remarkably  able  develop- 
ment of  his  plot  to  a  climax  of  gruesome  power  worthy  of  Aeschylus  or 
Shakespeare.  Several  years  later  he  created,  in  "Salammbo,"  a  novel 
whose  brilliant  plot,  tropical  coloring,  rich  and  detailed  description  and 
superb  action  would  easily  give  it  a  high  place  among  the  works  of  the 
romantic  school.  Here  again  we  see  an  iconoclast  who  paved  the  way 
for  the  destruction  of  a  form  of  literature  that  was  admirably  suited  to 
his  capacities  in  order  to  evolve  a  new  and  higher  form. 

Perhaps  the  most  conclusive  argument  for  the  connection  between 
iconoclasm  and  original  creative  genius  is  the  fact  that  the  same  man  wrote 
the  most  destructive  and  the  most  original  book  of  the  last  century. 
It  is  difficult  to  read  the  two  volumes  of  Nietzsche's  "Human,  All- 
Too-Human"  without  feeling  a  profound  depression.  For  nowhere 
is  there  such  a  complete  denial  of  the  principles  of  life  and  action,  no- 
where is  there  such  complete  and  unmitigated  iconoclasm.  Not  only 
does  Nietzsche  here  negate  nearly  all  theories  of  religion  and  morality, 
but  he  also  asserts  the  absence  of  free  will  in  the  most  unqualified  terms. 
According  to  the  philosophy  which  he  maintains  in  this  book,  every 
human  action  is  directlj'  dependent  upon  the  character  of  the  doer's 
ancestors.  Even  rebellion  against  fate  is  a  delusion;  the  man  who 
thinks  he  is  defying  destiny  is  only  executing  its  will  in  regard  to  him- 
self. Nor  does  he  find  any  consolation  in  the  idea  of  a  beneficent  Provi- 
dence; his  fate  is  a  deity  blind  as  Oedipus.  On  the  other  hand,  in  "Thus 
Spake  Zarathustra"  and  "Beyond  Good  and  Evil"  (the  former  a  master- 
piece of  rhapsodic,  allegorical  poetry,  the  latter  one  of  trenchant,  musical 
prose),  he  expresses  some  of  the  most  strikingly  original  philosophic 
ideas  of  all  time.      In  place  of  the  blank  of  the  "  Beyond  Good  and  Evil " 


102  The  Haverfosdian 

period  we  have  a  succession  of  new  and  interesting  concepts,  such  as 
the  Superman,  the  Eternal  Recurrence,  the  subjectivity  of  morals, 
and  the  relativity  of  truth.  So  the  whole  Nietzschean  philosophy  is 
really  built  upon  absolute  iconoclasm. 

From  these  examples  it  should  be  plain  that,  to  use  Nietzsche's 
own  phrase,  every  great  creator  must  first  be  a  great  destroyer.  And 
it  is  an  almost  invariable  mark  of  distinction  between  geniuses  of  the 
first  and  those  of  the  second  order;  that  the  former  mercilessly  attack 
and  expose  the  false  ideas  founded  upon  sophistry  and  prejudice,  whereas 
the  latter  are  inclined  to  respect  and  make  truce  with  them.  It  is  well 
known  that  nearly  every  young  artist  is  forced  to  model  his  work  upon 
that  of  some  recognized  master.  The  difference  between  the  man  of 
talent  and  the  genius  is  that  the  former  never  ceases  to  imitate;  whereas 
the  latter  finally  transcends  his  master  and  evolves  an  art  system  of  his 
own.  This  transition  is  almost  inevitably  accompanied  by  a  certain 
amount  of  bitterness,  disillusion  and  iconoclasm.  But  this  iconoclasm 
is  as  necessary  to  individual  artistic  development  as  a  discord  is  to  a 
higher  harmony.  And,  after  all,  is  not  much  that  is  true  and  beautiful 
in  art  partially  ruined  by  too  hasty  building?  Is  it  not  better  to  examine 
the  foundation  closely  than  to  erect  a  glittering  edifice  on  doubtful  and 
insecure  ground?  As  an  exposition  of  the  ideal  and  true  iconoclasm 
I  can  think  of  nothing  more  satisfactory  than  the  close  of  Nietzsche's 
essay,  "We  Philologists."  The  German  thinker  expresses  his  thought 
in  the  following  words :  "  I  dream  of  a  combination  of  men  who  shall  make 
no  concessions,  who  shall  show  no  consideration,  and  who  shall  be  willing 
to  be  called  'destroyers':  they  apply  the  standard  of  their  criticism  to 
everything  and  sacrifice  themselves  to  truth.  The  bad  and  the  false 
shall  be  brought  to  light!  We  will  not  build  prematurely:  we  do  not 
know,  indeed,  whether  we  shall  ever  be  able  to  build,  or  if  it  would  not 
be  better  not  to  build  at  all.  There  are  lazy  pessimists  and  resigned 
ones  in  this  world — and  it  is  to  their  number  that  we  refuse  to  belong!" 

— William  H.  Chamberlin.  '17. 


Joanne 

(With  Apologies  to  " Marie-Odile") 
Cast  of  Characters 

Joanne,  a  Novice. 

The  Mother  Superior. 

A  Soldier  of  the  German  Army. 

Time:   The  Present. 

The  Scene  is  the  interior  of  a  secluded  convent  in  northern  France 
The  only  ftirniture  is  a  bare  wooden  table  set  with  chairs.  On  the  right  is 
a  figure  of  the  Virgin  Mary,  sjirrounded  by  lighted  candles.  Moonlight 
pours  through  a  window  at  the  back,  and  is  splashed  on  the  rough  floor 
like  molten  gold.     The  hour  is  midnight. 

{A  light  noise  is  heard  outside,  the  window  opens,  and  a  soldier  in 
uniform  and  helmet  enters.  He  steps  forward  quickly  and  looks  about  in 
the  darkness,  then  crosses  and  stajids  thoughtfully  before  the  statue.  A  door 
opens  at  the  left,  and  a  beautiful  girl  enters,  clad  in  a  nightdress,  and 
holding  aloft  a  burning  candle.  She  stares  at  the  soldier  with  fixed  eyes. 
He  does  not  notice  her,  but  continues  to  gaze  at  the  statue. 

Jo.-VNNE.  Who  are  you,  and  why  don't  you  kneel  before  the  holy 
Virgin? 

Soldier.     {In  a  whisper)  An  angel  lost  from  Heaven! 

Joanne.     Are  you  a  man? 

Soldier.  (Recovering  himself,  he  takes  the  candle  from  her  unre- 
sisting fingers.)     I  believe  so.     Don't  I  look  like  one? 

Joanne.  I  don't  know.  I've  never  seen  a  man  before  except 
Father  Ambrose.  {There  is  a  pause,  in  which  the  soldier  stares  at  her  in 
amazement.)     Why  aren't  you  in  bed?     Don't  men  sleep  at  night? 

Soldier.     Er — some  do — when  they  can,  but — I  am 

Joanne.     What's  that  thing  on  your  head? 

Soldier.     Haven't  you  ever  seen  a  helmet? 

Joanne.  No.  The  sisters  don't  wear  them.  Father  Ambrose 
has  a  hat,  but  it  isn't  like  that ;  and  he  wears  black  gowns  like  my  dresses. 
Do  other  men  look  like  you  and  wear  funny  hats  like  yours? 

Soldier.  Of  course  they  do.  And  where  have  you  been  all  your 
life,  that  you  haven't  seen  them? 


104  The  Haverfordian 

Joanne.  I  was  brought  here  as  a  baby.  I've  always  lived  here. 
The  sisters  are  very  good  to  me  and  I  love  them  dearly,  especially  Sister 
Beatrice.  You  should  see  her!  She  is  wonderful,  with  big,  tender 
eyes  and  such  a  soft  voice ! 

Soldier.     Where  is  she? 

Joanne.     Asleep,  I  guess.     They're  all  asleep  but  me. 

Soldier.     And  why  not  you? 

Joanne.  I  was  looking  at  the  moon.  It  seemed  to  smile  at  me 
tonight  and  I  lay  awake  to  watch  it. 

Soldier.  You  must  be  cold  in  that  nightgown.  Sit  here  and 
put  my  cloak  over  you.     {He  goes  to  the  table  and  pulls  out  a  chair.) 

Joanne.  Hush!  No!  You  must  not  stay.  The  mother  superior 
would  be  very  angry  at  you.  She  would  scold  you  and  send  you  away. 
That's  her  room  right  there.  {She  points  to  a  door  at  the  left.)  She  might 
wake  up. 

Soldier.  We'll  be  very  quiet.  Sit  down  and  tell  me  your  name. 
{He  sits  opposite  her.) 

Joanne.     I'm  Joanne;  who  are  you? 

Soldier.  I  am  a  soldier,  Joanne,  and  I've  been  sent  ahead  to  see 
that  the  way  is  clear  for  my  regiment. 

Joanne.     Is  he  coming  here? 

Soldier.     Who? 

Joanne.     Your  regiment. 

Soldier.     Oh!  {Laughing)  a  regiment  is  a  great  many  soldiers. 

Joanne.     Like  you? 

Soldier.    Yes. 

Joanne.  Then  you  must  go  back  and  tell  them  not  to  come. 
The  mother  superior  would  never  permit  it. 

Soldier.     Wouldn't  she?     {He  smiles.) 

Joanne.  No.  She  is  very  strict  and  scolds  me  terribly.  I  am 
lazy  and  sinful.  She  is  very  good.  I  hope  I  shall  be  like  her  some  day. 
{She  clasps  her  hands  earnestly.)  I  want  to  be  a  sister  and  take  my  vows 
like  the  others. 

Soldier.  You  couldn't  be  sinful,  Joanne.  You  look  like  an 
angel  sitting  there  with  the  moonlight  falling  on  your  hair  and  shoulders. 

Joanne.     O  no!  angels  have  wings  and  are  beautiful. 

Soldier.    And  so  are  you  beautiful. 

Joanne.     Am  I?     I  didn't  know  it. 

{The  soldier  leans  forward  and  takes  her  hand,  which  is  lying  on  the 
table.  A  door  opens  at  the  left.  The  mother  superior  enters.  On  seeing 
the  soldier  she  shudders  and  crosses  herself.) 


Joanne  105 

Mother  Superior.  Merciful  heaven!  What  do  you  want  here, 
sir?  Joanne!  Go  to  your  room  instantly.  {She  points  imperiously 
to  the  door:  then  covers  her  face  with  her  hands.)  Holy  Father !  Alone 
in  a  nightdress,  at  this  hour,  with  a  man! 

Soldier.  Stop!  Mother  superior,  I  have  a  bargain  to  make  with 
you.  {He  steps  boldly  up  to  her.  The  girl  remains  motionless  in  fear 
while  he  talks  in  a  low  tone)  Listen  to  me!  I  am  a  scout  of  the 
Kaiser's  army.  Not  ten  miles  from  here  5,000  German  soldiers  lie  en- 
camped tonight.  Tomorrow  they  pass  by  this  road.  You  have  food 
here.  At  my  word  this  place  will  be  ravaged  from  top  to  bottom.  As  far 
as  the  sisters  are  concerned,  I  cannot  answer  for  the  army's  actions.  Now! 
— Leave  that  girl  with  me  in  peace,  and  this  place  will  not  be  touched. 

M.  Superior.  No!  No!  We  will  all  die  to  save  that  virgin  from 
harm. 

Soldier.  On  my  honor  as  a  man,  she  shall  suffer  no  harm.  Be 
wise  and  go  to  your  room :  or  else  you  all  will  suffer  for  it. 

M.  Superior.  {She  looks  at  him  keenly  and  crosses  herself.  Then 
says,  with  a  sob)  Oh,  she  is  so  young  and  innocent!  Before  God,  on 
your  honor  as  a  man,  you  swear? 

Soldier.     Yes. 

M.  Superior.  {Raising  her  right  hand  in  resignation)  So  be 
it.     May  Heaven  keep  the  poor  child!     {She  retires.) 

Soldier.  {Returning  to  Joanne)  She's  gone,  and  I  can  only  stay 
a  little  while. 

Joanne.     Weren't  you  afraid? 

Soldier.     No. 

Joanne.     I  shall  be  terribly  scolded  for  disobeying. 

Soldier.     Are  you  sorry  now? 

Joanne.  No.  I  couldn't  go  to  bed.  I  wanted  to  talk  to  you  some 
more.  You've  lived  out  in  the  world  and  know  so  much.  I  often  ask 
the  sisters  questions,  but  they  never  tell  me  anything.  They  say,  "Never 
mind,  Joanne:  learn  to  think  upon  holy  things,  and  you  will  forget  the 
world."  But  somehow  I  don't  forget.  I  lie  awake  nights  and  think 
about  .  .  .  about  all  the  things  that  I  don't  know  of  .  .  .  That  sounds 
funny,  doesn't  it?     {She  smiles  perplexedly.) 

Soldier.  {He  takes  her  by  the  shoulders  and  looks  earnestly  into  her 
eyes.)     Joanne,  I  must  go  away  now. 

Joanne.     {In  surprise)  For  how  long? 

Soldier.     Forever,  I'm  afraid. 

Joanne.  Oh!  {sadly)  but  I  want  to  see  you  again!  Whom  are  you 
going  to?    Your  father  and  mother? 


106  The  Haveefordian 

Soldier.  No:  I'm  going  to  battle  and  my  duty.  I  have  no  father 
and  mother. 

Joanne.     I  haven't  either:    I  wonder  why  we  didn't  have  any? 

Soldier.  You  Httle  darHng!  {Suddenly  he  draws  her  to  him,  and 
enfolding  her  quietly  in  his  arms,  he  kisses  her  unresisting  lips.  There  is 
a  long  pause  as  he  slowly  releases  her.) 

Joanne.     (Suddenly)  Why  did  you  do  that? 

Soldier.  {Stung  by  her  words)  Oh,  I  don't  know!  Forgive  me, 
Joanne.     It  was  cowardly. 

Joanne.  Forgive  you  what?  It's  wonderful.  I  have  never  been 
kissed  like  that  before.     Do  all  men  kiss  like  that? 

Soldier.  I  don't  know.  I  don't  believe  so.  They  don't  all  have 
you  to  kiss.    {There  is  a  pause.   She  is  thinking  hard,  with  eyes  cast  down.) 

Joanne.  {Joyftdly,  at  last)  I  shall  always  be  here  if  you  march  by 
again.  If — if  you  send  the  mother  superior  to  her  room  so  she  will  not 
find  us,  I  will  meet  you  in  the  garden  by  the  rose-bushes.  {She  steps 
close  to  him  and  looks  seriously  into  his  eyes.)  You  will  not  forget  me 
when  you're  out  in  the  world? 

Soldier.  Forget  you!  Oh  God,  no!  I  won't  forget  the  little 
girl  for  whom  I  cast  aside  my  duty.  Tell  the  mother  superior  to  say  a 
prayer  to  you  for  the  safety  of  this  convent.  Tell  her  that  I  didn't  hurt 
you.  Good  night,  my  little  white  angel.  {He  takes  her  in  his  arms 
again,  and  hers  steal  about  his  neck.  Then  without  a  word  he  goes  to  the 
window.) 

Joanne.  Soldier!  Will  the  others  kiss  me  like  you  did  when  they 
come? 

Soldier.  {Half  angrily)  No,  Joanne!  The  others  will  not  come. 
{He  waves  his  hand  from  outside  the  window.)     Good-bye,  sweetheart! 

Joanne.  {She  watches  him  disappear,  sighs  deeply  and  stretches 
her  arms  out  to  the  moon.)  Good  night,  you  dear  old  moon.  I  '11  sleep  now, 
and  perhaps  .  .  .  {She  throws  her  golden  head  back  and  laughs  softly.) 
I'll  kiss  him  in  my  dreams. 

Curtain. 

— Colby  Van  Dam,  '17. 


0UX  ^outtjern  ^oets; 

EDGAR  Allen  Poe  had  a  conviction  that  there  was  no  equal  chance 
for  the  native  writers  of  the  South.  Perhaps  he  felt  that  her 
poets  were  too  remote  from  literary  centers  to  keep  up  with  the 
world's  progressive  changes.  Sad  to  say,  his  unfortunate  prediction  has 
proved  only  too  true.  Our  Southern  poets  must  feel  rather  neglected 
in  their  remote  corner  of  the  Hall  of  Poesy.  So  "far  from  the  madding 
crowd,"  don't  you  know! 

However,  if  the  patron  of  verse  has  sufficient  assiduity,  he  (or  she) 
will  unravel  that  puzzling  injunction  of  the  Librarian,  which  is  usually 
preceded  by  a  moment  of  indecision  and  puckering  of  the  brow, — 
— "Hayne?  Oh,  yes!  Straight  down  the  middle  aisle  to  shelf  9,999, — 
then  turn  to  your  right  several  times.  He  is  bound  to  be  there."  "As- 
surance bred  from  conviction,  my  friend !  The  Librarian  knows.  Hayne 
is  never  removed. 

With  the  use  of  your  convertible  handkerchief-dustcloth  you  dis- 
inter the  titles.  Ah!  on  the  top  shelf!  Sweet  oblivion!  There  they  are: 
the  entire  coterie  from  the  land  of  marsh  and  pine — Hayne,  Timrod, 
Lanier,  Cawein.  Reverentially  open  them,  these  poets  of  a  lost  cause. 
Instinctively  you  take  the  first  chronologically  and  there  you  have  him 
— Paul  Hamilton  Hayne,  1831-86.  "A  chief  singer  of  the  second  grade". 
Second  grade  he  may  be  (Poe  is  of  course  first) ;  nevertheless 
Hayne  displays  the  wealth  and  warmth  of  the  Southern  landscape,  the 
loneliness  of  the  pine  barrens,  and  the  swish  of  the  Southern  sea,  with 
a  lyric  beauty  rivaling  in  some  instances  the  best  of  Swinburne.  His 
nature  poems  and  poems  of  peaceful  life  are  better  than  his  war  songs. 
"In  Harbor"  is  a  swan-song  which  combines  the  sentiment  of 
"Crossing  the  Bar"  with  the  sonorous  cadence  of  Swinburne's  "Garden 
of  Proserpine." 

"  I  feel  it  is  over!  over! 

For  the  winds  and  the  waters  surcease; 

Ah,  few  were  the  days  of  the  rover 

That  smiled  in  the  beauty  of  peace, 

And  distant  and  dim  was  the  omen 

That  hinted  redress  or  release! 

From  the  ravage  of  life,  and  its  riot, 

What  marvel  I  yearn  for  the  quiet 

Which  hides  in  the  harbor  at  last, — 

For  the  lights,  with  their  welcoming  quiver 


108  The  Haverfordian 

That  throbs  through  the  sanctified  river 

Which  girdles  the  harbor  at  last, 

This  heavenly  harbor  at  last." 
Like  sailing  from  a  choppy  sea  into  the  waters  of  a  quiet  lagoon,  is 
the  change  from  Hayne  to  the  next  Southern  lyricist — Henry  Timrod, 
1829-67.  His  little  book  of  verse,  which,  by  the  way,  was  first  edited 
by  Hayne,  is  so  good  that  we  are  led  to  speculate  on  the  possibilities 
which  might  have  been  realized  if  the  life  had  been  prolonged  of  one  who 
communed  so  vividly  with  the  Spirit  of  Nature.  Instance  these  lines 
from  "Spring": 

"At  times  a  fragrant  breeze  comes  floating  by, 

And  brings,  you  know  not  why, 

A  feeling  as  when  eager  crowds  await 

Before  a  palace  gate 

Some  wondrous  pageant;  and  you  scarce  would  start 

If  from  a  beech's  heart, 

A  blue-eyed  Dryad,  stepping  forth,  should  say, 

'Behold  me!  I  am  May!'  " 
And  again,  the  creative  and  playful  side  of  his  genius  is  evinced 
in  "The  Serenade": 

"Hide,  happy  damask,  from  the  stars. 
What  sleep  enfolds  behind  your  veil, 

But  open  to  the  fairy  cars 

On  which  the  dreams  of  midnight  sail";. . . 
His  best  poems  are  "The  Cotton  Boll,"  "The  Lily  Confidante," 
and  "  Carolina."  In  the  first  of  these  is  revealed  the  mystic  charm  of  the 
tractless  stretches  of  "tropical  snow."  It  is  a  eulogistic  description  of 
the  Southern  landscape  during  the  cotton  bloom,  through  the  eyes 
of  a  man  whose  poetic  quality  is  of  the  highest  order,  and  whose  tender 
melancholy  never  assumes  a  Byronic  bitterness. 

"Bear  witness  with  me  in  my  song  of  praise. 

And  tell  the  world  that,  since  the  world  began. 

No  fairer  land  hath  fired  a  poet's  lays. 

Or  given  a  home  to  man!" 
The  "Lily  Confidante"  is  one  of  the  most  beautiful  lyrics  of  our 
literature — that  is,  speaking  of  our  own,  simon-pure,  home-grown, 
indigenous  literature.  Perfect  simplicity  and  a  delicacy  of  imagination, 
not  without  fervor,  lend  a  charm  to  this  poem,  which  makes  you  feel 
that  it  was  spontaneous  and  glided  from  the  brain  without  force  or  cod- 
dling stimuli.  It  symbolizes  the  purity  of  passion,  which  is  voiced  by 
the  reply  of  a  lily  to  a  puzzled  lover : 


Our  Southern  Poets  109 

"Lily!  lady  of  the  Garden! 

Let  me  press  my  lip  to  thine! 
Love  must  tell  its  story,  Lily! 
Listen  thou  to  mine." 
Evanescent  and  intangible  as  it  is,  the  moral  of  this  poem  has  a 
sacred  inspiration: 

"Love's  the  lover's  only  magic, 

Truth  the  very  subtlest  art; 
Love  that  feigns,  and  lips  that  flatter. 
Win  no  modest  heart." 
When  the  trumpet  of  war  sounded,  and  "the  shot  heard  round 
the  world"  was  fired,  Timrod's  reflective  genius  was  transmuted  by  the 
touch  of  patriotism  into  the  clarion  strains  of  "Carolina."     Aside  from 
its  local  color,  this  poem  has  a  distinctive  merit  from  the  standpoint  of 
art.     Its  outbursts  of  lyric  passion: 

"I  hear  a  murmur  as  of  waves 
That  grope  their  way  through  sunless  caves, 
Like  bodies  struggling  in  their  graves, 
Carolina! 

"And  now  it  deepens,  slow  and  grand 
It  swells,  as,  rolling  to  the  land. 
An  ocean  broke  upon  thy  strand, 
Carolina! 

"Shout!  let  it  reach  the  startled  Huns! 

And  roar  with  all  thy  festal  guns! 

It  is  the  answer  of  thy  sons, 
Carolina!" 
vie  with  "Scots  Wha  Hae  wi'  Wallace  Bled,"  in  their  tension  and  lyric 
conception.  And  the  faint  tinge  of  regret  that  imbues  the  early  part 
of  the  poem  is  like  "The  Harp  That  Once  through  Tara's  Halls,"  until 
it  bursts  forth  into  a  grand,  triumphal  symphony,  and  ends  with  the 
impassioned    finale : — 

"  Fling  down  thy  gauntlet  to  the  Huns, 

And  roar  the  challenge  from  thy  guns; 

Then  leave  the  future  to  thy  sons, 
Carolina!" 
Sidney  Lanier,  1842-81,  the  best-known  poet  of  the  South,  is  dear 
to  an  audience  which  is  more  than  few.     Edmund  Clarence  Stedman 
characterizes  him  as  "the  host  so  buoyant,  so  sympathetic;   the  South- 


110  The  Haverfordian 

erner  nervous  and  eager,  with  dark  hair  and  silken  beard,  features 
delicately  moulded,  pallid  complexion,  hand  of  the  slender ,white,  artistic 
type."  His  verse  shows  the  spirit  of  the  time,  and  is  the  true  "land 
song."  His  great  mistake  was  an  attempt  to  theorize  in  verse,  and  to 
essay  verbal  feats  which  dwindle  into  mere  recitative. 

His  best  productions,  unsullied  by  rhythmical  extravaganza,  con- 
tain such  poems  as  "The  Song  of  the  Chattahoochee,"  which  is  similar 
to  the  haunting  lines  of  "Ulalume,"  and  the  stirring  ballad,  "The  Re- 
venge of  Hamish."  "The  Stirrup  Cup"  is  a  lyric  gem,  and  "Tampa 
Robins"  not  far  below  it.  The  poem  by  which  he  is  best  remembered 
is  the  resonant  but  somewhat  nebulous  "  Marshes  of  Glynn."  It  is  said 
that  meat  of  many  varieties  composes  the  carcass  of  a  turtle.  If  the 
far-fetched  metaphor  is  excusable,  it  may  be  said  that  this  testudinate 
poem  contains  some  of  the  virility  of  Whitman,  the  spirituality  of  Emer- 
son, and  the  melodiousness  of  Poe.  ("Food  for  thought,"  Oliver  Wen- 
dell would  say!)  The  background  of  the  poem  is  the  great  marshes  of 
the  Georgian  coast.  The  poet  has  spent  the  day  in  "arched  walks  of 
twilight  groves"  and  comes  at  sunset  to  gaze  upon  the  unlimited  marshes. 
Then, 

"Oh,  what  is  abroad  in  the  marsh  and  the  terminal  sea? 
Somehow  my  soul  seems  suddenly  free 
From  the  weighing  of  fate  and  the  sad  discussion  of  sin, 
By  the  length,  and  the  breadth,  and  the  sweep  of  the  marshes  of  Glynn." 
Aspiration,  inquiry,  longing,  come  flooding  into  the  poet's  heart 
and  he  says: 

"And  I  would  I  could  know  what  swimmeth  below  when  the  tide  comes  in 
On  the  length  and  the  breadth  of  the  marvelous  marshes  of  Glynn." 

Last,  but  not  least  (this  expression  has  been  used  before,  I  believe), 
is  Madison  Cawein.  His  death  but  a  few  months  ago  makes  the  memory 
of  his  life  more  vivid.  Cawein  is  essentially  a  lyricist.  His  poems  abound 
in  delightful  imagery  and  delicate  fancy.  One  almost  looks  to  see  the 
wood-fairies  come  stepping  from  his  verses,  so  light  is  the  gossamer  of 
their  composition. 

"Summer's  Close"  is  a  good  example  of  his  art: 

"  The  melancholy  of  the  woods  and  plains 

When  summer  nears  its  close:  the  drowsy,  dim, 

Unfathomed  sadness  of  the  mists  that  swim 

About  the  valleys  after  night-long  rains; 

The  humming  garden,  with  its  tawny  chains 

Of  gourds  and  blossoms,  ripened  to  the  brim; 

And  then  at  eve  the  low  moon's  quiet  rim, 


Our  Southern  Poets 


111 


And  the  slow  sunset,  zvhose  one  cloud  remains, 
Fill  me  with  peace,  that  moves  as  in  a  dream 
'  Mid  fancies  sweeter  than  it  knows  or  tells: 
That  sees  and  hears  with  other  eyes  and  ears. 
And  walks  with  Memory  beside  a  stream 
That  flows  through  fields  of  fadeless  asphodels." 
"  It  is  not  the  dark  place  but  the  dim  eye  that  hinders,"  said  Thomas 
Carlyle;   and  this  is  where  our  Southern  lyricists  triumph.     They  not 
only  had  their  lofty  ideals,  but,  "with  an  unfaltering  trust,"  they  trod 
their  aerial  paths,  beset  on  all  sides  by  the  powers  of  disease  and  ill- 
fortune.     There  is  a  deep  pathos  in  the  lives  of  those  who  live  above 
the  difficulties  of  their  environment,  and  with  the  soul's  sky  unclouded, 
escape  the  morbid  hypochondria  so  easy  to  succumb  to. 

Is  their  poetry  minor?  True,  it  is  not  comparable  with  "ye" 
eighteenth  century  rhyming  bombasts,  and  there  is  not  much  of  "the 
light  that  lies"  in  it.  But  if  you  want  a  rest,  if  you  have  a  Waltonian 
temperament  and  want  to  escape  from  the  rushing  rivers  of  Shakespeare- 
Byron-Keats-Browning  (I  take  variety!)  poetry;  if  you  are  content  to 
pass  a  little  time  at  the  fountain  sources  of  unadulterated  poesy; — then, 
friend,  throw  off  your  cloak  of  daily  care,  choose  a  shady  tree  in  a  sunny- 
world,  and  take  the  hour,  the  place  and — the  Southern  poets! 

Martyrs  of  a  fallen  cause !  How  better  can  a  conclusion  be  reached 
than  by  a  verse  of  their  own  composition? — 

"Stoop,  angels,  hither  from  the  skies! 

There  is  no  holier  plot  of  ground 
Than  where  defeated  valor  lies, 
By  mourning  beauty  crowned!" 

— Robert  Gibson,  '17. 


Her  Eeal  ?|ero 

A  SULTRY  day  in  late  August.  The  heat  of  heaven  and  the 
heat  from  the  earth — one  might  say  from  the  molten  fires 
beneath  the  crust  of  the  earth — seemed  to  meet  in  waves  just 
above  the  pavements.  There  was  a  lethargy  of  the  tropics  over  all 
Nature.  A  tall,  broad-shouldered  young  fellow  stepped  out  of  the 
procession  of  sweltering  humanity  and  entered  a  shop  well  protected 
from  the  glare  by  low-hanging  awnings. 

Inside,  he  paused  to  wipe  the  moisture  from  his  hat  and  forehead. 
It  was  shady  and  cool  in  the  shop,  and  the  temperature  was  made  even 
more  comfortable  by  the  antique  atmosphere  of  the  place.  The  walls 
were  lined  with  great  glass  closets,  which  were  filled  with  violins  and 
violas  of  all  kinds,  and  descriptions,  old  and  new.  About  the  corners 
of  the  room  were  basses  and  'cellos,  leaning  against  the  cases. 

At  the  sound  of  the  door,  a  man  who  had  been  completely  hidden 
in  the  depths  of  a  rickety  old  desk  chair  well-lined  with  cushions  stepped 
forward.  He  was  still  showing  the  drowsy  effects  of  the  sleep  from  which 
he  had  been  aroused.  He  was  short,  very  stout,  a  man  never  to  be  mis- 
taken for  anything  but  a  German.  His  head  was  massive  and  topped  by 
thin,  almost  white  hair.  His  face  was  one  to  be  remembered  because  of 
several  large  warts  and  deep-set,  shrewd  eyes. 

"Hello,  Pop,"  was  the  greeting  of  his  visitor,  a  fine-looking  chap  of 
about  twenty-five. 

"How  goes  it  with  you  today,  Fred?"  answered  the  older  man,  with 
a  strong  accent.  "  I  have  fixed  your  fiddle  for  you  so  that  the  G  string 
will  rattle  no  more.  It  needs  a  heavier  string,  though;  shall  I  put  it 
on?"  And  he  went  to  a  showcase  to  get  the  required  article.  Then 
they  went  back  into  the  workroom  to  fix  up  the  violin. 

Here,   everything   was   in  orderly  confusion, — masculine   confusion, 
one  might  say. 

Dust,  dirt,  and  wood-shavings  littered  the  floor.  Upon  the  walls 
were  hanging  odd  pieces  of  well-seasoned  wood,  and  above  them  were 
shelves,  piled  high  with  many  cardboard  boxes,  all  rudely  labeled.  If 
one  had  taken  out  the  modern  lathe  and  other  improved  tools,  the  shop 
might  have  stood  as  a  representation  of  the  one  in  which  the  elder  Amati 
and  his  still  more  famous  pupils  Guanerius,  Ruggieri  and  Stradivarius 
worked  in  the  little  town  of  Cremona. 

The  task  was  soon  accomplished,  and  the  men  sat  then,  talking  of 
the  latest  developments  in  the  great  European  war.     Suddenly  they 


He«  Real  Hero  113 

heard  the  shop  bell  and  then  the  sound  of  footsteps  coming  along  the 
hall  to  the  back  room.  In  another  moment  a  slender,  rather  energetic 
young  fellow  came  into  the  room.  He  was  short,  and  bore  the  unmis- 
takable features  of  the  Germanic  people  in  his  handsome  face.  He 
formed  a  very  striking  contrast  to  the  previous  visitor,  who  was  taller, 
of  a  heavier  build,  more  quiet  and  reserved  in  actions  and  speech.  Soon 
the  three  were  engaged  in  conversation  over  the  all-absorbing  topic  of 
the  war.  Later,  they  began  to  discuss  the  prospects  of  the  coming  con- 
cert season,  for  the  younger  men  were  both  important  members  of  the 
orchestra.  Throughout  the  afternoon  they  sat  and  talked,  until,  as 
the  whistles  of  the  outside  world  began  to  blow,  all  arose  to  go,  the  old 
man  to  his  home  in  the  suburbs,  and  his  companions  to  their  boarding- 
houses  in  the  city  district. 

"I  suppose  that  I  shall  see  you  both  again  this  evening, "  said  old 
Mr.  Holtz,  as  Fred  Siegal  and  his  friend  Karl  Hofmann,  the  last  arrival, 
were  departing.  Then,  to  himself,  with  a  wave  of  his  heavy  pipe — "They 
are  good  boys,  they  have  talent,  and  tone,  and  technique.  I  hope  that  my 
daughter  realizes  that  both  of  them  love  her,"  he  added  as  an  afterthought. 

Rembrandt  would  have  had  a  beautiful  subject  for  a  study  in  light 
and  shadow  if  he  could  have  been  in  the  parlor  of  Mr.  Holtz  that  evening. 
Despite  the  heat,  Holtz,  his  daughter,  and  the  two  young  men  had 
gathered  for  a  little  music,  as  had  been  their  custom  for  over  a  year. 
What  a  picture  it  would  have  made!  Fred,  no  longer  quiet  and  reserved, 
but  putting  all  his  latent  language  into  his  violin;  Karl,  entranced  in  a 
poetic  languor  and  bending  over  the  body  of  his  'cello  as  a  mother  bends 
over  the  cot  of  her  babe;  Holtz,  his  newspaper  cast  aside,  held  spell- 
bound by  the  noble  strains  of  Beethoven's  "Archduke"  trio;  and 
Gretta  Holtz  at  the  piano.  How  can  one  do  justice  to  the  single  picture 
that  she  made!  First,  one  was  struck  by  the  marked  contrast  between 
father  and  child,  for  Adolf  Holtz  was  essentially  Teutonic  in  feature, 
while  Gretta  was  Spanish.  Small,  almost  a  child  in  stature,  a  perfect 
oval  face,  with  a  fine  olive  complexion  and  dull,  black  hair, — she  was  a 
perfect  Castilian  beauty.     Nothing  about  her  suggested  her  ancestors. 

For  long  over  an  hour  the  thirst  for  music  was  unsatiated  and 
melody  continued  to  flow  from  the  parlor.  Finally,  however,  the  young 
artists  went  out  on  the  cool  piazza  and  sat  on  the  steps  to  enjoy  the 
refreshing  breeze  which  had  sprung  up.  Their  conversation  was  spas- 
modic, and  finally  drifted  from  one  topic  to  the  other  to  the  subject 
of  the  war  and  the  large  enlistment  of  patriots  who  were  giving  up  their 
fine  prospects  to  go  to  the  Fatherland. 

"  If  I  hadn't  been  born  in  America,  and  if  they  would  take  me,  I 


114  The  Haverfordian 

would  enlist  tomorrow.     Wouldn't  you  do  that,  also,  Fred?"  said  the 
impetuous  Karl. 

"I  would  not  go  if  I  were  back  in  Germany  and  a  citizen  there. 
I  wouldn't  go  if  I  had  to,"  answered  his  friend  firmly. 

It  was  as  if  a  bomb  from  war-ridden  Europe  had  dropped  in  their 
midst. 

"How  is  that?"     blurted  out  Karl  in  astonishment. 

"  I  believe  that  all  wars  are  unnecessary,  and  this  one  especially  so," 
was  the  response. 

Karl  looked  at  his  companion  with  surprise  in  his  face,  and  then 
glanced  at  Gretta. 

"There  is  nothing  nobler  than  to  fight  for  one's  country,"  she  said, 
with  her  head  high  and  eyes  gleaming.  "I  only  wish  that  I  could  help 
now.  I  can't  just  understand  your  position,  Fred" — this  last  a  little 
stiffly. 

"I  am  sorry,  Gretta,"  said  Fred,  "but  I  don't  see  how  I  could  ever 
fight  against  men  with  whom  I  have  no  quarrel  and  whose  animal  in- 
stincts for  blood  have  been  aroused  by  soft-fleshed  and  soft-hearted 
wretches  in  order  that  their  own  battles  may  be  waged  for  them  under 
the  glorious  name  of  patriotism.  That  word  has  been  sadly  misused 
for  generations." 

At  these  words,  Mr.  Holtz  came  out  on  the  porch  and  took  a  seat. 

"I  have  just  overheard  your  last  few  words,"  he  said.  "I  have 
a  little  story  to  tell  you.  While  I  was  an  apprentice  in  the  old  country 
I  came  of  military  age.  A  friend  of  mine  and  I  decided  to  resist  the  ser- 
vice at  any  cost.  When  we  were  called  for  duty  we  did  not  respond,  and 
the  officers  came  for  us.  We  fled,  but  were  overtaken,  and  my  com- 
panion was  captured.  I  hid  myself  in  a  stable  and  was  forced  to  look 
on  helplessly  while  he  was  tortured  and  shot  to  pieces  by  a  squad  of 
maddened  soldiers  who  stood  only  ten  feet  from  him.  He  died  a  hero's 
death,  I  think." 

"Of  course  there  was  a  mistake  and  the  officers  were  court-martialed 
for  not  taking  him  before  the  judge,  but  nothing  came  of  the  matter  and 
there  was  no  redress.  And  so  I  came  to  America  with  a  terrible  horror 
of  war.  This  war  which  we  have  now  is  not  being  waged  by  the  real 
valor  of  men,  but  rather  by  the  terrible  and  ferocious  armaments  built 
by  the  ingenuity  of  science." 

There  was  a  breathless  silence  at  the  finish  of  his  story. 

"I'm  sorry,  sir,  but  I  can't  agree  with  you,  and  I  certainly  would 
enlist  if  I  thought  that  I  could,"  said  Karl  impatiently. 

"And  I  too,"  said  the  old  man's  daughter  proudly  and  calmly. 


Her  Real  Hero  115 

Fred  remained  silent  and  gazed  at  Gretta  witii  a  face  that  was  full 
of  sorrow  and  anxiety. 

A  little  later  she  bade  her  callers  goodnight;  Karl,  with  warmth  and 
a  smile, — Fred,  so  coldly  that  he  turned  aside  with  tightened  lips  and 
hastened  after  his  companion. 

A  month  has  come  and  gone.  And,  with  the  quickened  air  of  the 
autumn,  have  come  an  unrest  and  a  wavering  to  Gretta's  conscience. 
She  has  allowed  an  ever-widening  gap  to  come  between  Fred  and  herself 
because  of  his  words  that  August  night.  She  considered  that  he  spoke 
as  a  coward  and  as  a  man  who  lacked  patriotism.  And,  what  is  worse, 
she  has  looked  more  or  less  askance  at  her  own  father. 

And  yet,  as  she  considers  the  matter  one  October  morning,  there 
was  something  about  the  man  which  refuted  the  suspicion  of  cowardice. 
She  looked  back  over  her  intimacy  with  him.  He  had  always  been  a 
silent  background  for  the  wit  and  brilliance  of  the  more  dashing  Karl. 
He  had  nearly  always  come  to  the  house  with  Karl,  and  she  could  re- 
member only  a  very  few  times  when  he  had  escorted  her  to  a  dance  or  to 
the  orchestra.  And  on  those  occasions  she  had  found  him  ever  courteous 
and  kind ;  but  never  had  she  received  the  least  expression  of  sentiment 
from  him.  Yet  once  or  twice  she  had  glanced  at  him  suddenly  and  had 
surprised  him  in  the  act  of  gazing  at  her  with  a  wonderful  look  of  admi- 
ration on  his  face.  At  these  times  she  had  been  forced  to  lower  her  eyes, 
for  words  do  not  always  convey  as  much  meaning  to  a  woman  as  a  look. 

She  had  always  thought  Karl  the  better  musician  until  a  certain 
evening  last  May.  While  waiting  for  Karl  to  make  up  their  trio,  Fred 
had  played  her  father's  favorite  selection  for  him.  Gretta  had  never 
heard  the  beautiful  "Prize  Song"  played  better,  in  fact  he  had  inspired 
her  so  that  she  had  neglected  the  piano  to  listen  to  the  wonderful  melody. 

On  another  occasion,  during  the  preceding  spring,  she  had  been 
further  surprised  when  the  conductor  of  the  orchestra  had  changed  his 
program  and  had  played  a  symphonic  poem  composed  by  Fred.  His 
work  had  astounded  the  critics  and  had  held  the  audience  spell-bound 
as  it  was  being  performed.  And  so,  as  the  days  came  and  went,  she 
was  sorry  for  her  conduct  and  doubted  if  she  had  been  kind  to  put  him 
aside  so  coldly.     And  yet — 

Then,  to  add  to  her  dilemma,  she  had  acted  queerly  with  Karl. 
She  had  ever  given  him  reason  to  suppose  that  he  had  her  affection,  and 
so  he  had  proposed  only  last  night.  She  had  fully  intended  to  accept 
him  until  the  words  were  out  of  her  mouth.  He  had  asked  and  pleaded 
with  her  in  his  passionately  sincere  way  and  she  was  deeply  moved. 


116  The  Haverfordian 

But  there  is  a  goddess,  a  whimsical  goddess,  who  has  care  over  maidens 
in  similar  situations.  And  that  goddess  completely  upset  all  her  senti- 
ment and  intentions  by  causing  her  to  ask  him  to  wait  a  week  for  his 
answer. 

Karl  had  gone  away  half-heartedly,  for  he  could  not  help  but  re- 
member: "By-and-by  leadeth  to  the  road  Never." 

And  so  it  was  a  dejected  young  lady  who  set  out  alone,  a  few  nights 
later,  for  the  concert;  for  she  thought  that  she  might  gain  some  small 
solution  of  her  many  problems  in  the  music. 

The  orchestra  was  playing  the  "Pathetique"  symphony  that  even- 
ing. It  is  one  of  the  greatest  works  of  its  kind  ever  composed,  and  in 
the  first  movement  are  several  great  climaxes  in  which  the  grief-stricken 
soul  is  supposed  to  be  struggling  for  the  solace  and  calm  in  the  beautiful 
melody  of  the  Andante.  It  was  during  one  of  these  mighty  clashes  of 
tone  color,  and  the  audience  was  held  spell-bound  and  did  not  notice  the 
unusually  sharp  report  which  rang  out  suddenly.  They  thought,  per- 
haps, that  it  was  a  part  of  the  Tympani. 

But,  in  another  moment,  all  were  startled  by  a  shriek,  and  the 
sight  of  a  man  leaping  on  the  stage  from  a  box.  Thus  orchestra  and 
crowd  sat  entranced  while  the  assassin  backed  slowly  across  the  stage 
toward  the  wing  door.  As  he  neared  the  desks  of  the  first  violins  there 
was  a  slight  stir.  A  tall  man  arose  and  laid  his  instrument  aside.  He 
stepped  out  upon  the  free  space  of  the  platform  before  the  criminal  saw 
him  and  brought  his  revolver  about  to  cover  him. 

For  a  brief  instant  both  men  stood  there  looking  at  one  another, 
and  then  the  violinist  lowered  his  head.  Then  there  was  the  confusion 
of  a  dark  body  which  dove  towards  the  man  with  the  gun,  the  quick 
report  of  that  gun,  and  smoke.  At  last  the  audience  awoke  from  the 
spell  and  screams  filled  the  place. 

The  next  move  in  this  drama,  which  had  all  been  enacted  in  about 
two  minutes,  was  the  arrival  of  two  clanging  motor  cars  outside  the 
building.  One  bore  the  assassin  to  custody  and  the  other  rushed  Fred 
Siegal's  limp  body  to  the  hospital. 

And  then  the  orchestra  finished  the  "Pathetique"  in  such  a  way  as 
to  make  it  almost  a  dirge  for  their  heroic  companion. 

The  next  day  the  papers  rang  with  the  deed,  and  all  the  more  so 
because  the  first  victim  had  been  a  wealthy  railroad  official  of  national 
repute.  The  millionaire  had  been  shot  through  the  heart  and  instantly 
killed,  but  the  bullet  intended  for  Fred  had  only  ploughed  along  the  top 
of  his  skull  as  he  dove  forward,  and  had  fractured  one  of  the  bones.  Even 
so,  he  lay  in  a  very  critical  condition  after  the  operation  which  had  been 
necessary  to  remove  the  crushed  spot  on  his  head. 


Her  Rkai.  Hero  117 

For  fixe  thus  (iretla  li\ctl  through  every  torture  of  remorse.  She 
hiul  wronged  an  honorable  man.  She  had  treated  a  hero  with  shameful 
cruelty.  How  could  she  e\er  make  the  least  mite  of  reparation?  Then, 
when  she  could  stand  it  no  longer,  she  slipped  off  in  an  opportune  mo- 
ment and  visited  the  hospital. 

She  was  led  into  a  small  anteroom  just  outside  the  single  ward  in 
which  Fred  la>-.  and  was  told  that  she  could  wait  there  until  the  injured 
man  awoke  from  sleep. 

"  He  is  doing  fineh,"  said  the  immaculate  nurse,  "and  he  is  perfecth' 
normal  when  he  is  awake,  but  he  sometimes  ra\'es  nost  violently  in  his 
sleep.  He  seems  to  have  been  under  a  heavy  mental  strain  and  this 
alTects  him  in  his  unconscious  spells.  Howe\'er,  he  will  soon  be  in  good 
shape,"  she  added  with  a  sympathetic  smile. 

Abo\e  the  muffled  hum  of  the  hospital  noises  and  the  murmurs  in 
the  general  wards,  Ciretta  was  sensilile  of  a  deep  groan  now  and  then, 
coming  from  the  ne.xt  room.  Of  a  sudden  she  heard  a  voice,  familiar 
and  yet  with  a  peculiar  gasping  tone,  speak  her  own  name. 

"Gretta,"  said  the  \oice,  "I  cannot  fax'or  war.  God  knows  I  live 
only  to  please  >()u  in  exerything  else.  But  I  am  a  coward."  There  was 
a  pause. 

"\'es,"  it  began  again,  "  I  am  a  cowartl,  for  you  think  so  and  nou  are 
ne\'er  wrong.  I  am  e\'en  a  coward  in  your  presence,  for  I  dare  not  say 
what  I  mean,  I  can  not  say  what  I  feel." — Then  in  a  deeper  tone — 
"God,  teach  me  how  to  speak  to  her  and  tell  her  how  I  love  her,  how  I 
dream  of  her,  how  I  wrote  the  music  for  her." — There  was  another  long 
pause,  during  which  Gretta  felt  that  she  must  cry  out  or  faint. — "Karl, 
my  friend,"  said  the  voice  with  a  sob,  "I  give  you  my  hand.  I  will  ever 
respect  you,  for  you  haxe  won  her.  Don't  fear,  old  man,  she  will  give 
her  consent;  she  was  only  startled  that  night.  She  loves  you  all  right. 
And  you  lo\-ed  her  enough  to  speak.  I  lo\'e  her  and  am  afraid  to  speak, 
to  e\-en  open  my  mouth.  Afraid!  Afraid  to  speak!  Karl,  my  friend, 
she  will  keep  her  word." 

A  gasp  came  from  the  now  sobbing  girl,  and  she  sprang  to  her  feet. 

This  man  lo\ed  her — always  had  loved  her.  She  now  realized  that 
she  loved  him.  But  tonight  she  had  pledged  her  word  to  keep  faith  with 
Karl. 

Her  l)rain  reeled  and  she  sank  limph-  into  the  chair.  What  should 
she  do.-*  She  lf)okefl  at  her  little  watch.  It  was  nearly  half-past  five  and 
outside,  the  early  October  evening  had  almost  driven  out  the  last  rays 
of  the  setting  sun.  Her  duty  lay  at  home  at  eight  o'clock,  when  Karl 
would   come   for  his  answer.      But   she   now   understood   her  real  soul: 


118  The  Haverfordian 

she  loved  the  man  in  the  next  room.  She  thought  quickly  and  her  bosom 
heaved  with  suppressed  emotion.  If  she  went  home  she  would  leave 
her  true  love  and  future  happiness  behind  her.  She  believed  that  she 
could  hardly  refuse  Karl  now.  And  yet,  that  was  a  way  out.  But 
no!  she  could  offer  no  reason  even  to  herself  for  so  doing.  It  would  not 
be  honorable.  Especially  since  she  had  almost  encouraged  him.  And 
if  she  refused  him  and  married  Fred  he  would  hate  her  and  his  old  friend. 
He  was  a  gentleman,  but  he  was  a  man.  If  she  stayed  she  would  find  true 
peace,  but  she  might  be  tortured  in  soul  for  breaking  faith  with  the  friend 
of  the  man  she  married.  Either  way  seemed  to  lead  to  a  broken  heart 
and  sorrow.     Which  one  should  she  break? 

Suddenly,  her  frantic  thoughts  were  interrupted. 

"Miss  Holtz,  the  patient  can  see  you  now,"  said  the  nurse. 

Gretta  had  come  to  a  crossroads  in  her  journey  of  life. 

She  arose  and  stared  almost  blankly  at  the  nurse  for  a  moment, 
and  then  looked  abruptly  out  into  the  busy  street  below.  The  home- 
ward rush  of  the  workers  had  begun  and  the  street  was  twinkling  with 
lights  and  tinkling  with  bells. 

The  nurse  stood  silently  in  the  door  and  waited.  She  was  experi- 
enced in  the  whims  of  visitors  of  her  sex. 

Finally  Gretta  turned  about  with  a  smile  and  made  her  decision. 

Slowly  she  walked  through  the  door  which  took  her  to — 

— Edward  Thorpe,  Jr.,  '18. 


The  American    CoUc'^c.   nv    Isaac  Siiakpi.tcss.    Doubleday,   Page  &■   Co. 

The  object  of  Dr.  Sharpless'  new  hook,  "The  American  College," 
stated  in  the  Preface,  is  to  gi\e  a  "fair  idea  of  the  American  college  as 
distinct  from  the  university,  or  technological  school."  He  begins  with 
a  brief  Init  interesting  history  of  the  nine  Colonial  Colleges,  starting  with 
Har\ard  (1636),  and  ending  with  Dartmouth  (1764). 

With  the  exception  of  King's  (Columbia)  and  PennsyKania,  all 
were  founded  for  theological  reasons.  All  had  the  fixed  classical  course 
up  to  and  long  after  the  Re\'olulion,  and  they  set  thereby  the  standard 
for  American  collegiate  development. 

A  couple  of  characteristic  historic  details  which  add  zest  to  the 
reading  are  facts  such  as  the  original  fomiding  of  Yale  by  two  Harvard 
men,  and  the  experience  of  William  Smith,  Pennsylvania's  first  great 
Pro\-ost,  who  "c|uarrelled  with  the  Quaker  Legislature,  and  held  his 
classes  in  jail." 

The  second  chapter  is  de\otetl  to  explain  College  Administration, 
gi\'ing  first  a  general  discussion  of  college  standards  of  scholarship,  and 
disqualifying  from  further  argument  the  many  bogus  institutions  that 
pose  as  colleges  or  uni\-ersities,  whose  courses  and  granted  degrees 
are  ridiculous,  and  only  permitted  through  the  lack  of  any  legal  standard- 
ization. 

He  takes  up  then  the  Board  of  Directors,  the  President,  the  Fac- 
ulty, and   the  Alumni. 

For  the  first  are  needed  business  and  professional  men  of  good  com- 
mon sense;  the  President  should  be  a  man  of  high  ideals,  of  first-rate 
powers  of  leadership,  and  full  of  patience  and  perseverance.  A  mem- 
ber of  the  Faculty  ought  to  be,  "beside  a  teacher  and  a  scholar,  very  much 
of  a  man  .  .  .  he  will  need  to  possess  the  manners  and  feelings  of  a  gen- 
tleman, the  instincts  of  a  man  of  the  world,  the  personality  of  a  strong 
character,  and  the  sympathies  and  sense  of  dut\'  of  a  de\'otee." 

The  Alumni's  place  in  the  College  life  is  that  of  preserving  through 
their  organization,  a  "fine  spirit  of  affectionate  loyalty  and  co-oper- 
ation with  their  alma  mater."  Their  aid  is  a  very  great  factor  in  the 
acKancement  of  the  college  standards,  athletic  or  otherwise,  and  in 
helping  their  college  to  grow  materially. 

In  his  third  chapter,  the  College  courses  of  study  are  traced  from 


120  The  Haverfordian 

Colonial  days  with  their  iron-like  and  continued  rigidity  of  the  classical 
course,  consisting  of  Latin,  Greek,  Philosophy',  Theology,  and  Mathe- 
matics, to  the  great  revulsion,  about  1870.  Jefferson,  then  Tick- 
nor,  then  Edward  Everett  implanted  the  germ  of  electives.  With  the 
expansion  of  Harvard  after  the  Civil  War  and  the  founding  of  Cornell  in 
1869,  came  the  reveling  in  electives,  and  the  growth  of  graduate  schools. 

The  College  as  we  know  it  today  is  the  preserver  of  the  "general 
education"  idea,  giving  the  all-round  mental  discipline  which  those 
men  like  John  Adams  of  Har\'ard,  Jefferson  of  William  and  Mary, 
Hamilton  of  King's,  and  Madison  of  Princeton  all  had.  After  the  rush 
toward  the  elective  system,  the  reaction  seems  to  have  evolved  the 
idea  of  having  the  first  two  years  mostly  required  work,  and  the  last 
two  graded  off  with  more  and  more  electives. 

Chapter  four  takes  up  Student  Life.  At  the  beginning  there  was 
iron-clad  discipline.  Harvard  having  in  her  code  some  eighty-odd  pun- 
ishable offences.  But  with  the  growth  of  athletics  and  self-government 
the  student  life  has  less  and  less  friction  with  the  College  authorities. 
Some  of  the  great  influences  in  student  life  at  present  are  the  Y.  M.  C.  A., 
fraternities,  self-government,  the  honor  system,  and  athletics. 

The  final  chapter  is  rather  a  resume  of  specific  comment  on  the 
Function  of  the  College.  One  of  the  weak  spots  in  the  American  Col- 
leges is  the  tendency  to  turn  out  men  with  a  smattering  of  wide-spread 
knowledge,  but  definiteness  in  nothing. 

Their  great  function  is  summed  up  in  the  final  paragraph  .  .  . 
"more  emphatically,  too,  than  the  universities,  the  best  of  them  have 
stood  for  religious  character  and  for  correct  morals,  for  a  certain  simplicity 
and  honesty  of  purpose;  for  a  respect  for  learning  and  what  it  may 
bring  with  it;  for  a  greater  feeling  of  responsibility  to  make  of  their 
students  in  all  directions  all  that  they  are  capable  of  being;  and  for  a 
strong  sense  of  democracy  and  fraternity." 

To  end  our  re\'iew,  we  can  only  say  that  anyone  who  wants  a  full, 
accurate,  interesting,  li^'ing  picture  of  American  College  life  in  all  its  phases, 
let  him  read  the  book.  It  is  written  clearly,  wittily — and  directly  to  the 
point. 

—D.  C.  W.,  '16. 


THROUGH  THE  GLASSES 


In  this  number  of  ihc  H.wkrfordi.w  a  scenario  entitled  "Joanne" 
(with  apologies  to  "  Marie-Odile")  has  been  written,  and  perhaps  a 
word  of  explanation  may  not  be  out  of  place. 

"Marie-Odile"  is  by  Edward  Knoblauch,  and  if  it  has  not  added 
\ery  much  to  his  reputation,  nevertheless  his  ability  to  handle  an 
unsavory  subject  with  so  much  tact  as  not  to  offend  a  single  critic  is 
highly  to  be  commended. 

Marie-Odile  is  a  no\ice  in  a  convent ;  she  sweeps,  dusts  and  does 
chores,  cheerfully  waiting  on  the  nuns.  She  has  only  seen  two  men  in 
her  life:  old  Peter,  the  gardener,  and  Father  Fisher,  the  priest — evidently 
the  Mother  Superior  believes  in  the  bliss  of  ignorance,  for  Marie-Odile 
is  kept  ignorant  of  everything  save  her  quiet  life  and  duty  in  the  convent. 
The  Franco-Prussian  war  breaks  out  and  the  priest,  Father  Fisher, 
advises  all  the  nuns  to  escape,  for,  he  says,  a  regiment  of  Uhlans  is  in  the 
neighborhood.  All  the  nuns  flee,  except  Marie-Odile,  who  cannot  be 
found;  she  was  up  in  the  tower  and  did  not  know  of  anything.  Enter 
an  Uhlan  corporal,  sword  in  hand:  naive  Marie-Odile  falls  on  her  knees, 
thinking  him  to  be  Saint  Michael.  The  Uhlans  come  to  the  convent 
and  the  novice  cheerfully — as  always — waits  upon  them.  They  become 
coarse  and  call  upon  the  novice  for  a  toast:  "  May  God  bless  you  all  and 
send  you  back  to  your  mothers  safe  and  sound!"  she  says.  The  Uhlans 
admire  her  virtue  and  innocence  and  do  not  speak  coarsely.  Suddenly 
distant  guns  boom  and  the  men  rush  away  to  attack  the  enemy.  Saint 
Michael,  or  rather.  Corporal  Meissener,  stays  behind  and  a  great  love  is 
l)orn  between  soldier  and  novice;  but,  as  all  love  on  the  stage,  it  ends, 
for  he  must  go  and  fight. 

The  third  act  brings  the  Mother  Superior  back  to  the  convent, 
where  she  finds  Marie-Odile  and  her  child — a  baby,  which,  she  says,  is  a 
disgrace  to  the  convent.  The  novice  must  go — away  from  the  scene  of 
her  shame,  though,  poor  child,  she  understands  nothing.  Looking  inno- 
cently at  her  baby,  at  a  loss  how  to  act,  Marie-Odile  stumbles  out  into 
the  glory  of  the  sunshine,  groping  her  way  toward  "the  hope  beyond 
the  threshold." 

The  author  of  "Joanne"  has  handled  the  theme  rather  differently; 


122  The  Haverfordian 

and,  while  the  character  of  Marie-Odile  is  not  much  different  from  that 
of  Joanne,  the  corporal  gains  much.  Corporal  Meissner  was  a  tall  and 
handsome  Teuton,  ready  to  love  today  and  fight  tomorrow,  and  seeing 
how  pure  Marie-Odile  was,  however  great  the  mutual  love  between  them 
may  be,  he  is  not  justified  in  touching  her  person.  The  soldier  in 
"Joanne"  finds  the  novice  in  a  nightdress,  her  hair  over  her  back — 
not  a  novice  in  cap  and  gown  with  cross  and  rosary.  With  an  obvious 
efTort  he  controls  his  passion  and,  oblivious  of  his  duty  to  the  captain 
of  his  regiment,  he  will  leave  the  convent  without  any  information  as  to 
the  provisions  there;  the  soldiers  will  not  come  thither;  Marie-Odile  has 
saved  the  convent. 

Doubtless  the  most  beautiful  thing  in  the  story  is  the  figure  of  the 
soldier;  mastering  his  passionate  desire,  conquering  his  physical  love,  as 
he  departs  slowly  into  the  night,  with  nothing  against  his  name,  without 
having  caused  any  doubt,  sorrow  and  disgrace,  glorying  in  the  knowledge 
that  he  has  done  more  good  in  a  moment  than  in  a  life-time,  and  that  he 
has  left  behind  him  one  whose  immaculate  honor  and  purity  will  hence- 
forth be  devoted  to  the  service  of  her  God.  On  one  hand  Marie-Odile 
left  us  with  the  memory  of  her  love  in  the  shape  of  their  child,  and  we 
are  in  doubt  as  to  what  will  become  of  her;  on  the  other,  Joanne  will  live 
quietly,  never  forgetting  her  one  sweet  taste  of  love,  her  wonderful  kiss, 
nor  will  the  soldier  ever  have  cause  to  forget  his  own  token  of  their 
love — a  love  rendered  far  more  beautiful  by  the  brevity  of  its  duration, 
a  love  for  ever  a  comfort,  because  he  has  not  sacrificed  his  honor  for  its 
gratification.  — /.  G.   C.  Le  Clercq,  '18. 


'07  Godley,    captain    of    the    baseball 

An  informal  class  dinner  at  the      team. 


'09 


University  Club  was  arranged  by 
E.  R.  Tatnall  for  Tuesday  evening, 
March  30th.     The  following  mem-  ^he  engagement  was  announced 
bers  of    the  class  were    present:—  °"  Saturday,   April   3d,   of  James 
W.  H.  Haines,  J.  C.  Birdsall,  F.  D.  W.  Crowell  to  Miss  Helen  Cham- 
Godley,  S.  J.  Gummere,  C.  J.  Claas-  '^^rs,  of  West  Grove,  Pa. 
sen,  H.  H.  Shoemaker,  E.  R.  Tat- 
nall, Harold  Evans.  l-^ 

The  retiring  officers,  Harold  The  engagement  has  been  re- 
Evans,  president,  and  James  P.  cently  announced  of  E.  R.  Maule 
Magill,  secretary-treasurer,  were  to  Miss  Carrol  Seaver  Keay,  of 
re-elected,     as    was      Francis    D.  Clifton   Heights,   Pa. 


JLUMNI 


Editor  of  the  Haverfordian: — 

The  letter  from  Mr.  George  M. 
Pahiicr,  '97,  which  you  printed  in 
\()iir  Ajiril  issue,  seems  to  have 
l)een  an  interpretation  of  the  Haver- 
foril  of  iyi5  in  tiTms  of  the  Haver- 
ford  of  '91.  As  a  member  of  the 
Faculty  committee  on  elective  and 
recjuired  studies,  which  estabhshed 
a  new  elective  system,  taking  effect 
in  1914,  I  beg  a  little  space  in  order 
to  point  out  to  Mr.  Palmer  that, 
were  he  in  College  now,  he  would 
be  able  to  specialize  in  anticipa- 
tion of  his  business  career.  It 
is  beside  the  mark  to  speak  of  Mr. 
Palmer's  own  career,  and  the  alarm- 
ing threat  that  his  young  son  is  to 
be  depri\ed  of  the  privileges  of 
Haverford  at  some  subseciuent  date ; 
it  is  also  beside  the  mark  to  bring 
up  the  old  war-cry  of  vocational 
studies.  The  "Wisconsin  idea" 
is  proving  somewhat  of  a  delusion 
— it  has  not  enough  bottom  and 
solid  base  of  mind-training,  and 
such  a  keen  and  progressive  thinker 
as  President  Sparks  of  State  Col- 
lege is  building  into  his  university, 
with  every  new  >car,  more  and 
more  of  the  old-style  subjects. 
So  are  the  other  technical  schools, 
with  which  Haverford  cannot,  and 
does  not  wish  to,  compete.  Every 
Alumnus  of  Haverford  will  echo 
the  remarks  of  President  Sharpless 
at  Baltimore  on  April  16th:  "My 
ideal    for    Haverford    is,    first,    to 


make  the  College  a  place  of  general 
culture;  secondly,  to  develop  men 
who  have  a  serious  interest  in  the 
afifairs  of  the  world.  I  object  to 
more  than  a  moderate  amount  of 
\ocational  training  in  colleges  of 
Ha\erford's  type,  such  as  Amherst, 
Williams,  and   Hamilton." 

This  is  the  Haverford  ideal ;  and 
if  any  boy  professedly  needs  and 
demands  the  most  e.xpert  knowl- 
edge of  machinery,  or  metallurgy, 
or  agriculture,  he  had  better  go 
elsewhere. 

But  to  return  to  the  question  of 
courses.  A  chemical  laboratory 
of  the  latest  type  has  now  been  in 
full  swing  for  several  years.  And 
it  may  be  used  by  Freshmen  or  by 
Seniors.  According  to  the  present 
requirements,  properly  prepared 
Freshmen  are  urged  and  encour- 
aged to  take  Chemistry  I  in  the 
Freshman  year.  They  thus,  at  the 
completion  of  their  college  course, 
have  had  the  quantity  of  chemis- 
try which  would  take  them  into  the 
Junior  year  of  any  good  technical 
school,  or  into  the  graduate  de- 
partment of  a  university.  And 
this  under  Dr.  Hall,  whose  pupils 
have  been  successful  in  commercial 
chemistry  and  in  teaching;  they 
have  been  doing  the  world's  work 
well  since  1880,  and  they  include 
Theodore  W.  Richards,  '85,  one  of 
the  two  or  three  Americans  who 


124 


The  Haverfordian 


have  been  asked  to  occupy  chairs 
in  European  universities. 

The  Catalogue  shows  (pages  39 
foil.)  that  the  Freshman  can  begin 
chemistry  or  physics  or  any  other 
scientific  subject;  if  his  schedule 
makes  this  difficult,  a  petition  to  the 
Dean  will  allow  a  rearrangement, 
provided  the  student  be  capable. 
In  the  Sophomore  year,  as  you 
see  on  page  40,  the  scientist  can 
take  two  related  subjects,  aggre- 
gating eight  hours.  In  the  Junior 
and  Senior  year  a  still  further  in- 
crease is  possible.  The  committee 
above-mentioned,  working  at  the 
President's  suggestion,  made  it 
their  aim  to  produce  a  course  which 
gave  a  general  acquaintance  with 
many  subjects,  and  an  intimate 
acquaintance  with  at  least  one. 

Summing  up,  we  would  say  that 
Mr.  Palmer's  criticisms  and  those 
of  any  other  Alumnus,  are  always 
welcome  to  the  Faculty  of  Ha\er- 
ford  College,  and  we  hope  that 
any  interested  graduate  will  gi\e 
us  his  views,  in  the  Alumni  Quar- 
terly (which  is  the  proper  circulat- 
ing medium  for  such  articles). 
The  criterion  seems  to  me,  whether 
Haverford  is  li\ing  up  to  a  definite 
ideal  which  has  been  proved  to  be 
the  correct  ideal,  rather  than 
whether  that  ideal  ought  to  be 
changed. 

Very  truly  yours, 
Richard  M.  Gummere,  '02. 

Editor,  The  Haverfordian  : — 

Mr.  G.  M.  Palmer's  letter  in  the 
April  issue  of  the  Haverfordian 
has  been  extremely  interesting  to 


me.  It  is  needless  to  say  that  I  do 
not  agree  with  the  views  expressed 
by  Mr.  Palmer  in  that  letter;  if  I 
did,  I  should  not  be  writing  in 
reply. 

It  would  seem  to  me  that 
Mr.  Palmer  has  not  examined  a 
recent  catalogue  of  the  College,  or 
if  he  has  done  so,  he  has  let  what 
may  have  been  the  case  back  in 
'97 — I  do  not  know  the  circum- 
stances existing  at  that  time — 
blind  his  eyes  to  the  facts  as  they 
are  now.  Even  a  cursory  examina- 
tion of  the  latest  issue  of  our  cata- 
logue with  reference  to  the  courses 
offered  will  show  that  a  fellow 
entering  Haverford  need  not  nec- 
essarily be  seeking  "either  a  clas- 
sical education,  a  scientific  educa- 
tion to  fit  him  to  become  a  dabbler 
in  science  as  a  hobby,  or  a  culture 
course,"  nor  yet  "dissipate  his  time 
on  non-essentials  and  culture 
courses"  or  "wait  until  he  is 
through  college  before  starting  to 
prepare  for  the  realities." 

Neither  is  Mr.  Palmer's  com- 
parison between  Haverford  and  the 
Sheffield  Scientific  School  of  Yale 
University  a  fair  one.  In  the  first 
place,  the  Sheffield  Scientific 
School  is  not  a  college  department, 
but  rather  just  what  its  name  in- 
dicates; and  any  comparison 
between  Haverford  and  Yale 
should  be  made  between  Ha\-er- 
ford  and  the  academic  department 
of  the  latter  institution.  Further- 
more, the  Sheffield  Scientific  School 
does  not  now  offer  a  full  year's 
course  in  business  practice,  but 
beginning  with  the  next  collegiate 


Al.UMM 


125 


year,  it  will  offer  such  a  course  in 
its  graduate  dcpartnient.  It  is 
not  an  ecjuitable  proposition  to 
compare  the  undergraduate  de- 
partment of  one  institution  of  learn- 
ing with  the  graduate  department 
of  another.  The  undergraduate 
at  Yale — whether  of  the  academic 
or  scientific  departments — still  has 
to  go  to  a  graduate  school  in  order 
to  get  his  business  education;  so 
wherein  has  he  any  advantage  over 
the  undergraduate   at   Ha\erford.-' 

i  think  that  Mr.  Palmer  has 
missed  the  trend  of  the  times  with 
reference  to  strictly  technical  edu- 
cation. I  am  not  one  of  those 
Haverfordians  who  look  "with  a 
great  deal  of  contempt  upon  the 
utilitarian  in  learning";  for  I  went 
to  Ha\erford  with  the  idea  of  going 
into  business  upon  the  completion 
of  my  college  course,  which  I  have 
done;  and  I  can  consciously  trace 
e\'ery  week  a  half-dozen  or  more 
instances  wherein  1  ha\e  been 
directly  benefited  b\-  my  course  at 
College. 

Two  or  three  years  ago  an  official 
of  the  Pennsylvania  Railroad  Com- 
pany issued  a  statement  to  the 
effect  that  their  engineers  and 
scientific  men  were  too  strictly 
technical,  that  they  had  specialized 
so  much  on  the  purely  scientific 
end  of  railroad  work  that  they 
could  not  see  the  proper  co-ordina- 
tion of  each  department  one  with 
another,  that  they  did  not  know- 
enough  about  the  broad  fundamen- 
tal principles  underlying  present 
economic  conditions.  At  the  con- 
clusion of  this  statement  the  official 


in  question  said  that  he  hoped  all 
college  men  who  were  training  to 
enter  the  service  of  that  great  cor- 
poration, would  take  at  least  one 
>'ear's  general  college  work  before 
taking  up  the  strictly  technical 
engineering  courses  which  they 
would  have  to  study. 

So  generally  is  this  truth  becom- 
ing recognized  that  institutions 
like  the  Massachusetts  Institute 
of  Technology  and  the  Ihiiversity 
of  Wisconsin  are  offering  what  they 
term  courses  in  "commercial  en- 
gineering," which  coml)ine  the 
features  of  strictly  technical  educa- 
tion together  with  a  study  of  the 
principles  underlying  our  present 
economic    regime. 

Because  Haverford  does  not  de- 
vote a  number  of  pages  in  its  cata- 
logue to  listing  a  large  number  of 
differently  named  courses  of  study, 
does  not  signify  that  utilitarian 
courses  are  not  offered  at  Haver- 
ford. I  \enture  to  suggest  that, 
with  the  present  elective  system 
now  in  use  at  Haverford,  one  might 
make  up  a  four  years'  course  of 
study  which  would  include  suffi- 
cient engineering,  economic,  math- 
ematical,and  natural  science  courses 
of  study  to  make  such  a  course  of 
extreme  practical  value.  It  would 
of  course  not  go  so  much  into  detail 
as  the  commercial  engineering 
course  at  Massachusetts  Tech., 
for  example,  but  there  is  still 
enough  there  to  give  a  fellow  a  good 
four  years'  course  with  plenty  of 
hard  work  in  it. 

Much  the  same  situation  exists 
with  reference  to  exclusively  com- 


126 


The  Haverfordian 


<;:^^ '  mercial    courses    of    study.       The 

best  work  in  this  Hne  is  being  done 
in  the  graduate  schools  of  the 
larger  institutions.  On  the  other 
hand  an  examination  of  the  courses 
offered  by  those  institutions  which 
offer  undergraduate  work  in  this 
department  will  bring  to  light  the 
fact  that  there  is  a  tendency  on 
the  part  of  such  institutions  to 
teach  a  little  about  a  great  number 
of  subjects  without  sufficient  em- 
phasis on  any  one  of  them.  This 
tendency  is  exhibited  most  clearly 
in  the  number  of  two-hour  courses 
offered  either  for  a  full  year  or  a 
half-year. 

I  have  appended  below  a  model 
course  which  might  be  pursued  by  a 
fellow  entering  Haverford  at  the 
present  time  with  the  idea  of  en- 
tering mercantile  life  on  the  com- 
pletion of  his  course.  I  think  most 
people  will  agree  with  me  that  the 
number  of  purely  culture  courses 
listed  in  that  model  is  very  small 
indeed.  As  I  said  before,  I  have 
no  doubt  that  I  could  make  one  up 
on  the  commercial  engineering  ba- 
sis which  would  prove  equally  in- 
teresting. Perhaps  Mr.  Palmer 
might  like  to  do  that  for  himself 
and,  after  he  has  done  that  and 
studied  the  situation  carefully, 
reconsider  his  decision  not  to  send 
his  son  to  Haverford  and  not  let 
him  lose  the  benefit  of  four  years 
spent  in  surroundings  unsurpassed 
by  any  other  college  and  under  the 
influence  of  men  whose  ideals  and 
work  are  a  continual  inspiration  to 
all  Haverfordians — old  and  young. 
At    any    rate,    in    considering   a 


matter  of  this  kind,  we  should  be 
very  careful  to  view  it  in  all  its 
phases,  and  have  our  conclusions 
based  upon  facts  as  they  really 
exist,  and  not  as  they  may  have 
been,  or  as  we  think  they  are. 
Yours  very  truly, 

Roy  McFarlan,  '13. 

Freshman 
English 
French 
German 
Algebra 

Solid  Geometry 
Trigonometry' 
Constitutional  Government 
English  History 
Physical  Training 

Sophomore 

English 
French 

General  History 
Elementary  Economics 
Plane  Analytic  Geometry 
Differential  Calculus 
Physics  or  Chemistry 
Physical  Training 

Junior 
Psychology 
Biblical  Literature 
French 
Spanish* 

Banking  &  Commercial  Law 
Money  &  Banking 
Labor  Problems 
Specific  Economic  Problems 
Modern  History 


Senior 


Social  Work 
Ethics 


Alumni 


127 


Transportation 
Corporations  &  Trusts 
Expenditure  &  Rc\cnuc 
U.  S.  History  after  17S0 
French 
Spanish* 

*  Vou  will  note  that  Spanish  is 
cknvn  for  two  years,  while  it  is  only 
given  in  the  catalogue  for  one 
year;  but  fellows  in  the  past  ha\'e 
taken  a  second  year  of  Spanish 
and  1  ha\e  no  doubt  that  such  an 
arrangement  can  be  still  made. 

The  Ha\'erford  Society  of  Mary- 
land held  its  annual  dinner  at  the 
Baltimore  Country  Club  on  April 
16.  Twenty-one  members  of  the 
Society  were  present.  Among  the 
speakers  of  the  evening  were  Pres- 
ident Sharpless,  and  D.  B.  Van 
Hollen,  '15.  The  following  officers 
were  elected  for  the  ensuing  year: 
President,  Henry  M.  Thomas,  '12; 
Vice-President,  R.  L.  Cary,  '06; 
Secretary -Treasurer,  C.  M.  Froe- 
licher,  '10. 

C.  Mitchell  Froelicher,  '10;  H. 
Froelicher,  Jr.,  '12,  and  Douglas 
Waples,  '14,  will  again  spend  the 
summer  at  Camp  Tunkhannock, 
Pocono  Lake  Preserve,  Pennsyl- 
\'ania.  Camp  Tunkhannock  is 
a  boys'  camp  successfulh-  inaugu- 
rated by  the  above  trio  in  1914. 
Haverfordians  (or  their  sons)  are 
always  welcome  at  the  camp. 

'63 
Thomas  J.  Battey  celebrated  his 
golden    wedding    anniversary    on 
the  5th  of  April.      A  large  recep- 


tion was  held  in  Alumni  Hall  at 
Moses  Brown  School,  Pro\idence, 
R.  I.,  where  Mr.  Battey  has  been 
a  teacher  for  forty-seven  years. 
The  hall  was  beautifully  decorated 
and  banked  with  flowers  for  the 
occasion. 

Among  the  Haverfordians  pres- 
ent were:  S.  K.  Gifford,  '76;  J.  M. 
Steere,  '90;  Charles  Battey,  '88; 
William  Battey,  '99;  P.  C.  Gif- 
ford, '13. 

'65 
We  regret  to  announce  the  death 
of  Joseph  Miller  Downing  at  Els- 
mere,  Delaware,  on  Sunday,  April 
4.  Mr.  Downing  was  born  in 
West  Whiteland,  Pa.,  July  23,1846. 
He  entered  Haverford  in  1861, 
and  after  graduation  went  into 
the  iron  manufacturing  business  at 
Coatesville,  Pa.  In  successive 
stages  of  his  business  he  lived  in 
New  Castle,  Tyrone,  and  Dan- 
ville, Pa.  On  June  3,  1880  he 
married  Miss  Hannah  P.  Steele,  of 
Coatesville.  In  1886  he  became  a 
manufacturer  of  wheel  materials 
at    Wilmington,     Del.,    and    con- 


Smedley  &  Mehl 

Lumber 

and  Coal 
BUILDING  MATERIAL 


Phones.  Nos.  1100  and  1 101 


ARDMORE 


128 


The  Haverfordian 


tinued  in  that  work  until  his  death. 
Mr.  Downing  was  the  father  of 
T.  S.  Downing,  '05;  J.  S.  Downing, 
'11,  and  G.  V.  Downing,  '14. 

'92 

Christian  Brinton  had  published 

a  full-page  article  on'Tragonard's 

Famous   DuBarry   Panels"   in  the 

New  York  Sun  of  Sunday,  April  4th. 

'93 
At  a  special  meeting  of  the  Class 
of  '93,  Haverford  College,  held 
in  Philadelphia,  April  19th,  1915, 
to  take  action  concerning  the  death 
on  March  16th,  1915,  of  our  class- 
mate, Carrol  B.  Jacobs,  the  under- 


signed Committee  was  directed  to 
send  copies  of  the  following  reso- 
lution to  the  family  of  Mr.  Jacobs 
and  to  the  Haverfordian: 

Whereas,  The  members  of  the 
Class  of  '93,  Haverford  College, 
have  learned  with  regret  and  sor- 
row of  the  death  of  Carrol  B. 
Jacobs,  who,  during  four  years, 
was  our  classmate  at  Haverford, 
who  was  frequently  with  us  at  class 
and  college  gatherings  during  the 
more  than  twenty  years  since  our 
graduation,  and  who  in  recent 
years  served  as  the  Permanent 
Secretary  of  our  Class  organiza- 
tion;   therefore,  be  it 


nnnnnnnonnnnnnonnnnnnonnnnnnnnn 

«    A  FEW  REASONS    9 


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FOR  YOU  TO  CONSIDER  IN  THE  PURCHASE  HERE  OF  YOUR 
SPRING  AND  SUMMER  SUIT: 
3 

We  specialize  in  clothes  for  young  men  and  ihor- 
oughly  understand  their  ideas;  we  carry  the 
largest  assortment  of  Woollens  in  Philadelphia; 
our  prices  are  very  moderate  and  each  bolt  of 
cloth  is  plainly  marked;  the  workmanship  is  un- 
excelled and  the  cutting  right  up-to-the-minute 
in  style. 


Pyle,  Innes 
b  Basbieri 


TAILOH^ 

<^    Ton.   ^> 
MEN  AND  BOKS 


ills  WALNUT  ST., 
PHILADELPHIA. 


Charge  Accounts  Opened  Upon  Approved  References 

We  are  READY  and  will  be  very  glad  to  see  YOU 

Suits,         -  -  -  -  $25  to  $50 

Full  Dress  and  Tuxedo  Suits,       -     $40  to  $70 

^plc,  Snncs!  &  parfaieri, 

LEADING  COLLEGE  TAILORS 

1115  Walnut  Street,         -  -  -         Philadelphia 


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Al.UMNI 


129 


Resolved,  Tlial  wv  express  lo  l lie 
members  of  his  family  our  sincere 
sympath\-  with  them  in  their  be- 
reavement, as  well  as  our  sense  of 
personal  less,  since  we  realize  thai 
we  shall  no  longer  ha\e  his  genial 
jjrescnce  with  us. 

]]'aller  W.  Ilaviland, 
Charles  S.  Rhoads 

Committee. 

P.  S.  \\'illiams  was  recently 
made  attorney  for  the  Federal  Re- 
serve Bank  of  Philadelphia. 

•98 
Dr.  \\'illiam  W.  Cadbury  expects 
to  sail  from  China  on  Juh'  3rd  for 
his  year's  furlough. 


'02 

That  the  work  of  (".  Linn  Seiler 
is  creating  a  stir  in  musical  circles 
is  evidenced  by  a  pamphlet  issued 
recently,  which  summarizes  to  some 
extent  the  scope  of  his  composi- 
tions. Such  vccal  artists  as  John 
McCormack,  David  Bispham  and 
Alice  Nielsen  are  numbered  among 
his  interpreters.  Unlike  man\- 
ccmpcsers,  Mr.  Seiler  does  not 
sci  verses  to  tunes;  but  he  "  pro- 
\idcs  a  poem  with  a  melodic  and 
harmonic  setting  that  has  beauty, 
feeling  and  atmosphere."  One 
of  his  best  productions  is  "In 
a  Vine\ard,  '  which  was  sung  by 
McCormack. 


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Douglas  C.  Wendell,  1916  Robert  Gibson,  1917 

George  A.  Dunlap,  1916  William  H.  Chamberlin,  1917 

Jack  G.  C.  LeClercq,  1918 

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The  H.werfordi.an  is  published  on  the  tenth  of  each  month  during  college 
year.  Its  purpose  is  to  foster  the  literary  spirit  among  the  undergraduates  and 
to  provide  an  organ  for  the  discussion  of  questions  relative  to  college  life  and  policy. 
To  these  ends  contributions  are  invited,  and  will  be  considered  solely  on  their 
merits.  Matter  intended  for  insertion  should  reach  the  Editor  not  later  than  the 
twentieth  of  the  month  preceding  the  date  of  issue. 

Entered  at  the  Haverford  Post-Office,  for  transmission  tlirough  the  mails  as  second-class  matter 

Vol.  XXXVII  HAVERFORD,  PA.,  JUNE,  1915  No.  4. 


Robert  Gibson 

will  occupy  The  Uneasy  Chair  for  the  remainder  of  the 
present  volume.  While  one  cannot  but  lay  aside  the  shears 
and  paste  with  some  regret,  it  is  a  pleasure  to  hand  them 
over  to  one  who  has  proved  his  efficiency  by  two  years  of 
creditable  work. 


3n  Zf)i&  Sjissue 

Special  Features 

The  Religious  Life  of  Haverford H.J.  Cadbury,  '03  133 

Cricket  in  1915 A.  J.  Scattergood,  '98  136 

Japan's  Policy  Towards  China YosHio  Nitobe,  '15  148 

The  Concert E.  L.  Shaffer,  '15  151 

Bird  Ramblings George  H.  Hallett,  Jr.  '15  153 

Jersey   Eagles Kenneth   W.    Webb,  '18  163 

Stories 

La  Belle  Guerre F.   M.   Morley,  '15  139 

Pitching  According  to  Hoyle George  A.  Dunlap,  '16  156 

Verse 

If  I  Were  Home E.  R.  Dunn,  '15  135 

Lines  Written  In  An  Italian  Garden Robert  Gibson,  '17  138 

Old  And  New E.  M.  Pharo,  '15  150 

Ronsard's  Amours,  I,  LIX Donald  G.  Baird,  '15  161 

Vale J.  G.  Le  Clerco,  '18  162 

Youth Douglas  C.  Wendell,  '16  168 

Departments 

The  Uneasy  Chair 

What  Is  The  College  Doing  For  Us? 

William  H.  Chamberlin,  '17  165 

Success  In  The  Short  Story George  A.  Dunlap,  '16  166 

Through  The  Glasses 

Review  Of  The  Season William  H.  Chamberlin,  '17  167 

Alumni Robert    Gibson,  '17  169 


THE    HAVERFORDIAN 


Vol.  XXXVII. 


HAVERFORD,  PA.,  JUNE,   1915  No.  « 


trtje  Eelisiou£(  Hife  of  l^aberforti 

EVERY  man  who  has  attended  Haverford  College  in  recent  years 
has  become  familiar  with  the  figure  of  "water-tight  compart- 
ments," and  he  has  learned  that  any  theory  which  divides  life 
into  such  impenetrable  sections  can  be  torpedoed  out  of  existence.  For 
all  sides  of  a  truly  human  life  are  closely  bound  together,  even  when  life 
is  most  polygonal  and  versatile,  as  it  is  in  this  little  microcosm  that  we 
call  college.  Our  religion,  whatever  it  is,  is  not  something  that  can  be 
separated  from  the  rest  of  our  existence.  It  is  not  to  be  found  only  at 
certain  times  or  places.  No  registrar  can  schedule  it  away  into  fixed 
periods,  no  professor  can  "require"  it  in  his  classroom,  no  coach  can 
taboo  it  from  his  training  table. 

Of  course  we  are  wont  to  think  of  special  features  of  college  life  as 
peculiarly  religious.  The  Y.  M.  C.  A.  represents  no  doubt  the  greatest 
single  agency  and  organization  for  religion  in  colleges.  And  when,  as 
at  Haverford,  it  is  much  more  alive  than  dead,  it  deserves,  and  receives, 
the  support  of  the  true  religious  impulses  of  the  students.  Through 
other  means  also,  whether  under  the  curriculum  of  the  college  or  in  con- 
nection with  his  home,  the  college  man  comes  into  the  more  public  and 
formal  practice  of  worship,  of  Bible  study,  or  of  social  service.  But 
religion  is  so  much  more  profound  and  personal  than  all  these  public 
demonstrations  that  it  is  worth  while  to  devote  attention  exclusively 
to  its  less  obvious  features.  There  are  in  the  ordinary  private  life  of  the 
college  man  so  many  latent  and  largely  unrealized  seeds  of  spiritual 
growth  and  power. 

In  the  first  place  youth  itself  is  more  religious  than  it  seems.  Of 
course  the  college  man  is  very  cautious  of  his  expression  of  interest,  and 
he  is  able  to  give  to  others,  especially  his  parents,  an  impression  of  extreme 
indifference.  This  studied  attitude  is  far  from  blameworthy ;  it  originates 
from  an  almost  morbid  desire  for  sincerity,  and  often  curbs  superficial 
emotionalism  by  making  the  current  of  true  religion  run  deep.  If  it  is  an 
error  it  is  an  error  on  the  safe  side.  A  sane  man  sooner  or  later  discovers 
it  in  himself  with  some  secret  amusement.     One  can  only  regret  that 


134  The  Haverfordian 

sometimes  the  subject  deceives  even  himself  into  thinking  he  is  not  relig- 
ious, or  rather  he  fails  to  perceive  that  religion  itself  is  in  reality  very 
much  the  same  as  his  own  instinctive  impulses  and  not  necessarily  a  cer- 
tain foreign  ritual,  prescribed  dogma,  or  strange  inner  miracle.  One  can 
always  be  sure  that  sincere  religion,  if  not  labelled  too  conventionally  but 
expressed  in  modern  terms,  will  find  a  chord  of  hearty  response  in  Haver- 
ford  men. 

Another  factor  favorable  to  religion  in  college  is  the  environment. 
As  the  bacteriologist  would  say,  it  is  a  good  medium — a  life  not  too  busy 
nor  monotonous,  but  with  plenty  of  stimulating  thought  from  books  and 
companions.  There  is  a  wholesome  atmosphere  of  growth, — in  body, 
but  chiefly  in  mind,  which  is  most  congenial  to  the  formation  of  new  relig- 
ious insights  and  ideals  and  effective  habits  of  will.  Of  course  certain 
subjects  of  the  curriculum  foster  these  new  growths  especially,  but  the 
college  man  often  is  already  beginning  his  intellectual  readjustment  before 
he  ever  reaches  these  courses. 

But  this  fluid  condition  is  a  possible  danger  as  well  as  an  advantage. 
While  thoughts  in  college  are  in  a  formative  state,  it  must  be  remembered 
that  they  are  also  beginning  to  get  set.  They  are  becoming  fixed  for 
future  life.  Every  college  man  is  choosing  a  life  companion — the  self 
he  will  live  with.  It  is  a  momentous  choice.  Usually  college  life  in- 
clines him  to  choose  breadth,  adjustability,  and  even  an  optimistic  dis- 
position— and  all  these  are  to  be  jealously  prized  and  safeguarded  as 
worth  more  than  all  H's  and  degrees.  On  the  other  hand,  college  life 
has  certain  lacks  which,  unless  pains  are  taken,  will  crystallize  character 
defectively.  Dormitory  life,  amid  congenial  company  but  independent 
of  many  mutual  duties,  does  not  provide  much  opportunity  for  altruism. 
Every  man  does  much  as  he  pleases  and  yet  rarely  interferes  with  others' 
pleasure.  This  is  of  course  delightful,  but  it  fails  to  train  in  self-sacrifice. 
To  supply  this  lack,  social  work  and  other  definite  programs  of  self- 
denial  may  be  adopted  to  train  the  will.  A  more  spontaneous  method 
is  that  of  learning  to  be  more  sensitive  to  what  other  fellows  might  enjoy 
from  us  in  fellowship  and  of  diligently  cultivating  the  art  of  friendship 
and  schooling  ourselves  willingly  in  the  self-sacrifice  that  the  deepest 
friendships  ever  entail. 

Above  all,  college  is  the  place  for  making  religion  real.  Surely 
college  life  is  all  a  search  for  truth  and  reality,  but  on  its  religious  side  it 
sometimes  seems  that  this  inherent  love  of  reality  is  too  negative.  No 
one  is  more  hostile  to  hypocrisy  or  more  quick  to  detect  it  than  the  college 
man.  But  his  defensive  sincerity  is  not  matched  with  equal  aggressive 
strength.     His  quest  for  God  is  too  much  a  scorn  for  outworn  theories 


The  Ministry  of  Music  135 

and  theologies,  not  a  vigorous  search  for  Him.  He  is  so  anxious  not  to 
"follow  wandering  fires"  that  he  fails  also  to  "follow  the  gleam."  The 
solid  sincerity  and  unartificial  honesty  of  college  life  are  the  best  possible 
foundation  for  a  positive  faith.  For  honesty  means  honesty  to  budding 
faith  as  well  as  to  growing  doubts,  and  few  men  can  be  less  sincere  than 
the  mere  sceptic. 

This  realizing  of  religion — this  making  real  of  ourselves  to  ourselves — 
this  raising  of  religion  from  the  plane  of  hearsay  to  that  of  acquaintance, 
from  "knowledge  about"  to  "knowledge  of  experience,"  is  the  great  joy 
of  all  maturing  life.  And  fortunately  for  the  taciturnity  of  college  men 
it  is  largely  a  private  and  personal  matter.  Public  demonstration  of 
it  is  not  easy  nor  necessary.  It  is  inward.  Just  as  the  praying  of  a 
college  man  is  merely  the  heart's  sincere  desire  for  the  reality  of  life,  so 
all  his  religion  is  a  spontaneous  honesty  in  the  presence  of  his  ideals. 
It  presupposes  no  perfected  philosophy,  it  implies  no  spiritual  claims. 
It  need  not  fear  charges  of  hypocrisy  from  without  or  attacks  of  scepti- 
cism from  within.  It  is  the  secret  self-confession,  nay,  self-assertion  of 
our  ambition  to  be  real  men  or  real  worth  expressed  in  lives  of  real  ser- 
vice. 

—H.  J.  Cadbury,  '03. 


3f  3  Wtxt  ?|omc 

Rondel 

If  I  were  home,  as  would  I  were, 
'Tis  but  a  short  delay  I'd  make. 
My  bridle  from  its  peg  I'd  take. 
And  catch  a  horse  and  ride  to  her. 

The  roan  should  travel  fast  to  her, 
The  miles  from  underfoot  she'd  shake. 
If  I  were  home,  as  would  I  were, 
'Tis  but  a  short  delay  I'd  make. 

But  coming  back  no  whip  I'd  stir; 
I'd  let  the  long  reins  idly  shake; 
And  watch  ahead  for  limbs  to  break 
The  moonless  sky,  the  road's  faint  blur; 
If  I  were  home,  as  would  I  were. 

—E.  R.  Dunn,  '15. 


€vitktt  in  1915 

IF  I  had  it  to  do  over  again,  I'd  go  over  to  the  Shed  the  first  chance 
I  had  as  a  Freshman  and  keep  it  up  until  I  learned  to  play  cricket. 
It's  the  only  sensible  thing  to  do  at  Haverford,"  is  the  tenor  of  a 
remark  often  made  by  manj^  non-cricketing  Haverford  Alumni.  And 
there  were  no  doubt  many  echoes  of  this  remark  from  undergraduates 
after  the  glorious  victory  over   the   University  on  the   21st  of  April. 

If,  however,  one  would  really  get  into  the  true  spirit  of  Haverford 
cricket,  he  must  go  back  to  the  beginning;  let  him  browse  in  that  delight- 
ful volume,  "The  History  of  Haverford  College,  1830-1890,"  reading 
the  few  pages  beginning  with  289,  which  relate  the  romantic  birth  and 
early  success  of  the  Dorian  C.  C,  the  forerunner  of  the  Haverford  Col- 
lege Cricket  Club;  let  him  turn  then  to  427  et  seq,  describing  the  glorious 
victory  of  1878  over  the  University  in  a  "Past  and  Present"  match,  and 
let  him  be  sure  to  read  Joseph  Parrish's  "Cricket  Song"  on  page  432, 
from  which  we  get  the  "  Swish !  Swack!"  of  our  College  Yell.  Since  those 
days,  many  glorious  chapters  have  been  added  to  our  cricket  history. 

To  some,  however,  unacquainted  with  the  past,  the  present  enthusi- 
asm for  baseball  sounds  the  knell  of  cricket  at  Haverford;  but  in  this, 
history  is  simply  repeating  itself,  for  every  game  has  its  ups  and  downs, 
cricket  no  less  than  others,  and  the  "  History  "  above  referred  to  contains 
many  allusions  to  the  desire  to  make  baseball  the  College  game.  Haver- 
ford cricket  does,  however,  face  a  grave  crisis  at  this  time,  because  cricket 
in  1915  is  everywhere  at  a  comparatively  low  ebb. 

With  England  at  war,  almost  as  never  before,  cricket  there  will  take 
a  subordinate  place  this  season;  in  fact,  it  will  hardly  be  a  cricket  season 
at  all  without  any  county  or  other  first-class  matches.  There  will,  of 
course,  be  a  lot  of  club  matches  and  some  of  the  local  league  matches, 
for  those  cricketers  still  at  home  will,  no  doubt,  argue  that  they  can  keep 
up  their  health  and  spirits  better  by  a  bit  of  the  game  that  is  so  dear  to 
them  than  in  spending  their  time  moping.  Nor  should  this  temporary 
shut-down  of  county  cricket  be  without  its  beneficial  results  on  the  game, 
for  the  evil  influence  of  professionalism  was  resulting  in  increasing  sordid- 
ness  in  the  conduct  of  the  game,  and  this  has  done  much  in  recent  years 
to  dull  public  interest  therein.  We  have  here  a  somewhat  similar  case 
in  our  professional  baseball,  though  there  is  this  difference,  that  the  pro- 
fessionals in  baseball,  being  far  and  away  the  best  players,  dominate  the 
spirit  of  the  game;  their  style  of  play,  with  much  of  its  rowdyism  and 
unsportsmanlike  treatment  of  opponents,  is  too  often  the  example  fol- 
lowed by  college  and  school  teams,  thus  to  some  extent  spoiling  a  game 


Cricket  in  1915  137 

which  is  in  itself  an  exceptionally  fine  one.  In  cricket,  on  the  other  hand, 
the  ethics  and  spirit  of  fair  play  of  the  game  have  not  suffered  at  the 
hands  of  the  professionals,  although  the  spirit  of  true  enthusiasm  has 
often  of  late  been  lacking,  and  the  money-making  side  more  apparent  in 
the  county  matches,  so  that  to  do  away  with  them  for  a  while  should  result 
in  an  improvement  in  these  respects  when  the  matches  are  again  resumed. 

On  this  side  the  Atlantic,  however,  we  can  lay  the  cause  of  the  grow- 
ing lack  of  interest  in  cricket  to  no  such  thing.  It  is  too  easy  now  to 
play  lawn  tennis  or  golf,  to  motor,  or  week-end  parties  are  too  attractive 
for  cricket  to  flourish  as  it  did  for  many  years  until  recently.  The  game 
is  as  good  as  ever,  just  as  much  fun,  just  as  worth  while  as  a  developer 
of  character,  of  friendship,  and  of  many  other  admirable  things,  but  the 
youth  and  men  of  today  can  be  more  independent  than  were  their  pre- 
decessors, because  they  have  the  choice  of  more  things  to  do,  and  they 
are  unwilling  to  tie  up  most  of  their  Saturday  afternoons  with  the  chance 
of  being  able  to  spend  only  a  few  minutes,  perhaps  less,  at  the  wickets, 
and  all  the  rest  of  the  time  fielding  or  watching  others  make  huge  scores. 
Such,  of  course,  do  not  appreciate  the  joys  of  bowling  and  fielding,  worth 
cultivating,  if  one  is  properly  to  enjoy  the  game.  Then,  too,  it  would 
seem  that  they  fail  to  appreciate  that  there  is  much  pleasure  in  the  game 
outside  of  the  purely  selfish  one  of  performing  oneself. 

But  cricket,  in  Philadelphia  at  least,  is  confronted  with  the  above 
situation.  True,  there  are  a  few  clubs  in  which  the  juniors  are  taking 
a  renewed  interest,  and  in  some  schools  also  this  is  the  case,  but  on  the 
whole,  it  must  be  admitted  that  there  is  less  enthusiasm  for  cricket  now 
than  say  ten  years  ago  and  previously.  And  Haverford  is  affected  like- 
wise, in  spite  of  her  rich  traditions  of  cricket.  Nor  is  this  surprising  when 
we  find  only  one  collegiate  opponent,  when  a  few  years  ago  there  were 
three.  Traditions  and  sentiment  are  worth  something,  but  they  can 
never  take  the  place  of  competition  with  natural  rivals  of  the  same  class. 
"Cricket  for  cricket's  sake"  will  never,  in  a  college  at  any  rate,  keep  the 
game  in  a  healthy  condition.  Intercollegiate  competition  is  needed,  and 
those  of  us  who  are  interested  to  see  cricket  continue  to  flourish  at  Haver- 
ford may  well  interest  ourselves  in  cricket  at  the  University  of  Pennsyl- 
vania or  any  other  college  where  cricket  might  be  played.  The  plan  of 
having  three  matches  a  year  with  the  University  should  be  followed,  and 
we  should  be  careful  to  do  all  we  can  to  avoid  having  happen  there  what 
ruined  cricket  at  Harvard,  that  is,  foolish  eligibility  rules,  which  were 
neither  needed  nor  demanded  by  anyone.  Any  Haverfordian  who 
attends  a  professional  school  at  Pennsylvania  should,  if  competent,  play 
on  the  cricket  team  there. 


138  The  Haverfordian 

In  lieu  of  this  kind  of  competition,  Captain  Brinton  and  those  in 
charge  of  cricket  at  the  College  have  this  year  made  a  very  wise  move  in 
entering  the  Philadelphia  Cup  Competition,  where  they  will  meet  a  hearty 
welcome  and  should  make  good  showing,  perhaps  win  it.  One  marked 
advantage  of  this  is  that  it  will  lengthen  the  previously  very  short  season 
a  month  and  a  half.  The  matches  in  this  competition  and  the  matches 
in  "Cricket  Week,"  to  be  held  just  after  Commencement,  a  most  excel- 
lent idea,  should  develop  the  eleven  into  a  formidable  one.  To  my  mind, 
it  means  not  only  increased  enthusiasm  for  next  year  and  the  years  fol- 
lowing, but  stronger  elevens  than  we  have  had  for  some  time.  It  should 
also  attract  more  young  cricketers  to  Haverford.  There  will  be  some 
excellent  material  in  next  year's  Freshman  Class,  which  with  proper 
development  should  come  near  taking  the  place  of  this  year's  Seniors. 

Another  bright  spot  in  the  situation  is  the  organization  by  Dr. 
Richard  Gummere  of  an  eleven  of  old  Haverfordians,  known  as  the 
"Haverford  Rovers,"  who  will  play  summer  eleven  matches  with  the 
various  clubs. 

In  view,  therefore,  of  all  this  healthy  and  satisfactory  activity  in 
Haverford  cricket,  may  we  not  pluck  up  courage  and  confidently  believe 
that  cricket  is  now  simply  in  the  midst  of  a  periodic  slump,  and  that 
the  future  holds  for  Haverford  just  as  much  honor  and  pleasure  on  the 
cricket  field  as  the  past  has  yielded  her? 

— A.  G.  Scattergood,  '98. 


Hincsi  Written  in  an  Italian  <Sarben 

Softly  o'er  the  fruit  trees  and  the  heavy-laden  vine, 

The  moonlight  streams  in  beauty  with  a  chastened  glow  benign; 

And  in  the  center  of  the  green  hut  half  neglected  sward, 

Is  a  fountain,  small  and  circular,  whose  foam  the  Naiads  card 

For  the  dewy  spray  of  gossamer  which  interweaves  its  threads 

With  a  mass  of  climbing  roses  risen  from  their  earthy  beds. 

The  vagrant  fancy  wanders  back  to  days  long  past  and  gone. 

When  the  waters  played  and  sparkled  in  a  starlight  that  was  wan; 

And  the  forms  of  classic  phantoms  cast  their  shadows  long  and  dark 

Across  the  unveiled  face  of  night  within  the  somber  park. 

— Robert  Gibson,  '17. 


Ha  Pelle  (Guerre 

PEPPO,  go  home!" 
It  was  a  picturesque  tableau.  Jean  Marpie,  brown,  erect, 
and  tense  with  human  dominance,  pointed  down  the  dusty  road 
to  where  the  tall  poplars  danced  together  in  the  shimmering  radiance  of 
the  August  sun.  Peppo,  shaggy  and  soft-eyed,  usually  humble  and 
obedient,  crouched  the  lower,  drawing  down  his  eyelids  to  shut  out  the 
stern  command,  and  nervously  flapping  a  deprecating  tail  in  its  deepening 
furrow  of  dust. 

"Peppo,"  said  Jean,  his  words  punctuated  by  the  shrill  whistle  of  a 
train  from  behind  the  hill  of  the  Three  Virgins;  "Peppo,  I  do  not,  I 
cannot  comprehend  your  actions.     Please  go  home!" 

The  chill  precision  of  the  words  cut  deep,  but  the  terrier  did  not 
stir.  Things  had  changed  during  the  last  hour  and  for  once  big  Jean 
was  mistaken.  He  was  not  to  go  away  and  leave  Peppo  behind, — that 
much  was  evident.  The  little-mother-of-Jean  knew  what  was  best,  and 
she  had  told  him  to  go  with  his  master.  Just  an  hour  ago,  while  sleeping 
in  the  shadow  of  the  rabbit  hutch,  he  had  heard  the  familiar  call,  and  when 
he  dashed  barking  round  the  corner  of  the  house,  there  they  all  were, 
beside  the  laurel  bush  at  the  gate — Jean  with  a  bundle  on  his  back,  the 
little  mother,  Marie-from-the-cottage-by-the-church,  Jean's  father  and 
several  more, — he  had  not  had  time  to  notice  them.  All  were  crying  too; 
— that  is,  all  but  Jean's  father,  and  he  stood  there  apart,  so  stern  and 
straight, — Peppo  had  never  seen  him  stand  so  straight.  Then  Jean  had 
knelt  down  and  taken  his  unwilling  paw  in  the  way  that  always  made 
him  feel  very  embarrassed  and  human.  "Good-bye,  Peppo,"  he  had  said. 
"Take  care  of  them  all;  be  a  good  dog,  and  don't  chase  Marie's  geese." 
That  was  not  a  nice  subject  to  mention  before  so  many  people,  but  none 
the  less  Peppo  could  not  help  feeling  that  it  was  merited. 

So  he  had  shaken  hands,  wondering,  and  the  next  moment  Jean  was 
through  the  gate  and  striding  briskly  down  the  road,  and  all  the  women 
were  crying  softly.  But  not  Jean's  father.  He  stood  there,  straight  as 
the  old  pump,  his  hands  stretched  out  in  front  of  him.  "Remember 
'71,  Jean,"  he  had  said.  "Remember  '71!"  It  was  a  foolish  thing  to 
say,  for  Jean  had  not  been  born  till  '93.  Bayard,  the  old  horse,  had 
often  told  that  to  Peppo;  he  was  so  proud  because  he  hsd  been  born  the 
same  day  as  Jean.  "Jean  et  moi,"  he  would  say,  and  then,  a  little  later, 
"moi  et  Jean."  But  then  Bayard  was  old,  and  as  such  had  the  right 
to  be  eccentric. 

There  they  had  stood,  waving  handkerchiefs,  till  Jean  had  turned  the 


140  The  Haverfordian 

corner  by  the  twisted  oak,  and  then  suddenly  the  Httle  mother  had  seized 
Peppo  and  Hfted  him  right  off  the  ground.  Certainly  everyone  was 
crazy  today!  "  Va,  Peppo,"  she  had  said  with  a  sob.  "  Go  with  Jean  and 
take  good  care  of  him!"  She  had  pointed  down  the  road,  so  of  course 
off  he  had  gone  and  had  followed  behind  his  master  all  the  way,  not 
making  any  noise,  because  Jean  was  evidently  thinking  hard,  and  besides 
that,  he  had  been  told  good-bye,  so  perhaps  it  was  best  not  to  speak  until 
he  was  spoken  to. 

The  train  shrilled  into  the  station  and  Jean  stood  for  a  moment, 
irresolute,  looking  first  up  the  empty  road,  then  at  Pierre  Duplis,  the 
miller's  son,  who  had  just  climbed  aboard  and  was  calling  to  Jean  to  get 
into  his  carriage.  The  guard  blew  his  whistle  and  Jean  made  up  his 
mind.  "All  right,  Peppo,"  said  he.  "Come  on,  boy,  there'll  be  plenty 
of  dachshunds  for  you  in  Berlin!" 

And  as  Peppo  snarled  with  the  rage  he  always  felt  when  he  re- 
membered that  ugly  dog  who  had  killed  the  black  chicken,  Jean  caught 
him  up  in  his  arms  and  they  got  in  with  Pierre. 

At  the  big  concentration  camp  near  M life  was  a  series  of  new 

experiences  for  Peppo.  Never  had  he  dreamed  so  many  men  existed! 
Thousands  of  them;  marching  up  and  down,  up  and  down,  in  an  aimless 
kind  of  way;  digging  ditches  across  the  fields;  and  strangest  of  all, 
building  bridges  right  out  in  the  meadows  where  there  wasn't  even  so 
much  as  a  puddle  of  water  anywhere  around.  There  were  a  good  many 
other  dogs  in  the  camp  so  Peppo  wasn't  at  all  lonely.  One  old  setter, 
who  had  been  the  regimental  mascot  for  several  years,  was  the  Nestor  of 
the  community,  and  answered  all  ingenuous  questions  with  the  calm 
complacence  of  assured  knowledge:  "No,  the  men  weren't  crazy — no, 
indeed!  They  were  going  to  war."  The  colonel  had  taken  him  apart 
and  told  him  so,  he  said ;  and  none  of  his  auditors  dared  move  a  dissenting 
muscle.  He  had  been  in  the  war, — in  Morocco, — and  it  was  nothing 
to  be  afraid  of.  Once  indeed  the  tribesmen  had  cut  off  a  party  of  their 
scouts,  and  when  the  regiment  found  chem  they  were  not  nice  to  look 
upon.  But  as  a  general  thing  there  was  very  little  danger  in  the  war. 
"La  belle  guerre,"  he  called  it,  with  that  familiarity  which  sits  so  well 
upon  the  veteran  campaigner. 

Peppo  drank  in  all  these  dissertations,  and  felt  his  spirits  rise  as  he 
listened.  It  was  only  going  to  be  a  sort  of  picnic  with  an  extra  lot  of  men 
and  no  girls,  which  last  was  by  no  means  a  pity,  he  thought.  After  all 
he  would  have  no  trouble  in  taking  care  of  Jean.  And  every  night  as  the 
men  returned  from  drill  he  would  meet  his  master,  conduct  him  to  the 


La  Belle  Guerre  141 

entrance  of  the  mess  hall,  sit  at  his  feet  during  supper  and  by  the  big 
camp  fire  afterwards,  and  when  Jean  rolled  into  his  blankets  at  taps  there 
would  be  Peppo  close  at  hand,  a  round  and  shaggy  ball  of  contentment. 
This  was  something  like,  he  thought.  Why  didn't  men  realize  how  much 
nicer  it  was  to  sleep  outside  all  the  time?  If  this  strange  war  was  going 
to  mean  a  return  to  outdoor  life,  a  better  mutual  understanding  between 
man  and  dog,  then  he  for  one  could  not  see  why  the  little  mother  had 
cried  when  Jean  left.  .  .  .  Still,  women  were  rather  prone  to  cry 
needlessly  anyway.     ...     It  was  very  nice  not  to  have  them  at  the 

war 

And  at  this  stage  Peppo's  philosophy  usually  faded  quietly  away, 
his  cold  nose  tucked  itself  behind  a  bushy  tail,  while  far  above  the  distant 
stars  looked  calmly  down  on  man  and  dog,  company  and  regiment,  and 
on  the  huge  masses  of  humanity  already  swaying  together  along  mile  on 
mile  of  frontier. 

Towards  the  end  of  August  there  came  a  change.  Early  one  morn- 
ing the  comrades  again  boarded  a  train,  though  this  time  there  were  no 
coaches, — only  clean  cattle  cars,  as  many  as  the  engine  could  move,  and 
each  filled  to  discomfort  with  soldiers.  Half  the  day  they  rattled  slowly 
eastward,  the  men  smoking,  playing  cards  and  chatting, — probably  of 
"la  belle  guerre,"  thought  Peppo,  who,  nestled  between  two  rolls  of  blan- 
kets, minded  his  cramped  quarters  not  at  all.  At  length,  after  an  inter- 
minable number  of  stops,  they  came  to  a  final  grinding  halt  and  the 
soldiers  poured  forth,  Jean  carrying  Peppo  somewhat  negligently  by  the 
much-abused  scruff  of  his  neck.  "This,"  he  thought,  "was  not  what 
the  little  mother  meant  when  she  told  me  to  take  care  of  Jean." 

It  was  not  a  station  at  which  they  had  landed,  but  wide  open  coun- 
try. Fields  and  meadows,  with  an  occasional  white-walled  cottage 
peeping  out  from  its  protecting  fringe  of  trees,  stretched  away  on  all 
sides.  As  flat  as  your  hand  everywhere,  except  to  the  east,  where  the 
meadows  merged  imperceptibly  into  gently  rolling  hills. 

Peppo  had  expected  to  be  very  merry  and  full  of  life  when  he  got 
off  the  train,  but  somehow  or  other  he  now  felt  very  serious.  The  soldiers 
were  standing  silently  in  little  groups,  leaning  on  their  rifles  and  all  look- 
ing in  one  direction, — towards  the  hills.  Peppo  looked  too,  but  saw  noth- 
ing. There  was  a  distant  rumble  in  the  air,  dull  and  continuous,  more 
felt  than  heard  even  to  his  sensitive  ears.  That  explained  matters.  He 
always  felt  a  little  irritable  and  nervous  during  a  thunderstorm,  and  men 
were  really  not  unlike  dogs  in  a  great  many  ways — though  they  did 
do  a  great  many  things  dogs  could  not,— such  as  making  all  their  friends 


142  The  Haverfordian 

cry  by  going  away  to  play  a  game  of  war.  Peppo  wondered  if  all  the 
mothers  and  sweethearts  of  all  these  men  had  cried  when  they  left  home. 
A  big  orange  butterfly  lit  on  a  blade  of  grass  beside  him  and  then  fluttered 
impudently  before  his  nose,  but  Peppo  was  too  engrossed  to  notice  the 
challenge. 

The  soldiers  streamed  down  the  embankment,  fell  in  line  at  the  foot, 
and  marched  across  a  pasture  to  where  a  sunken  lane  wound  a  tortuous 
path  eastward.  It  followed  a  stream  bank,  and  the  thickly  clustering 
aspens  and  willows  met  overhead  to  dot  the  road  with  grotesque  flecks  of 
sunlight.  One  of  the  men  started  humming,  and  soon  they  were  all  singing 
gaily,  keeping  time  to  the  music.  Behind,  the  dust  rose  in  a  thick  cloud, 
through  which  the  bright  red  trousers  twinkled  merrily.  Peppo  chased 
a  field  mouse  who,  incautiously  patriotic,  was  peering  at  the  unwonted 
sight  from  behind  a  clump  of  daisies. 

Two  miles  on  the  lane  joined  a  high  road,  and  here  a  cavalryman 
was  waiting  for  them,  his  horse  standing  limply  by  the  roadside,  too  weary 
to  crop  the  thick  growing  clover.  He  saluted  the  colonel  as  he  rode 
up,  and  handed  over  a  sealed  envelope.  The  officer  opened  it  with  quick 
fingers.  "We  trench  in  this  field,  men,"  said  he.  "General  Surenne 
writes  that  the  Germans  are  attacking  in  force  and  he  expects  to  fall 
back  here  tomorrow!" 

Nearly  four  months  of  trench  life  had  brought  Peppo  to  the  con- 
clusion that  war  was  a  much  over-estimated  pastime.  Since  that  August 
afternoon  when  the  regiment  had  dug  itself  into  the  bosom  of  the  clover 
meadow,  life  had  become  very  stupid  and  monotonous.  At  first  there 
had  been  some  excitement  and  novelty.  It  was  strange  to  see  a  thousand 
men  digging  a  long,  long  ditch  across  the  quiet  field.  Not  that  they  had 
been  content  with  one,  for  there  was  a  second  parallel  to  the  first,  and 
another  behind  that;  all  three  joined  together  by  funny  little  zig-zag 
ditches.  Then  over-night  more  men  had  appeared ;  thousands  of  tired, 
dirty  men  with  beards  and  unkempt  hair,  and  dusty,  faded  uniforms. 
Thereupon  there  was  more  digging  to  be  done,  until  as  far  as  the  eye  could 
reach  the  landscape  was  scarred  by  mounds  of  loose  earth  and  twisting 
trenches.  It  made  Peppo  think  of  that  time  in  his  puppyhood  when  he 
had  buried  an  old  soup  bone  in  the  little  mother's  front  flower  bed.  He 
hadn't  meant  to  hurt  the  petunias  at  all,  but  that  wasn't  understood, — 
otherwise  he  would  never  have  gotten  the  beating  he  so  well  remembered. 
However,  this  was  very  different.  Men  could  dig  holes  so  much  longer 
and  deeper  than  dogs,  that  it  was  all  right  for  them  to  do  it.  Had  it  not 
been  so,  the  damage  could  scarcely  have  been  pleasing  to  the  owner  of 
the  clover  fields. 


La  Belle  Guerre  143 

Gradually  Peppo  became  used  to  living  in  the  trenches.  The  colonel 
had  given  permission  and  all  day  he  would  lie  and  doze  at  the  bottom 
of  the  trench,  close  to  where  Jean  stood  at  his  loophole.  At  first  this 
was  not  such  bad  fun,  for  when  he  slept  there  would  be  the  wildest  and 
most  delightful  dreams.  In  them  his  master  was  always  the  central 
figure,  but  somehow  it  was  a  very  different  Jean  from  the  one  he  knew  in 
real  life.     A  very  hairy  Jean,  all  clad  in  skins,  who  bent  nearly  double 

when  he   walked  ....  or   rather,   crept And   sometimes, — it 

was  all  very  shadowy  and  vague, — they  would  be  stealing  side  by  side 
through  a  vast,  dim  forest,  silently,  cautiously;  Jean  with  a  big  stone 
axe  in  his  hand,  and  he,  Peppo,  a  little  in  front,  belly  to  the  ground,  nose 

outstretched,  alert,  awake,  ready Once  even, — and  he  wished 

that  dream  would  come  again, — they  had  chanced  upon  another  man, 
crouching  asleep  before  a  dying  fire.  Jean  had  pointed  to  him,  gripping 
the  axe  tighter  in  his  hand,  and  then  ....  together  ....  they  had 

leapt Peppo  knew  it  was  all  a  dream  and  that  things  like  that 

couldn't  happen  nowadays,  but  none  the  less  it  was  very  delightful.  If 
men  would  live  like  that  now  a  dog  could  really  be  their  friend — could 
help  them  and  be  of  use  once  in  a  while.  The  little  mother  had  told 
him  to  take  care  of  Jean,  and  he  wanted  to  with  all  his  heart,  but  what 
chance  was  there  for  a  dog  to  show  his  worth  in  a  world  where  men  were 
civilized,  and  went  to  war,  and  lived  together  by  the  thousands  in  ditches! 
When  the  snow  came  it  was  no  longer  pleasant.  Jean  tried  to  make 
Peppo  stay  by  the  old  farmhouse  back  of  the  lines, where  the  commissariat 
had  its  headquarters,  and  where  the  camp  followers  hung  about  and  told 
unbelievable  yarns.  Most  of  the  other  dogs  were  there,  including  the 
old  setter.  He  had  told  Peppo  in  confidence  that  any  sensible  dog  would 
do  well  to  become  friendly  with  one  of  the  cooks.  "  I  learnt  that  in  Mo- 
rocco," said  he.  "You  will  only  be  in  the  way  where  the  fighting  is 
going  on.  Besides,  there  is  always  a  chance  of  getting  killed,  and  back 
here  there  is  room  to  run  round,  warm  places  in  which  to  sleep,  and  more 
bones  than  you  know  what  to  do  with.  Moreover,  I  repeat,  they  do  not 
want  you  in  the  trenches." 

But  Peppo  knew  better.  He  had  become  a  general  favorite  with  the 
soldiers,  and  he  well  understood  that  his  place  was  at  Jean's  side.  Any 
shirking  of  this  duty  would  be  a  dereliction  of  his  instructions,  and 
indeed  of  his  own  desires.  One  of  the  men  had  dug  him  a  little  niche  in 
the  side  of  the  trench  and  here  he  would  lie,  out  of  the  snow  and  slush 
and  close  by  the  angle  where  Jean  had  his  position. 

Often  of  course  there  would  be  days  when  the  regiment  had  its 
relief  and  he  could  enjoy  himself  back  of  the  lines  with  a  clear  conscience. 


144  The  Haverfordian 

Yet,  strangely  enough,  many  things  which  used  to  appeal  to  him  had  lost 
their  interest.  At  the  farm,  for  instance,  there  was  a  cat,  a  black  cat 
too,  insolent,  overbearing,  presumptuous,  and  very,  very  fat.  In  days 
gone  by  there  could  have  been  nothing  more  delightful  than  to  harass 
that  cat,  but  now  it  was  different.  Everything  seemed  different  when 
you  knew  you  had  a  mission  in  life. 

Once  when  they  went  to  the  farm  Peppo  could  discover  no  trace  of 
his  friend  the  setter.  Also  there  was  a  big  hole  in  the  road  by  the  barn. 
On  inquiry  he  found  that  there  was  a  significant  connection  between  the 
two  incidents.  A  Taube  had  passed  that  way,  they  said,  and  this  was 
the  result.  A  Taube,  it  seemed,  was  une  colombe, — a  dove.  A  very 
peculiar  dove,  he  thought,  and  by  keeping  his  ears  alert  to  the  camp 
conversation  he  gathered  that  this  Taube  was  more  like  a  hawk;  an  ex- 
tremely superior  sort  of  hawk!  He  must  be  watchful,  for  one  of  those 
Taubes,  you  know,  might  well  take  it  into  its  head  to  come  for  Jean! 

One  morning  the  trench  was  alive  with  an  atmosphere  of  suppressed 
excitement  very  different  from  the  usual  monotony.  Peppo  ran  up  and 
down,  eager  to  find  out  what  it  all  meant.  Perhaps  the  "advance"  of 
which  the  men  often  spoke  longingly.  Sometimes,  it  must  be  confessed, 
he  got  between  the  soldiers'  legs  and  they  would  curse  him  roundly — 
not  with  any  feeling  of  animosity,  but  in  those  friendly,  masterfully  elo- 
quent oaths  which  are  world-wide  characteristics  of  the  common  warrior, 
whether  he  be  French  or  Fiji.  As  he  passed  Jean's  corner  he  was  seized 
by  that  much-insulted  neck  and  thrust  unceremoniously  into  his  own 
particular  niche.  "Lie  still,  Peppo,"  said  Jean  dispassionately.  "You 
must  be  quiet,  for  today  the  Boches  are  going  to  give  us  an  especial  treat. 
Our  aviators  have  seen  and  counted  the  big  guns  they  have  collected 
behind  the  hill  yonder.  Over  eighty  of  them.  Perhaps  God  will  grant 
that  they  may  charge  the  position  afterwards,  and  then  we  will  give  them 
Hell."  He  ran  his  finger  lightly  along  the  edge  of  his  knife  baj'onet  and 
held  it  to  the  dog's  nose. 

Peppo  sniffed  curiously  at  the  tiny  drops  of  blood.  Often  lately 
he  had  smelt  that  strange  odor.  Behind  the  lines  he  had  seen  rows  of 
warped  figures  that  looked  like  men  asleep,  ....  yet  were  not  so  nat- 
ural;   not  so  perfect And    always  that  haunting  smell 

Somehow  it  made  him  think  of  his  dream  about  the  forest  and  the  stone 

axe  and  the  hairy,  squatting  man All  this  had  at  least  taught 

him  why  they  dug  these  ditches.  They  put  these  other  men  into  small 
ditches  very  much  like  the  big  ones.  Doubtless  when  enough  had  reached 
the  stage  when  they  smelt  this  peculiar  way  the  big  trenches  would  be 
filled  up  and  those  who  were  left  would  go  home.     That,  he  supposed. 


La  Belle  Guerre  145 

was  the  real  object  of  this  game  of  war.  Only  it  did  seem  ridiculously 
stupid  to  let  yourself  be  planted  under  the  earth  like  a  potato  when  you 
might  be  running  round  with  nothing  but  fresh  wind  and  fleecy  clouds 
between  you  and  the  blue,  blue  sky. 

Suddenly  a  horrible  thought  occurred  to  him.  Suppose  they  tried 
to  put  his  master  into  the  ground!  What  could  he  do  to  prevent  it  if 
Jean  lay  still  and  quiet  as  those  other  men?  But  he  must  prevent  it  some- 
how. It  didn't  matter  how,  so  long  as  he  obeyed  the  little  mother's 
instructions.  Only  he  did  wish  that  the  Almighty  had  been  pleased  to 
give  his  dogs  a  little  more  sense  so  that  they  could  clearly  understand 
the  reason  of  this  strange  game  of  war. 

A  shell  screamed  overhead,  to  burst  with  an  ear-splitting  smack 
among  the  leafless  trees  behind  the  rear  trench.  It  was  the  signal  for 
the  German  assault  and  in  a  minute  the  meadow  had  become  an  inferno 
of  flying  steel,  the  crisp,  cold  air  shattered  and  torn  into  protesting  shreds 
of  these  efficient  messengers  of  death. 

"  Using  their  42  C-M's,  Pierre,"  said  Jean  to  his  right-hand  neighbor. 
"They  must  want  us  pretty  badly." 

"This  angle  — ."  Pierre  left  his  sentence  unfinished.  A  splinter  of 
shrapnel  flying  crosswise  from  an  exploding  shell  caught  him  with  mouth 
open,  passing  in  at  one  ear  and  out  at  the  other.  He  sighed,  folded  his 
knees  carefully  together  and  slipped  quietly  down  to  the  bottom  of  the 
trench.  In  his  little  shelter  Peppo,  shivering  at  the  terrible  tumult  and 
immensity  of  the  bombardment,  crouched  tensely,  his  dark  brown  eyes 
turned  with  a  brave  anxiety  towards  his  master's  pallid  profile. 

From  the  batteries  in  the  rear  the  French  artillery  were  speaking  an 
ineffectual  answer.  Their  air-scouts  had  only  that  morning  discovered 
the  abnormal  concentration  of  the  enemy's  guns  and  there  had  been  no 
time  to  adjust  the  inequality.  In  the  front  trench  the  men  huddled  help- 
lessly beneath  the  overhanging  sandbags,  waiting,  ....  waiting,  .... 
bringing  into  play  all  their  hopeless  fatalism, — -the  sure  inheritance  of 
that  peasant  class  which,  fortunately  for  war,  forms  the  backbone  of 
every  army.  Dotted  like  sacks  of  wheat  along  the  bottom  of  the  trench 
were  the  ever-growing  numbers  of  those  whose  waiting  was  for  ever  past. 
Strangely  inert  shapes,  torn  and  twisted  into  a  hundred  fantastic  postures. 
Headless,  armless,  riddled  with  sharp  steel  splinters,  gashed  and  mangled 

in  wet  and  pulpy  shreds Peppo  could  see  one  man  quite  close 

to  him,  ....  he  thought  it  was  a  man,  .  .  .  .trying  again  and  again  in  a 
weak  and  helpless  manner  to  replace  part  of  himself  in  what  had  been  his 


146  The  Haverfordian 

stomach,  ....  something  that  kept  slipping  out  whenever   he  suc- 
ceeded in  putting  it  back 

Peppo  knew  there  must  be  some  reason  for  it  all,  but  he  didn't  under- 
stand. He  was  only  a  dog, — and  he  felt  very  sick  indeed.  He  couldn't 
see  what  it  was  that  smashed  these  men.  Nor  indeed  could  Jean,  who, 
peering  through  his  loophole  in  the  angle,  could  only  discern  dense  rolling 
clouds  of  smoke  far  behind  the  German  infantry  positions  and  occasionally 
a  vivid  sheet  of  distant  flame.  It  was  very  like  trying  to  fight  against 
the  thunder  and  lightning,  except  that  they, — he  looked  at  the  abattoir 
about  him, — made  cleaner  jobs  of  their  victims. 

To  the  terrier  it  seemed  that  all  the  horror  of  this  hellish  morning 
was  culminating  in  the  destruction  of  the  world.  The  whole  trench 
seemed  to  collapse  and  fall  together — not  caving  in  at  all,  but  rather  as 
though  some  huge  dump  cart  had  let  fall  its  load  to  fill  up  the  excavation 
and  level  off  the  tortured  meadow 

Suddenly  he  remembered.  This  was  what  had  happened  to  those 
men  back  by  the  farm.  What  he  had  reasoned  out  would  some  day 
happen  to  Jean.  Without  his  realizing  it,  they  had  been  buried  in  this 
long  grave  which  they  themselves  had  dug, — where  they  had  passed  their 
life  during  the  last  four  months. 

He  had  been  shut  inside  his  little  niche  by  the  collapse  of  the  trench, 
and  he  would  have  to  dig  to  get  out.  The  loose  earth  filled  his  eyes, — 
clogged  nostrils  and  mouth  until  his  aching  lungs  gasped  for  breath. 
Something  was  the  matter  with  his  hind  legs.  They  seemed  to  have  no 
feeling.     He  couldn't  move  them;  worst  of  all,  he  couldn't  dig  with  them. 

However,  every  physical  sensation  was  subordinate  to  the  great 
wave  of  joy  which  surged  through  his  shaggy  bosom  and  urged  him  in 
great  convulsive  movements  towards  the  surface.  At  last  the  oppor- 
tunity had  come  to  prove  his  love  for  Jean.  The  little  mother  had 
trusted  him,  and  he  would  show  her  that  the  trust  was  not  misplaced. 
Now  at  last  he  realized  what  the  old  setter  had  meant  by  speaking  of  this 
strange,  inexplicable  life  as  "la  belle  guerre."  It  was  because  it  could 
renew  the  relationship  of  his  dreams,  the  old,  forgotten  comradeship  that 
had  once  existed  between  dog  and  man;  because  it  could  put  them  once 
again  upon  the  same  plane  of  helplessness  and  mutual  dependence,  that 
war,  he  felt,  was  really  beautiful.  Whining  in  his  intense  anxiety,  he 
reached  the  surface,  gulped  his  lungs  full  of  the  fetid  and  gaseous  air,  and 
started  to  dig  furiously  in  the  angle  where  he  had  last  seen  Jean. 

That  evening  Heinrich  Doppel,  formerly  instructor  of  electrical 
physics  at  the  University  of  Bonn,  and  the  Herr  Doktor  Schlegel,  his 


La  Belle  Guerre  147 

military  superior  and  erstwhile  lecturer  in  the  Ethical  Seminar  of  the 
same  institution,  stood  side  by  side,  surveying  the  captured  trench. 
Between  old  friends  and  colleagues,  especially  after  victory,  it  is  some- 
times fitting  that  military  etiquette  should  be  waived,  and  the  day  had 
proved  a  splendid  success  for  German  science.  After  the  morning's 
terrible  bombardment  their  infantry  had  met  a  broken  and  demoralized 
resistance.  The  three  lines  of  trenches,  the  farmhouse  headquarters  with 
large  supplies  of  material  and  equipment,  the  two  square  miles  of  terrain 
which  the  position  dominated,  had  all  changed  hands,  and  in  the  rich 
glow  of  the  sunset  the  captors  were  working  hard  to  consolidate  their 
gain  before  the  arrival  of  French  reinforcements. 

"They  seem  quite  bedraggled  by  our  little  rainstorm,"  said  Doppel, 
surveying  the  crumbling  trenches  and  their  quota  of  slain  defenders. 

Hauptmann  Schlegel  smiled  at  the  touch  of  humor.  "It  was  your 
last  shell  that  did  the  trick,  Heinrich,"  said  he,  pointing  to  the  ploughed 
crater  where  the  salient  angle  of  the  foremost  trench  had  been.  "See, 
we  will  not  have  the  trouble  of  burying  a  good  many  of  them.  All  leveled 
oflf  for  the  Spring  sowing,  too. 

"Mein  Gott!"  he  added  with  a  chuckle;  "it  is  something  like  to 
capture  this  fine  farming  land  and  at  the  same  time  have  the  Frenchmen 
agree  to  fertilize  it  for  us!" 

His  companion  grinned  broadly.  "See,"  he  said,  pointing.  "There 
is  one  who  is  only  half  buried.     I  wonder  how  he  managed  to  escape." 

They  strolled  over  to  where  the  French  soldier  lay  unconscious,  the 
lower  half  of  his  body  still  covered  by  the  loose  soil.  Close  to  his  head, 
with  back  and  legs  twisted  to  an  unnatural  angle,  red  tongue  hanging 
from  his  mouth  and  eyes  tight  closed,  lay  a  little  Irish  terrier. 

"The  dog  must  have  dug  him  out,"  said  Schlegel,  indicating  the 
hollow  in  which  the  man  lay,  and  the  surrounding  heaps  of  scooped-up 
dirt. 

He  stooped,  feeling  for  signs  of  life,  while  Doppel  turned  and  whistled 
to  a  nearby  Red  Cross  worker.  A  startled  exclamation  made  him  turn. 
The  professor  of  Ethics  was  erect  and  nursing  his  right  hand. 

"Der  verdammte  hund  hat  mich  gebissen,"  he  snarled,  glaring 
at  the  rigid  little  body  whose  great  brown  eyes,  now  open,  were  fast 
glazing  in  death. 

—F.  M.  Morley,  '15. 


Bfapan'g  ^olicp  STotoarbg  Cfjina 

THE  Japanese  policy  in  the  Far  East  is  to  establish  conditions 
assuring  a  firm  and  lasting  peace,  so  that  she  may  be  at  liberty 
to  develop  normally  and  gain  prosperity  through  legitimate  chan- 
nels of  trade  in  China.  Since  commercial  China  in  the  future  means  the 
lifeblood  of  Japan,  it  is  of  paramount  importance  to  her  that  China 
should  be  stable.  The  instability  of  China  means  the  insecurity  of  Japan. 
The  conflicting  interests  of  the  western  powers  in  the  Middle  Kingdom 
have  been  of  the  greatest  menace  to  Japan,  and  unless  remedied  will 
prove  to  be  still  more  so  in  the  future.  If  China  were  able  to  do  her 
share  in  establishing  the  permanent  peace  of  the  Orient,  by  withstanding 
the  encroachments  of  western  powers,  Japan  would  leave  her  alone,  but 
inasmuch  as  China  completely  lacks  that  power,  it  is  the  purpose  of 
Japan  to  acquire  a  stabilizing  influence.  This  means  that  Japan  demands 
that  she  shall  be  consulted  in  all  matters  which  may  prove  to  be  an  open- 
ing wedge  for  foreign  intrigue  against  Chinese  stability. 

It  is  well  to  remember  that  at  the  bottom  of  the  tremendous  sacri- 
fices in  life  and  money  which  Japan  has  had  to  undergo  in  the  last  few 
years,  lies  China's  vacillating  foreign  policy.  Her  repudiation  of  the 
Treaty  of  Tientsin  (18th  of  April,  1885),  in  which  the  equality  of  Japan 
was  recognized  in  Korean  affairs,  brought  about  the  Chino-Japanese  War. 
Again,  if  China  had  done  her  share  in  withstanding  Russian  aggression 
in  Manchuria,  Russia  would  never  have  threatened  Korea,  which  brought 
about  the  Russo-Japanese  War.  Finally,  the  removal  of  the  Germans 
from  Kiao-chou,  which  may  be  compared  to  the  lancing  of  a  boil  by  a 
surgeon,  would  not  have  been  necessary  excepting  the  diseased  state  of 
political  China. 

The  last  analogy  is  not  a  claim  for  Japanese  altruism,  for  Japan  is 
taking  these  precautions  for  her  own  welfare,  but  since  it  is  China's 
stability  that  Japan  desires,  it  is  evident  that  the  interests  and  the  wel- 
fare of  both  peoples  overlap.  The  expansion  of  Japan  into  Korea  has 
led  many  to  believe  that  she  contemplates  a  similar  move  into  China. 
Korea  is  strategically  necessary  for  Japan's  territorial  integrity.  On 
the  other  hand,  the  occupation  of  China  would  gain  nothing  either  finan- 
cially or  strategically  for  Japan,  which  she  could  not  far  more  cheaply 
secure  by  the  removal  of  disturbing  factors.  There  are  also  many  who 
believe  that  a  fear  of  a  strong  China  would  lead  Japan  to  keep  her  in  her 
present  weakened  state.  A  Teutonic  China  would  undoubtedly  imperil 
Japan,  but  the  danger  of  that  is  remote  (to  those  who  know  the  pacific 
nature  of  Chinese  character)  as  compared  to  the  peril  of  a  tottering 


Japan's  Policy  Towards  China  149 

China  overwhelming  Japan  in  her  fall.  It  is  with  all  sincerity,  therefore, 
that  Japan  desires  the  integrity  of  China  and  the  permanent  peace  of  the 
Far  East,  for  peace  spells  trade  and  it  is  that  above  all  that  Japan  desires. 

Those  Americans  whose  sympathies  have  been  won  by  Young  China 
may  wonder  why  Japanese  statesmen  evidently  doubt  China's  ability  to 
solve  her  own  problems.  Japan's  attitude  towards  China  is  founded  on 
a  very  extensive  knowledge  for  which  her  psychological  kinship  with 
China  and  the  presence  of  75,210  resident  Japanese  in  that  country 
especially  fit  her,  and  it  is  no  exaggeration  to  say  that  Tokio  knows 
more  about  the  internal  conditions  of  China  than  Peking  herself.  Many 
Westerners  expect  in  China  a  rise  somewhat  similar  to  the  evolution 
which  Japan  has  undergone.  This  is  to  misread  the  real  causes  of  Japan's 
strength.  To  Young  China,  the  formula  of  a  constitutional  government, 
modern  machinery  and  Western  education  constitute  the  secret  of  Japan's 
power.  They  ignore  the  centuries  of  civic  virtue,  political  discipline,  and 
intense  loyalty  which  alone  have  weathered  Japan  through  her  struggles. 
Some  such  unifying  force  constituting  an  integral  part  of  Chinese  life 
is  necessary  for  an  organized,  modern  China.  Young  China,  throwing 
aside  the  traditions  of  her  ancestors,  is  endeavoring  to  form  some  such 
force  out  of  the  whole  cloth — an  impossibility,  as  studetns  of  history  will 
realize.  The  only  cohesive  force  in  China  which  in  any  way  corresponds 
to  the  "Bushido"  of  Japan,  is  Confucianism — which  by  its  very  nature 
is  anti-progressive.  These  are  the  views  of  the  late  Prince  Ito,  on  whose 
opinion  Japan's  Chinese  policy  is  largely  founded. 

Perhaps  a  comparison  between  China  and  Mexico  will  render 
Japan's  position  clearer  to  Americans.  Suppose  that  Mexico  in  her  pres- 
ent condition  were  the  prey  of  Japan,  England,  and  Germany,  who  held 
Magdalena  Bay,  Tampico  and  Vera  Cruz,  with  corresponding  spheres  of 
influence,  including  mines  and  railroads.  Would  not  the  United  States 
view  with  grave  concern  the  further  encroachments  of  these  powers? 
Furthermore,  suppose  that  the  United  States  were  dependent  upon 
Mexico  for  her  future  material  welfare,  and  that  there  were  little  indication 
of  Mexico  being  able  to  so  organize  herself  as  to  withstand  the  aggression 
of  those  nations.  Would  not  the  United  States  feel  that  it  was  necessary 
for  the  peace  of  this  hemisphere,  the  legitimate  future  of  her  own  people, 
and  the  good  of  Mexico  to  insist  on  a  position  of  dominant  influence  in 
the  affairs  of  that  country  and  a  strong  hand  to  stabilize  it? 

And  America  would  insist  upon  it  by  diplomacy,  arms  (is  not  your 
fleet  to  uphold  the  Monroe  Doctrine?),  or  further  measures  if  necessary. 


150  The  Haverfordian 

China  politically  is  the  Mexico  of  the  Far  East,  and  Japan  by  virtue 
of  her  position  is  taking  upon  her  shoulders  the  burden  which,  as  a  self- 
respecting  power,  she  must  and  ought  to  bear. 

—  Yoshio  Nitohe,   '15. 


(Blh  anb  ^etD 

A  dream  street  lies,  a  dim  delight, 

All  gold  in  lanterns'   mellow  glow, 
Where,  mid  the  murmuring  of  the  night, 

A  tide  of  Mystery  seems  to  flow — 
The  mystery  of  Old  Japan. 

At  times  behind  a  gleaming  door 

Sound  geishas'  songs  and  samisen, 
Where  rapid  feet  on  polished  floor 

Dance  joy  into  the  hearts  of  men — 

The  smiling  hearts  of  Old  Japan. 

The  booming  of  a  temple  bell 

Reverberates  through  violet  air; — 
A  priestly  chant  recalls  from  Hell 

The  dead,  to  meet  the  living  there — 
To  tell  the  Fate  of  Old  Japan. 

"Soon  down  the  street  of  Life  and  Death, 

With  noiseless  stride  of  wooden  clog. 
In  purple  silks  as  light  as  breath 

Will  steal  with  stealth  of  sea-borne  fog, 
The  silent  ghost  of  Old  Japan." 

—E.  M.  Pharo,  '15. 


Cfje  Concert 

I  lie  on  my  couch;  I  am  not  definitely  conscious  of  the  room  about 
me.  I  am  in  what  the  psychologist  might  call  "the  borderland 
state,"  where  a  slight  stimulus  will  either  pull  me  into  waking  con- 
sciousness or  push  me  into  sound  sleep.  I  am  not  wholly  unconscious 
to  everything  about  me;  I  am  "aware"  that  certain  events  are  hap- 
pening outside,  but  I  cannot  probe  them;  I  cannot  differentiate  or 
analyze  them. 

And  as  I  lie  thus,  there  suddenly  is  gently  wafted  through  my  open 
window  a  most  wondrous  tune,  borne  as  it  were  by  a  fairy  breeze.  It 
is  indescribably  sweet  and  smooth.  The  dulcet  blending  of  the  instru- 
ments is  marvelous;  the  liquid  notes  coalesce  just  as  the  little  brook 
smoothly  glides  into  and  mingles  with  the  placid  waters  of  the  pond. 
I  strain  my  ear  in  an  effort  to  determine  what  selection  is  being  rendered, 
but  it  is  unrecognizable.  However,  I  am  sure  it  must  be  a  bright, 
optimistic  theme,  for  although  the  notes  are  smooth  and  gentle,  yet  they 
possess  a  strange  clarity  and  crispness;  the  spirit  seems  to  be  Hope  and 
Firmness. 

Now  I  hear  but  one  instrument.  Have  the  rest  of  the  musicians 
vanished,  leaving  a  sole  representative  of  their  wonderful  talent?  No! 
for  soon  I  hear  the  splendid  ensemble  which  had  first  filled  the  air  with 
melody.  I  understand  it  all  now;  I  am  to  be  treated  to  a  solo,  perhaps 
by  a  world's  celebrity!  The  golden  tones  pour  forth  from  the  soloist; 
the  tune  is  shrill,  yet  pleasant  and  dominating  in  spirit — perhaps  em- 
blematic of  the  King's  Proclamation.  One  by  one  the  musicians  join 
the  soloist,  and  finally  the  entire  orchestra  pours  forth  a  glorious  crescendo. 
The  drums  are  beating  violently — especially  the  bass-drums — with 
regular  rhythm. 

Then  of  a  sudden,  quiet  reigns,  and  I  hear  a  most  melodious  whist- 
ling note,  becoming  more  and  more  distinct.  I  speculate;  is  it  a  flute, 
piccolo  or  fife?  Soon  other  reedy  notes  join  the  first.  What  delicate 
harmony  fills  the  air!  But  I  have  an  uncanny  feeling  which  bids  fair 
to  drive  away  the  ecstasy  of  the  concert.  I  chide  myself  for  it,  but 
of  no  avail.  This  uncomfortable  state  in  which  I  am  is  almost  inde- 
scribable, it  is  so  mystic  and  vague.  I  can  neither  see,  hear,  nor  with 
any  of  my  other  senses  appreciate  the  presence  of  a  leader,  a  band- 
master. Yet  throughout  the  entire  concert  I  have  had  a  feeling  that 
he  must  be  there;  by  some  mysterious  sense  I  feel  his  rhythmic  beat 
steadily  and  continuously  during  the  concert.     I  cannot  shake  off  this 


152  The  Haverfordian 

sensation;  I  cannot  close  my  eyes  or  ears  to  it.     In  some  extraordinary 
fashion  I  have  divined  the  presence  of  a  leader,  and  so  it  must  be! 

And  now  the  concert  is  coming  to  a  close;  the  harmonious  notes 
are  becoming  fainter  and  fainter,  and  are  soon  inaudible.  The  grand 
concert  is  over  and  now  I  hear  a  mighty  applause  breaking  the  still  air. 
Then  all  is  silent.  I  lie  on  my  couch  impressionless,  sensationless ; 
just  as  a  marble  statue.  Perhaps  the  psychologist  would  call  it  "com- 
pletely dispersed  attention."  At  any  rate  the  stimuli  impinging  on  my 
sense  organs  produce  no  perceptional  reactions. 

For  a  while  I  lie  thus,  when  suddenly  (I  know  not  by  what)  I  am 
pulled  into  waking  consciousness  and  I  begin  to  realize  my  surroundings. 
Sense  impressions  pour  in  voluminously  upon  me.  I  try  to  gather  my  scat- 
tered wits  together,  and  straighten  out  my  skewed  thoughts.  I  begin 
to  appreciate  that  I  am  again  in  the  living  world.  A  faint  smile  flits 
across  my  face  as  I  analyze  the  concert  I  had  just  heard.  The  splendid 
ensemble  resolves  itself  into  the  crowing  of  the  hens  and  roosters  of 
Ardmore;  the  soloist  is  of  course  one  particularly  loud  rooster;  the 
beating  of  the  drums  becomes  the  rumbling  of  the  trains  and  cars;  the 
flute,  piccolo  or  fife  is  the  morning  song  of  the  robins  outside  my  window; 
the  mighty  applause  is  my  window-shade  violently  fluttering  in  the  wind ; 
and,  most  wonderful  of  all,  the  strange  feeling  of  the  leader's  presence 
I  trace  to  the  regular  ticking  of  the  clock  on  the  mantel. 

It  is  a  grand  concert! 

—E.  L.  Shaffer,  '15. 


TH E  study  of  bird  life  is  one  of  the  most  delightful  of  hobbies.  Many, 
perhaps  most,  of  us  are  almost  totally  unaware  of  the  vast  throng 
of  charming  little  creatures  living  about  us,  without  whose  tire- 
less efforts  we  ourselves  could  not  exist.  Even  a  slight  acquaintance 
with  these  small  benefactors  of  humanity  adds  greatly  to  the  enjoyment 
of  every  country  walk,  while  to  the  veteran  bird  enthusiast  every  field 
and  woodland  contains  the  possibility  of  delightful  surprises,  and  every 
sound  bears  a  message  of  its  own.  The  bird  world  has  always  been  a 
fairyland  for  poets,  and  it  is  sure  to  appeal  to  the  poetical  in  each  of  us 
if  we  give  it  half  a  chance.  The  great  number  and  variety  of  birds  that 
are  with  us,  their  elusiveness,  and  the  brilliant  plumage  and  beautiful 
songs  with  which  many  of  them  are  endowed,  combine  to  make  orni- 
thology the  most  attractive,  in  my  opinion,  of  the  natural  sciences. 

In  making  the  acquaintance  of  our  bird  neighbors  it  is  a  great  ad- 
vantage to  learn  their  songs  and  call  notes  along  with  their  appearance,  for 
a  thorough  knowledge  of  all  the  common  notes  will  save  many  a  long 
search  in  pursuit  of  a  note  only  to  find  a  common  bird  at  the  end  of  the 
journey,  and  will  often  cause  an  uncommon  note  to  catch  the  attention 
which  might  otherwise  have  been  lost  in  the  general  confusion  of  bird 
sounds.  It  is  usually  easier  to  determine  what  birds  are  in  the  vicinity 
by  hearing  than  by  sight. 

A  person  starting  his  acquaintance  with  birds  at  the  time  when  they 
are  most  in  evidence  might  easily  become  bewildered  and  discouraged 
by  the  magnitude  of  his  task.  For  this  reason  winter  is  the  ideal  time  of 
year  to  make  a  start,  though  the  abundance  of  birds  at  that  season  is 
usually  not  such  as  to  inspire  great  enthusiasm.  In  winter  the  few  birds 
that  are  with  us  love  company.  Sometimes  after  walking  for  miles  and 
noting  scarcely  a  bird  one  comes  to  the  sunny  border  of  a  wood  and  finds 
oneself  suddenly  in  the  midst  of  a  little  group  of  birds,  nuthatches,  creep- 
ers, woodpeckers,  chickadees,  titmice,  and  cardinals.  Occasionally 
a  more  unusual  meeting  brings  a  delightful  surprise.  It  may  be  a  flock 
of  horned  larks  flying  with  tinkling  notes  over  barren  fields  or  making 
themselves  invisible  in  footprints  in  the  snow,  or  a  cheery  little  group 
of  siskins.  In  the  course  of  an  all-day  walk  in  midwinter  in  eastern 
Pennsylvania  one  would  probably  find  not  many  more  than  fifteen  species 
of  birds,  but  along  the  sheltered  streams  of  western  New  Jersey  bird  life 
in  winter  is  much  more  abundant.  Here  many  of  the  birds  which  spend 
the  winter  normally  not  far  to  the  south  and  appear  among  the  first  ar- 
rivals in  the  spring  may  occasionally  be  found  mingled  with  the  great 


154  The  Haverfordian 

flocks  of  winter  birds  which  frequent  these  valleys.  For  several  years 
past  it  has  been  my  privilege  to  take  an  all-day  bird  walk  with  a  friend 
on  Christmas  day  in  such  ideal  locations.  Every  time  we  have  brought 
back  a  list  of  twenty-eight  species  or  more,  always  including  several 
kinds  not  usually  with  us  in  the  winter.  Every  Christmas  walk  is  rich 
with  mild  adventure.  Up  before  the  sun,  we  start  off  through  melting 
snow  or  over  frozen  fields  and  streams,  as  the  case  may  be,  breaking 
through  tangles  of  briars,  sinking  in  hidden  mud  holes,  and  meeting  oc- 
casionally a  bellicose  dog  or  a  group  of  unnaturally  hilarious  men.  At 
midday  we  eat  our  lunch  seated  on  a  mossy  log,  or,  if  the  weather  is  too 
cold,  in  some  hospitable  farmhouse  or  by  a  fire  made  from  last  year's 
broken  peach  baskets.  Then  we  plod  on  through  the  afternoon,  the 
additions  to  the  list  coming  more  slowly  but  often  in  the  shape  of  most 
unexpected  surprises,  and  return  to  supper  in  the  darkening  twilight, 
somewhat  weary,  but  with  a  good  list  and  a  feeling  that  the  trip  was 
well  worth  while. 

During  the  first  warm  days  in  the  middle  of  February,  when  the 
cardinal  announces  his  presence  by  long,  glad  whistles,  and  a  few  bold 
insects  venture  forth,  a  careful  observer  is  nearly  sure  to  be  thrilled  by 
the  familiar  note  of  a  robin  or  bluebird  or  a  close-flying  flock  of  dusky 
forms,  the  advance  guard  of  the  blackbirds.  These  birds,  which  later 
pass  almost  unnoticed,  are  then  greeted  as  enthusiastically  as  the  rarest 
warbler  in  May.  The  arrivals  from  the  south  are  rather  few  for  the  first 
month,  but  they  become  more  frequent  as  the  season  advances,  and  about 
the  middle  of  April  the  great  migration  waves  commence,  for  most  of  our 
birds  come  not  as  scattered  individuals  but  in  great  swarms  by  night 
corresponding  to  rises  in  temperature.  A  piece  of  woodland  entirely 
uninhabited  on  one  afternoon  may  be  literally  alive  with  flashes  of  color 
and  slight  lisping  songs  the  next  morning.  The  first  three  weeks  in 
May  are  the  banner  weeks  for  the  bird  enthusiast.  Every  day  brings 
new  arrivals  and  woods  and  thickets  are  teeming  with  life.  Rare  warblers 
lurk  here  and  there  in  the  midst  of  their  numerous  relatives,  and  the 
persistent  searcher  is  usually  rewarded  with  two  or  three  such  finds  every 
spring.  It  is  easy  to  lose  interest  in  bird  life  at  some  times  of  year,  but 
any  latent  germ  of  interest  is  sure  to  spring  into  lively  enthusiasm  when 
the  warbler  throngs  arrive. 

By  the  first  of  June  most  of  the  transients  have  passed  on  to  the 
northward  and  those  that  stay  settle  down  to  the  duties  of  family  life. 
The  nesting  period  affords  one  of  the  most  attractive  opportunities  for 
intimate  acquaintance  with  bird  life.  Some  of  us  have  had  the  privilege 
of  spending  summers  in  Maine,  where  most  of  the  Pennsylvania  transients 


Bird  Ramblings  155 

may  be  found  in  their  summer  homes.  I  have  many  pleasant  memories 
connected  with  the  evergreen-bordered  lakes  of  southern  and  central 
Maine,  and  among  them  birds  have  an  important  place.  One  bird  that 
has  always  had  a  strange  fascination  for  me  is  the  loon,  which  seems  to 
me,  as  to  many  others,  the  incarnation  of  unconquerable  wildness.  On 
many  a  moonlight  night  has  its  indescribable  ringing  call,  weird  yet 
strangely  pleasing,  sent  a  thrill  through  me,  and  occasionally  as  the 
canoe  glided  over  peaceful  waters  a  long  neck  has  been  seen  to  disappear 
silently  beneath  the  surface,  to  reappear  as  silently  a  moment  later  at  a 
safe  distance.  Another  impressive  bird  which  sometimes  frequents  the 
Maine  lakes  is  the  bald  eagle.  It  is  a  great  sight  to  see  one  of  these 
grand  birds  hover  high  over  the  lake,  then  suddenly  drop  headlong  into 
the  water,  and  soar  away  with  its  prize.  One  of  my  most  interesting 
adventures  occurred  in  the  woods  about  half  a  mile  from  the  nearest 
clearing  in  south-central  Maine.  I  had  been  walking  alone  along  a  trail 
through  the  forest  for  some  time,  absorbed  in  the  great  number  of  warblers 
and  white-throated  sparrows  nesting  nearby,  when  I  was  seized  with  a 
feeling  of  uneasiness  such  as  I  have  never  felt  in  the  woods  at  any  other 
time.  I  shook  the  feeling  off  and  went  on  for  a  short  distance,  observ- 
ing the  tangle  of  deer  footprints  wherever  the  ground  was  soft  and  hoping 
for  a  glimpse  of  the  timid  creatures.  Soon  after  I  turned  back  and  about 
the  place  where  I  had  previously  felt  uneasy  stopped  to  look  at  a  parula 
warbler.  After  standing  motionless  a  few  moments  I  became  aware  of 
a  slight  rustling  in  the  leaves  approaching  the  trail.  I  turned  my  at- 
tention to  it  and  was  still  trying  in  vain  to  see  through  the  dense  tangle 
of  underbrush,  when  a  black  bear  crashed  away  through  the  bushes,  utter- 
ing two  emphatic  exclamations  in  bear  language  as  it  went,  and  never 
stopping  till  the  sounds  of  its  stampede  were  almost  inaudible  in  the 
distance.  I  later  learned  that  a  young  bear  had  been  shot  in  the  same 
place  the  day  before. 

In  the  fall  the  migration  of  the  spring  is  repeated  in  reverse  order, 
but  for  the  birds  autumn  is  not  a  time  of  courtship  and  song,  so  that  their 
passage  southward  is  a  quiet  and  inconspicuous  one.  Large  numbers 
of  young  birds  with  plumages  totally  unlike  those  of  their  parents  and 
usually  possessing  few  distinctive  markings  make  the  observer's  task  a 
far  more  difficult  one  than  in  the  spring.  About  this  time  every  year 
the  bird  lover  is  apt  to  lose  interest  temporarily.  By  the  first  of  Novem- 
ber all  the  winter  birds  have  arrived  and  only  the  latest  migrants  still 
remain  in  small  numbers.  By  the  middle  of  December  these  also  have 
all  departed  and  the  yearly  cycle  is  completed. 

—George  H.  Hallelt,  Jr.,  '15. 


^itcfjing  ^ccorbing  to  ^ople 

LINE  her  out,  Spank,  line  her  out.     A  hit  means  two  runs  and  that's 
all  we  need.     Two  runs  to  win.     Pick  out  a  good  one.  Spank." 
These  words  from  the  coacher's  box  at  first,  and  similar 
expressions  from  another  Hughey  Jennings  down  at  third,  were  meant  to 
encourage  Captain  Spank  Drear  at  this  crisis  in  the  last  half  of  the  ninth, 
with  the  home  team  a  run  behind,  two  men  out  and  two  on. 

"Well  hit,"  lustily  called  out  a  spectator  wearing  a  white  sweater 
and  cricket  colors.  The  ball  veered  off  sideways  towards  College  Avenue 
and  came  to  rest  on  a  convenient  roof. 

"Foul,"  said  a  wise  youth. 

"Come  on,  Spank,  show  'em  what  you  can  do.  One  little  hit'U 
do  the  trick.     This  is  the  one." 

The  opposing  pitcher  wound  up,  and  the  ball  came  whistling  in,  but 
Spank  spotted  it,  and  "spanked  "  it  out  on  a  line  over  second  base.  The 
ball  bounded  to  deep  right  center  before  it  was  recovered.  The  two 
runners  from  second  and  third  came  pounding  in,  and  Spank  stopped 
comfortably  at  second.  His  work  was  done,  and  his  team  had  won 
out,  2-1,  after  an  exciting  pitcher's  battle  in  which  they  had  been  behind 
all  the  way. 

The  dispersing  crowd  on  this  warm,  clear  Saturday  in  mid-May, 
was  composed  of  student  "fans,"  cricketers  coming  and  going  during  a 
lull  in  their  game,  curious  townsmen,  schoolboy  visitors,  and  Alumni 
enthusiasts.  Spank  was  delayed  by  short  but  well-meant  congratulations. 
At  last,  however,  he  started  towards  the  Gym.  in  company  with  Ted 
Harrison,  the  second  baseman. 

"A  tough  battle,  wasn't  it.  Spank?  Your  little  hit  did  the  trick, 
though,  old  boy.  But  gee!  I  didn't  think  Tom  could  hold  his  own  with 
Jarvins.  He  certainly  pitched  a  great  game,  didn't  he?  They  would 
have  run  away  with  us,  I  guess,  if  he  hadn't  held  them  down.  They 
only  got  about  six  hits,  didn't  they?" 

Spank  nodded  and  picked  up  a  tennis  ball  which  had  escaped  from 
one  of  the  courts  near  the  "  Chem"  building.  He  hurled  it  viciously  and 
somewhat  wildly  at  its  owner. 

"Thank  you.  Spank.  Feeling  strong,  are  you?"  The  white- 
trousered,  tennis-racketed  figure  leaped  vainly  after  the  ball,  only  to  see 
it  soar  over  the  ten-foot  back-stop. 

"Hello,  Tom,"  greeted  Ted.  "Congratulations!  A  great  game  you 
pitched  today." 

Tom  Caldwell  smiled  and  muttered  something  in  depreciation,  as  he 


Pitching  According  to  Hoyle  157 

joined  them  in  front  of  the  Gym.  "  I  thought  for  a  while  that  you  batters 
weren't  going  to  help  me  out  at  all.  That  one  run  of  theirs  looked 
mighty  big.     Jarvins  sort  of  had  you  fellows  buffaloed,  didn't  he,  Spank?" 

Spank,  for  answer,  slammed  the  door  to  with  a  bang  that  aroused  the 
whole  place,  and  unceremoniously  yanked  off  his  baseball  togs,  which, 
after  fumbling  with  the  combination,  he  threw  helter-skelter  into  his  locker. 
The  shower  seemed  first,  unmercifully  hot,  and  then,  unmercifully  cold. 
The  pool  was  crowded  and  did  not  tempt  him,  and  he  returned  to  his 
locker.  Snatches  of  conversation  came  to  his  ears  from  a  couple  of  so- 
called  baseball  critics,  loitering  in  the  hall. 

"Tom  showed  real  class,  didn't  he?" 

"Yes,  but  he  had  to  be  the  whole  show.  Ten  strike-outs!  Just 
think  of  that!" 

"Our  batters  were  rotten,  weren't  they?  Not  a  hit  for  five  innings, 
and  Spank  struck  out  twice  when  he  could  have  sewed  the  game  up 
early,  instead  of  waiting  till  the  last  minute,  and  making  Tom  pitch  his 
head  off." 

Spank,  dressed,  thrust  his  straw  down  over  his  head,  muttered  some- 
thing unintelligible  to  his  loquacious  companions,  and  strode  up  the 
walk  towards  Founders  and  supper.  More  congratulations  for  him, 
and  loud  praises  for  Tom's  twirling. 

After  supper  Spank  did  not  join  the  group  lingering  around  Barclay 
steps,  idly  chatting  and  singing,  or  playing  "dingle"  ball,  nor  the  noisy 
circle  engaged  in  French  cricket.  Instead,  he  hiked  along  with  two  or 
three  "going  down  "  the  well-worn  path  through  the  golf  links  and  the 
bushes;  endured  their  cheerful  nonsense  for  a  time,  and  finally  sought 
consolation  in  town  on  the  7.42. 

Sunday  night  found  Spank  in  bed  early,  not  much  benefited  by  a 
Sabbath's  mechanical  round  of  cold  breakfast,  sporting  news,  compulsory 
church,  chicken  and  ice-cream,  novel  and  sleep,  iced  tea,  strawberries 
and  cream,  more  novel,  and  a  little,  very  little,  "cracking  of  the  books." 
Singularly  enough,  the  sacred  concert  directly  underneath,  seemed  trying 
on  his  nerves;  the  mad  clash  of  the  mandolin,  'cello,  fiddle  and  mouth 
organ,  usually  very  soothing  to  his  heavy  slumbers,  disturbed  him,  and 
he  "  fitfully  tossed  on  his  narrow  cot "  till  12.15.  Even  then,  when  dark- 
ness and  quiet  joined  hands.  Spank  did  not  sleep.  He  got  up,  and  stood 
like  a  ghost  before  the  window,  watching  the  moon  shine  over  Merion 
Field.  Returned  to  bed,  he  thought  intently  for  an  hour,  and  then,  at 
last,  sank  into  a  troubled  sleep. 

Monday  night,  a  week  later,  the  News  came  out  with  this  startling 
scare-head  tucked  away  in  a  quiet  corner  of  the  first  page. 


158  The  Haverfordian 

Drear  to  Pitch;  Caldwell  in  Infirmary 
"From  baseball  circles  comes  a  persistent  rumor  that  Paul  S.  Drear, 
otherwise  known  as  Spank,  Haverford's  baseball  captain,  will  cavort 
around  left  garden  no  longer,  but  hereafter,  will  be  seen  hurling  the  spher- 
oid from  the  centre  of  the  diamond.  This  is  welcome  news,  coming  as  it 
does,  simultaneously  with  the  announcement  that  Tom  Caldwell,  this 
season's  regular  boxman,  is  confined  to  the  Morris  Infirmary  with  ton- 
silitis,  and  will  probably  be  out  of  the  game  for  ten  days. 

Spank's  debut  will  be  made  in  Wednesday's  annual  game  with  the 
Sawbones  from  town.  The  embryo  doctors  are  not  thought  dangerous, 
and  should  be  a  good  try-out  for  Drear.  Those  who  have  seen  him  in 
action  say  that  Spank  has  speed  and  "stuff"  rivaling  Alexander  or 
Walter  Johnson.  As  a  right-hander  he  should  make  a  good  teammate 
for  southpaw  Caldwell.     Spank,  we  feel  sure,  has  everybody's  wishes  for 

a  good  start  Wednesday  in  his  latest  role." 

******** 

The  day  quickly  came,  and  the  hour  at  which  Spank  was  to  begin 
his  career  as  pitcher.  The  Sawbones  arrived  early,  glad  of  an  afternoon 
off,  no  doubt.  The  Red  and  Black  players  came  straggling  out  in  ones 
and  twos,  but  by  a  little  after  four,  all  weie  ready,  and  "Ump"  bellowed 
out  the  nation-wide  summons,  "Play  ball." 

Spank,  impressive  in  his  six-foot  frame  and  red  flannel  sleeves,  drew 
back  his  long  arm,  and  shot  ?  fast  one  straight  at  the  batter's  head.  The 
latter  ducked  and  edged  further  away  from  the  plate. 

"  If  the  batter  shrinks  away  from  the  plate,  he  is  evidently  afraid  of 
the  ball,  and  curves  on  the  inside  corner  are  sure  to  get  his  number." 
Therefore  it  was  that  Spank,  acting  upon  this  information,  struck  out 
the  first  batter. 

"  Big  smoke,  there.  Spank,"  said  Ted  from  second. 

Hal  King,  recruit  catcher,  who  was  also  making  his  professional  de- 
but, signaled  for  an  outcurve  for  batter  No.  2. 

Spank  thought  of  the  little  blue  pamphlet  resting  in  his  hip  pocket, 
and  of  its  contents.  Before  delivery,  he  "grasped  the  ball  with  the  first 
two  fingers  of  the  hand  and  thumb,  turned  the  ball  downwards,  as  if 
holding  it  in  a  saucer,  and  then  let  it  quickly  pass  between  the  thumb 
and  first  finger  with  a  turn  of  the  wrist  at  the  same  time."*  He  was 
surprised  to  see  the  ball  almost  hit  the  batter  in  the  ribs,  but  understood 
the  cause  when  he  suddenly  realized  that  the  batter  was  left-handed, 
and  hence  the  outcurve  really  "inshooted"  on  him.     This  slight  over- 


'  Misquoted  from  "How  to  Pitch,"  A.  G.  Spalding  Co.    $  .10,  net. 


Pitching  According  to  Hoyle  ISg 

sight  caused  him  little  embarrassment.  Soon  further  instructions  from 
that  magical  blue  book  came  to  his  aid. 

For  the  inshoot,  "hold  the  ball  firmly,  with  hand  in  an  upright  posi- 
tion, and  when  the  ball  is  released,  let  it  go  over  the  tips  of  the  fingers, 
and  use  a  lateral  motion  in  delivering  it."  Inshoot  and  out  followed  one 
another  in  bewildering  succession,  until  three  men  had  vainly  whiffed 
the  air,  and  retired  with  only  a  couple  of  weak  fouls  to  boast. 

"A  good  beginning,"  said  Hal. 

After  his  teammates,  in  their  first  turn  at  bat,  had  knocked  out 
three  runs,  and  two  more  in  the  second.  Spank  began  to  gain  confidence. 
With  a  margin  of  five  runs  to  work  on,  he  essayed  the  drop,  in  throwing 
which,  as  the  book  says,  "the  manner  of  grasping  the  ball  is  identical 
with  that  employed  in  pitching  an  outcurve."  But  in  the  act  of  releasing 
the  ball  there  must  be  a  peculiar  and  unconscious  "pull  back"  of  the 
hand,  thus  producing  the  sudden  descent  earthwards,  so  mystifying  to 
batters.  Several  of  Spank's  drops  dropped  prematurely,  so  much  so  that 
they  would  have  made  excellent  leg  shots  for  a  cricketer;  others  did  not 
drop  at  all;  and  one  or  two  rose  perceptibly,  so  that  Hal  had  to  jump  to 
prevent  them  from  scaling  the  back-stop.  As  a  consequence  the  bases 
were  soon  loaded  by  runners  receiving  free  transportation.  But  Spank,  in 
the  emergency,  condescended,  at  Hal's  strong  entreaty,  to  "mix  'em 
up  a  little  "  and,  with  the  help  of  a  long  running  catch  in  left  for  the  third 
out,  the  inning  was  safely  navigated. 

A  "Long  and  Fast"  encouraged  him  after  he  had  mowed  down  the 
opponents  in  one,  two,  three  order,  in  the  fourth.  His  good  spirits 
continued  even  after  he  struck  out  for  the  second  time  that  afternoon, 
an  unusual  feat  for  Captain  Drear,  "slugging  outfielder,"  as  he  was  once 
known.  The  book,  he  remembered,  said  nothing  about  pitchers'  batting 
averages. 

As  he  "ascended  the  mound"  in  the  fifth,  however.  Spank  was  sud- 
denly reminded  of  the  existence  of  his  right  arm,  for  it  was  brought 
painfully  upon  his  consciousness  by  an  acute  ache  in  his  shoulder  muscles. 
It  seemed  to  need  oiling  badly. 

A  measly  little  bunt  started  it.  Another  precipitated  the  crisis, 
and  a  terrific  blow  completely  shattered  everything.  The  first,  Spank 
fumbled  and  then  successfully  picked  up,  and  hurled  towards  first.  He 
involuntarily  threw,  what  he  had  vainly  tried  in  the  third,  a  perfect  out- 
drop;  it  would  have  fooled  any  batter  in  the  world,  not  excepting  a  Cobb 
or  Lajoie.  Hence  it  fooled  Mike,  on  first,  who  was  neither  Cobb  nor 
Lajoie,  but  a  mere  first  baseman,  with  no  thought  of  encountering  out- 
drops.     After  barely  failing  to  fracture  the  runner's  leg,  the  ball  rolled 


160  The  Haverfordian 

and  rolled  until  an  obliging  bystander  intercepted  it,  and    the  base- 
runner,  held  up  by  ground  rules,  rested  patiently  on  second. 

Contrary  to  generally  accepted  baseball  etiquette,  the  next  Sawbones 
batter  bunted  again  to  the  pitcher.  Drear,  in  an  attempt  to  nip  the  ad 
vancing  runner  at  third,  threw  late.  Both  men  were  safe,  and  the 
"Doctor"  on  first  promptly  stole  second  while  Spank  was  winding  up. 
It  was  unfortunate,  as  events  proved,  that  the  next  batter  was  a  free 
hitter — the  best  on  the  visiting  team,  in  fact.  It  was  unfortunate,  too, 
that  Spank  forgot  for  the  moment  whether,  in  pitching  an  out,  "the  ball 
should  be  turned  downward  as  in  a  saucer,"  or  "the  hand  should  be  held 
upright "  and  whether  a  side  arm  or  overhead  delivery  is  necessary.  The 
result  of  his  indecision  was  that  he  grooved  an  easy  one,  which  came  back, 
fast  and  true,  for  his  head.  Spank,  impelled  by  a  primeval  instinct 
of  self-preservation,  ducked,  forgetting  utterly  that  his  glove  was  meant 
for  use.  The  ball  gracefully  soared  over  the  second  bag,  and  two  runs 
cashed  in  at  the  plate. 

"Stand  up  to  them.  Spank;  they  won't  hurt  you,"  said  a  pitiless 
voice,  sarcastically. 

Spank  picked  himself  up  from  the  dust,  held  a  short  consultation 
with  his  battery  mate  and  returned  to  his  duty.  The  tenor  of  some  re- 
marks made  by  McGraw  of  the  Giants  in  the  little  blue  book,  referring 
to  a  pitcher's  ability  to  field,  burned  into  him.  "Many  a  game  is  lost 
by  so-called  star  pitchers  because  they  are  absolutely  useless  as  fielders. 
There  is  not  a  club  in  the  National  League  that  did  not  have  to  let  some 
pitchers  go  last  spring  because  they  ascertained  on  trial  that  they  could 
not  field  bunts  properly." 

During  the  course  of  the  next  forty  minutes.  Spank  experienced  the 
sensations  of  his  first  balk,  first  wild  pitch,  and  what  was  much  worse, 
he  witnessed,  for  the  first  time,  balls  batted  from  his  deliverj',  fly  over 
the  heads  of  outfielders,  who  vainly  shot  out  both  gloved  and  un- 
gloved hands  to  save  their  tired  limbs  from  chasing  these  same  balls 
down  over  the  track  on  Walton  Field,  or  over  into  neighboring  farm 
lands. 

But  detail  is  painful  and  useless,  considering  the  excellent  account 
which  the  News  has  given  of  this  whole  affair,  the  only  mar  on  Haver- 
ford's  otherwise  brilliant  record  for  that  year.  It  is  enough  to  say  that 
Spank  kept  himself  in  for  three  innings  more,  and  then,  at  the  end  of  the 
eighth,  with  spectators  few,  and  watches  registering  much  later  than  the 
supper  hour,  the  game  was  called.  In  that  mad  race  around  the  bases 
of  the  last  few  innings,  in  which,  the  home  team  had  also  taken  its  share, 
the  Sawbones  came  out  on  top,  and  the  final  score  registered  16-14  in 


f  ersep  Cagles 

THERE  are  lots  of  things  wliich  can  spoil  a  ])erfectly  good  summer's 
vacation,  such  as,  for  example,  a  long  rainy  spell  or  a  sponging 
hunch  of  affectionate  relati\-es,  but  neither  of  these  horrors  can 
compare  with  a  siege  of  mosquitoes  at  the  seashore.  The  mere  name 
of  mosquitoes  is  quite  sufficient  to  till  the  mind  of  a  \-eteran  with  terror, 
and  the  sure  mark  of  an  amateur  is  that  old  remark,  "Oh  no,  mosciuitoes 
ne\-er  bother  me."     Xo  one  c\-er  says  that  who  has  been  through  the  mill. 

Suppose  you  are  the  tired  business  man  who  comes  down  to  the 
shore  every  night  for  recreation  and  a  good  night's  rest.  After  a  long, 
dusty  ride  you  are  lucky  if  the  famous  "eagles"  do  not  meet  you  and 
your  train  at  the  station  with  genuine  jersey  hospitality,  but  we  will  sup- 
pose that  >-ou  are  fortunate  enough  to  reach  your  grand  hotel  or  mod- 
est cottage  without  molestation.  After  supper  >'ou  start  out  for  the 
"walk."  \'ou  notice  that  the  beautiful  sim  is  gently  setting  on  the 
horizon,  but  j'ou  soon  learn  that  the  simset  is  not  all  it's  crackeil  uj) 
to  be,  since  it  is  generally  the  bugle-cry  to  arms  for  a  great  and  tragic 
war.  The  rest  of  the  stage-setting  has  also  been  completed  b>'  this  time. 
The  mythical  sea-breeze  has  already  abdicated  in  favor  of  a  husky  land- 
breeze  which  sweeps  o\er  the  grassy  swamps  and  brings  the  winged 
troops  to  the  front.  The  Germans  are  well  mobilized — there  is  no  doulit 
of  that — and  are  fulh-  prepared  both  in  body  and  spirit. 

Vou  are  first  made  aware  of  their  presence  when  you  accidentally 
rtm  into  some  of  their  scouts  laying  plans  for  their  attack.  Then  the 
fun  begins.  The  fair  damsel  you  are  escorting  down  the  walk  suddenly 
discoxers  that  her  arms  and  ankles  are  real  tender  and  palatable,  and 
you  spend  some  exciting  moments  flagging  the  "birds"  with  a  handker- 
chief while  shoving  in  most  appropriate  remarks  now  and  tlien  on  "how 
those  pests  do  spoil  everything!"  You  rush  down  the  Ijoardwalk  after 
pimk  and  citronella,  and,  hotly  pursued  b\'  the  foe,  you  dash  into  a 
pharmacy  to  demand  your  precious  Ijalm,  only  to  find  that  the  last  bottle 
went  ten  minutes  ago  and  that  you  are  the  foolish  \-irgin  without  any 
oil  ol  citronella  for  your  lamps.  Desperately  you  run  out  and  speed  with 
fellow-\ictims  to  the  nearest  "movies."  You  find  them  doing  a  big 
business,  and  here  in  the  dark  the  sport  is  more  exciting,  as  there  are 
fewer  "eagles"  to  go  around  among  the  crowd,  and  you  keep  guessing 
whether  the  moscjuito  >'ou  hear  buzzing  triumjjhantly  o\erhead  is  after 
you  or  your  neighbor. 

As  you  wend  your  weary  wa\'  homeward  \ou  disco\-er  that  the 
common   foe  has  receixed   strong  reinforcements  from  across   the  bay. 


164  The  Haverfordian 

and  as  you  dive  into  the  house  the  "Uhlans"  are  crawHng  over  each 
other,  trying  to  find  a  spot  into  which  to  thrust  their  bloody  bayonets. 
Then  comes  true  disappointment,  for  what  can  be  more  sickening  or 
disheartening  than  to  find  that  something  you  relied  on  to  be  nothing 
but  a  fake?  Such  indeed  are  screens  and  mosquito  netting,  together  with 
citronella,  punk,  and  all  such  paraphernalia;  but  hope  springs  eternal 
in  the  human  breast  and  the  beginner  is  sure  to  throw  away  good,  solid 
cash  on  all  such  stuff  before  admitting  defeat.  Coming  back  to  your  own 
desperate  case,  you  will,  probably,  after  arousing  the  convention  of  mos- 
quitoes in  your  room,  fall  on  the  bed  exhausted,  resigning  yourself  to  the 
pleasures  of  the  night.  But  no  such  chance ! — a  few  more  vicious  bites  and 
you  jump  up  frantically  to  pad  your  ankles  with  paper  and  cover  up  more 
thoroughly.  You  dig  out  cigarettes  from  your  suitcase — because  some 
fool  has  told  you  that  smoking  is  a  fine  cure  for  mosquitoes — and  soon 
you  are  far  on  your  way  to  break  the  record,  which,  by  the  way,  for  such 
a  race  is  two  packs  of  Fatimas  in  twenty-eight  minutes.  By  this  time 
you  are  boiling  with  perspiration  from  all  your  wraps  and  have  turned 
into  a  raving  idiot  raging  around  the  room.  You  swear  eloquently, 
you  call  upon  gods  of  all  kinds,  and  finally  offer  the  mosquitoes  arbitra- 
tion or  a  truce  on  any  terms.  Suddenly  you  calm  down  and  begin  to 
study  your  enemy.  You  find  him  most  interesting  and  your  midnight 
observations  disclose  all  kinds  of  queer  things  about  the  beast  \ou  never 
knew  before.  His  intelligence  startles  you,  his  unsportsmanlike  tactics 
rile  you,  but  the  thing  that  puzzles  you  most  is  where  he  keeps  his  sixth 
sense  which  picks  out  unerringly  good,  choice  white  meat.  And  thus 
you  rave  on,  finally  ending  up  with  the  happy  thought  that  3'ou  have  dis- 
covered a  new  type  of  bravery  and  a  supreme  test  for  an  optimist. 

To  make  the  sad  tale  short,  you  stagger  out  the  next  morning  a 
mental  and  physical  wreck  after  your  grand  nightmare,  and  hustle  up 
to  the  city  to  take  your  humble  station  in  the  busy  marts  of  trade. 
Naturally,  no  one  at  home  will  swallow  your  tale  of  woe.  They  laugh 
sarcastically  and  think  you  are  just  fishing  for  sympathy;  but  next 
spring,  when  vacation  pamphlets  and  timetables  begin  to  fly  around, 
you  stop  a  minute,  smile  bitterly,  and  mutter  to  yourself,  "Once  burnt; 
twice  shy." 

—Kenneth  W.  Webb,  '18. 


THE  UNEASY  CHAIR 


What  Is  the  College  Doing  For  Us?  W'e  often  hear  of  the  man 
who  "does  a  great  deal  for  his  college."  Such  a  man  is  usually  charac- 
terized by  devotion  to  a  number  of  college  activities  which  lie  outside 
the  regular  curriculum  of  studies.  And  such  devotion,  when  kept  within 
bounds,  is  perfectly  natural  and  laudable.  But  in  the  enthusiasm  of 
doing  something  for  the  college  are  we  not  apt  to  forget  the  far  more 
important  question  of  what  the  college  is  doing  for  us? 

There  seems  to  be  a  general  impression  that  the  dul\-  of  the  col- 
lege is  fulfilled  by  giving  instruction  to  its  students  in  a  certain  number 
of  subjects,  and  finalh",  at  the  end  of  four  years,  gixing  diplomas  to  such 
students  as  have  performed  the  work  of  the  courses  to  the  satisfaction 
of  the  college  authorities.  But  certainly  this  is  an  extremely  narrow 
conception  of  the  true  function  of  the  college.  The  four  years  of  college 
life  should  be,  for  the  student,  a  period  of  mental  growth  and  activity 
far  beyond  the  measure  of  his  achievements  in  the  shape  of  marks  and 
outside  activities,  valuable  though  these  may  be.  He  should  come  out 
of  college  possessed  of  genuine  and  well-rounded  culture;  able,  at  least, 
to  maintain  an  intelligent  conversation  upon  such  subjects  as  music, 
art,  literature  and  current  events.  Hazardous  as  it  is  to  make  generalities, 
it  is  safe  to  say  that  the  typical  American  college  man  falls  far  below 
his  proper  standard  in  this  respect. 

How  many  of  the  following  important  names,  for  instance,  would  be 
readily  identified  by  the  typical  college  student:  Renan,  Turgeniev, 
Flaubert,     Schopenhauer,     Burne-Jones,     Baudelaire,    Corot,    Brahms? 

The  name  Wagner  might  bring  up  visions  of  the  athletic  feats  of  a 
certain  well-known  shortstop;  but  would  it  be  calculated  to  bring  up 
an  equally  clear  picture  of  the  composer  of  "The  Ring"  and  "Tristan 
und  Isolde"? 

Surely  there  is  no  reason  why  the  average  college  man  should  not 
be  better  informed  on  such  common  subjects  of  cultured  conversation. 
Surely  it  will  do  no  harm  if  we  pay  a  little  less  attention  to  what  we  are 
doing  for  the  college  and  a  good  deal  more  to  what  the  college  is  doing 
for  us. 

—W.  H.  C. 


166  The  Haverfordian 

Success  in  the  short  story  depends  not  a  little  on  the  quality  of 
local  color  portrayed.  If  the  latter  be  real,  and  typical  of  an  actual 
locality,  the  story  has  a  good  chance  of  success  But,  on  the  other  hand, 
poor  local  color  ruins  any  story.  This  is  especially  true  of  those  ama- 
teurish attempts  to  reproduce  the  metropolitan  atmosphere,  which  be- 
ginners in  fiction  seem  to  regard  as  an  essential  part  of  their  stories.  If 
the  story  carries  with  it  no  distinctive  setting  of  its  own,  of  course.  New 
York  with  its  broad  cosmopolitanism,  may  give  it  the  needed  touch  of 
realism.  But  still  it  is  wiser  for  the  young  writer  to  stick  to  his  own  en- 
\'ironment,  that  which  he  has  around  him  all  the  time,  and  which  no  one 
should  be  able  to  depict  better  than  he  can.  A  faithful  description  of 
life  in  his  own  vicinity,  may,  by  its  attention  to  intimate  detail,  save  a 
too  obvious  plot,  and  be  the  making  of  the  story. 

Haverford  undergraduates  in  undertaking  the  short  story  can  have 
no  better  setting  than  their  own  home  town  or  city,  or  better  still,  Haver- 
ford College  itself.  The  atmosphere  of  the  metropolis  is  not  necessary 
to  make  a  manuscript  acceptable  to  the  editors  and  readers  of  the  Haver- 
FORDi.AN.  In  fact  we  ha\'e  too  many  stories  of  New  York  life,  and  too  few 
of  Haverford  and  its  immediate  \icinity.  Why  not  try  to  choose  that 
setting  for  our  stories  which  best  fits  them  and  which  is  best  known  to 
us?  It  matters  little  whether  it  be  "God's  Country,"  the  sunny  South- 
land, or  that  most  American  of  cities,  safe  and  sane  Philadelphia.  The 
important  thing  is  to  be  realistic,  and,  at  the  same  time,  sympathetic  in 
our  local  color. 

The  late  O.  Henry  believed  that  no  locality  was  a  too  prosaic  subject 
for  the  short  story,  and  to  pro\'e  thi-,  he  cleverly  wrote  "A  Municipal 
Report"  with  Azalea  Adair  of  861  Jessamine  St.,  Nashville,  as  chief 
character.  Ha^'erfordians,  fond  of  wielding  the  "mightier  than  the 
sword,"  would  do  well  to  search  out  the  romantic  elements  in  their  sur- 
roundings this  summer.  Or,  perhaps,  a  glance  back  at  experiences  of  the 
college  year,  will,  through  the  glamor  of  intervening  time,  yield  inspira- 
tion. 

In  either  case,  let  us  ha\e  your  impressions  down  in  black  and  white 
before  they  flit  away,  perhaps  ne\'er  to  return. 

—G.  A.  D. 


IRefaieh)  of  tfje  Reason 

t 

The  past  theatrical  season  has  not  been  especially  successful,  from 
the  standpoint  of  notable  artistic  triumphs.  This  is  hardly  to  be  won- 
dered at,  inasmuch  as  theatres  all  over  the  country  complain  of  the  effects 
of  depression. 

The  Little  Theatre  went  through  the  season  without  interruption 
antl,  in  a  few  cases  proved  that  artistic  merit  and  financial  success  are 
not  ahva\s  incompatible.  Sheridan's  "The  Rivals"  was  especially 
w  ell  recei\ed.  Among  other  outstanding  productions  of  the  season  were 
Bernard  Shaw's  "Arms  and  the  Man,"  and  Charles  Rann  Kennedy's 
"The  Serxant  in  the  House."  Mr.  Kennedy  appeared  in  his  own  play 
and  did  full  justice  to  the  spirit  of  lofty  and  exalted  mysticism  in 
which  the  work  is  written. 

The  Garrlck  opened  with  the  operetta,  "Adele."  Among  its  most 
conspicuous  successes  of  the  year  may  be  mentioned  "Potash  and  Perl- 
mutter,"  with  its  inimitable  dialect,  and  "Seven  Keys  to  Baldpate," 
a  combination  of  melodrama  and  farce  which  proved  a  huge  success. 
"The  Yellow  Ticket"  had  vivid  fascination,  while  Lew  Fields  provided  a 
roaring  farce  in  "The  High  Cost  of  Loving."  "The  Argyle  Case"  and 
"The  Little  C^afe"  were  old  favorites  which  renewed  their  previous 
triumphs. 

The  Broad,  which  opened  its  season  rather  weakly,  provided  a 
number  of  theatrical  treats  during  the  closing  half  of  the  year.  "Dip- 
lomacy" was  very  warmly  received,  while  "The  Phantom  Rival"  did  not 
meet  the  appreciation  it  deserved.  Mrs.  Patrick  Campbell,  in  Bernard 
Shaw's  "Pygmalion"  was  one  of  the  most  notable  features  of  the  local 
season,  while  Billie  Burke  eclipsed  most  of  her  previous  triumphs  in 
"Jerry." 

The  Forest,  as  usual,  confined,  itself  to  the  lighter  forms  of  dramatic 
art.  A  succession  of  musical  comedies  and  operettas  offered  a  rich  treat 
to  those  theatre-goers  who  prefer  that  kind  of  production.  "Chin 
Chin,"  "Sari,"  the  Girl  from  Utah"  and  "Hello,  Broadway"  were  among 
the  best  of  the  season's  offering.  The  music  in  the  musical  comedies 
may  be  characterized  as  extremely  good,  with  very  few  exceptions. 
Old  favorites  which  appeared  on  the  Forrest's  playbill  were  "Ben  Hur" 
and  "Pinafore." 

The  first  two  plays  at  the  Lyric  "The  Passing  Show  of  1914"  and 
"The  \Miirl  of  the  World"  both  fall  under  the  head  of  musical  comedy 


168  The  Haverfordian 

"High  Jinks"  and  "A  Mix-up"  were  extremely  entertaining;  "but  the 
best  performance  of  the  year,  at  this  playhouse,  was  Ayril  Maude's 
interpretation  of  "Grumpy."  Robert  Mantell  presented  the  only 
Shakespearean  performances  of  the  year. 

By  far  the  main  feature  of  the  year  at  the  Adelphi  was  "Peg  of  My 
Heart,"  which  had  a  run  of  eleven  weeks.  Grace  George's  interpreta- 
tion of  "The  Truth"  was  one  of  the  best  serious  performances  of  the 
year,  while  "Suzi"  and  "A  Pair  of  Sixes"  were  perhaps  the  best  of  the 
lighter  dramatic  works. 

The  season  of  opera  which  opened  under  such  depressing  auspices 
turned  out  very  creditably.  Although  the  conventional  French  and 
Italian  works  predominated  in  the  Metropolitan  Company's  repertoire 
Wagner  was  represented  b}'  "Lohengrin"  and  "  DieWalkure"  and  the 
lovers  of  novelty  were  suited  with  such  works  as  "  Boris  Godunov," 
"The  Love  of  the  Three  Kings"  and  "Madame  Sans  Gene." 

—W.  H.  C. 


§outlj 

Hope!  Life!  Love!  God! 
Down  all  history  has  trod 
Humanity  to  that  refrain. 

Through  our  souls  there  ebbs  and  flows 

The  hope  of  Life,  the  love  of  God; 
In  our  souls  there  comes  and  goes 

A  great  transmuting  rod — 

A  touch  of  Love  and  God. 

When  life  is  sick  and  hope  forlorn. 

And  fear  within  us  born. 
And  night  we  pierce  with  eyes  a-strain. 
In  us  still  runs  the  great  refrain, 

Imaged  by  friends  in  trooping  train — 
Of  Hope!  Life!  God' 

— Douglas  C.  Wendell,  '16. 


•41 

William  Howland  Hiisse\'  re- 
cently celebrated  his  ninetieth 
birthday  at  his  home  in  P'ast 
Orange,  New  Jersey.  Mr.  Hiissey 
is  still  acti^•ely  engaged  in  his  busi- 
ness, which  deals  mainly  with 
plumbers'  supplies. 
'43 

Robert  B.  Howland  was  re- 
cently inteviewed  on  the  occasion 
of  his  ninetieth  birthday.  Mr. 
Howland  is  still  very  hale  and 
hearty.  During  his  stay  at  college 
he  played  on  one  of  the  earliest 
of  the  football  teams.  His  life  has 
been  very  active  in  many  lines.  He 
was  one  of  the  first  pioneers  of  the 
mo^•emcnt  to  gi\c  higher  education 
to  women. 

'72 

Dr.  F.  B.  Gummere  completed 
his  fortieth  year  of  teaching  on 
May  21st,  191.=i. 

'82 

Dr.  (jeorge  A.  Barton  has  just 
publisheil  a  \'olunie  of  Babylonian 
inscriptions  from  Xippur,  entitled 
"Sumerian  Business  and  Adminis- 
trative Documents  from  the  Earl- 
iest Times  to  the  Dynasty  of 
Agade."  It  contains  one  of  the 
earliest  Babylonian  inscriptions 
known. 

'94 

At  a  meeting  of  the  B(jard  of 
Directors  of  the  Pro\ident  Life  and 
Trust  Company  of  Philadelphia, 
P.  S.  Williams  was  elected  a  Direc- 


tor for  the  unexpired  term  of  W'il- 
liam  Longstreth,  deceased. 

'97 
F.  N.  Maxfield,  PhD.  has  pub- 
lished an  article  entitled  "An 
Experiment  in  Linear  Space  Per- 
ceptions," in  Psychological  Re- 
view   Publications. 

Alfred  M.  Collins  has  recently 
returned  from  the  Collins-Day 
South  American  Expedition,  which 
left  New  York  December  26,  1914. 
The  expedition  jienetratcd  into 
remote  parts  of  Boliwi,  and  brought 
back  a  ninnber  of  \aluable  animal 
specimens. 

'01 
Walter   H.   Wood   has  been   ap- 
pointed to  fill  a  teaching  position  at 
Westtown     Boarding    School. 

'03 
Dr.  H.J.  Cadbury  had  an  article 
in  the  April  issue  of  Present  Day 
Papers,  entitled  "Counting  as  Rub- 
bish," based  on  the  words  of  St. 
Paul  in  Phil.  3:  4-14. 

'00 
Thomas  K.  Brown,  Jr.,    married 
Miss    Barnes    at     the    Haverford 
Meeting  House  on  the  1st  of  June. 

EX-'07 
C.  Jansen  Claassen  stopped  off 
in  Philadelphia  for  a  few  days  early 
in  April,  on  a  business  trip.  Mr. 
Claassen  is  Secretary  of  the  Peters 
Trust  Company  of  Omaha,  Ne- 
braska, and  has  been  very  success- 


170 


The  Haverfordian 


ful  in  placing  Nebraska  farm  mort- 
gages in  the  East. 

'08 
T.  M.  Longstreth  is  expecting  to 
take  a  party  of  schoolboys  and 
college  men  to  the  IPacific  Coast 
this  summer.  Mr.  Longstreth  has 
published  a  book  on  the  weather, 
and  is  connected  with  a  private 
school  at  Bryn  Mawr. 

Walter  \V.  Whitson  intends  to 
spend  the  month  of  July  at  the 
University  of  Wisconsin. 

'09 

The  engagement  of  P.  V.  Miller 
to  Miss  Letitia  Radcliffe  has  just 
been  announced. 

'10 
R.  G.  M.  Underhill,  who  was  in 
Germany   on   a   traveling   scholar- 
ship,  was   forced   to   leave   Berlin, 
and  is  now  in  Italy. 

Richard  H.  Mott  is  now  the 
owner  and  active  manager  of  Hotel 
Overbrook,  at  Atlantic  City,  New 
Jersey. 

'13 
The   Class  of    1913   will   hold   a 
reunion    and   class   supper   at    the 
College  on  June  12 

S.  H.  Mendenhall  announces  the 
birth  of  a  son,  Lewis  Herschel,  on 
Thursday,  May  6,  at  Hartford, 
Connecticut. 

J.  M.  Beatty  has  received  a 
scholarship  in  the  Graduate  De- 
partment  of   Harvard    L^niversity. 

'14 
C.    D.    Champlin   has   been   ap- 
pointed    Assistant     Instructor     in 


English    at    Haverford    College  for 
1915-1916. 

EX-'14 
Thomas  Tomlinson,  was  mar- 
ried to  Miss  Amy  May  Felton,  of 
Philadelphia,  on  Friday,  April  23. 
Mr.  and  Mrs.  Tomlinson  will  be  at 
home  at  809  East  Washington 
Lane,  Germantown,  Pennsylvania. 

'11 
The    Haverfordian    is    in    re- 
ceipt of  the  following  letter  from 
Philip   B.    Deane. 

The  writer  was  very  pleased 
indeed  to  receive  with  his  Amer- 
ican mail  this  morning  a  January 
copy  of  the  Haverfordian,  and 
particularly  pleased  to  read  in  it, 
several  articles  of  countries  he 
himself  has  just  visited.  I  have 
now  been  away  from  America 
for  eighteen  months  on  a  tour  of  the 
world  in  the  interests  of  my  prin- 
cipals, the  H.  K.  Mulford  Co.,  of 
Philadelphia.  In  the  course  of 
my  travels  I  had  the  pleasure  of 
meeting  S.  E.  Hilles,  who  wrote 
"A  Jaunt  to  the  Far  East,"  while 
in  Manila.  I  remember  very  well 
dining  out  at  the  house  of  his  son, 
also  a  Haverfordian,  by  the  edge 
of  the  bay  in  which  Dewey's  battle 
took  place,  and  we  three  had  a  good 
talk  on  things  Haverfordian.  I 
remained  in  Manila  nearly  three 
months,  and  availed  myself  of  the 
opportunity  to  do  some  extensive 
sightseeing  and  also  to  accomplish 
something  commercially.  We  had 
the  interesting  experience  of  mak- 
ing some  vaccine  experiments  with 


Alumni 


171 


smallpox  \accine,  and  all  turned 
out  well.  I  crossed  then  on  the 
Empress  of  Asia  to  Hons;^  Kong, 
which  is  also  mentioned  in  the 
article  of  my  classmate  H.  S.  Ber- 
nard Stuccator,  1911.  This  was 
exactK"  the  time  war  was  declared, 
and  four  days  later  the  beautiful 
anil  luxurious  Empress  of  Asia 
steamed  out  of  Hong  Kong  harbor 
with  six-inch  guns  all  nKJunted, 
painted  entirely  gray,  indeed  in  ap- 
pearance a  formidable  cruiser.  Hong 
Kong  being  so  upset,  as  a  British 
port,  1  proceeded  to  Canton,  where 
I  remained  two  weeks.  The  occa- 
sion was  excellent  to  become  famil- 
iar with  Chinese  business  methods, 
and  with  German  competition  en- 
tirely cut  off,  success  was  easier. 
Here  I  met  Dr.  Cadbury,  a  Ha\er- 
fordian,  and  saw  his  new  hospital 
approaching        completion.  In 

Shanghai  I  met  Dr.  H.  H.  Morris,  a 
Haverfordian  connected  with  St. 
Luke's  Hospital — in  conjunction 
with  St.  John's  Uni\ersity;  alto- 
gether a  work  of  considerable  scope 
and  magnitude.  After  traveling 
extensively  in  China  I  proceeded 
to  Japan,  and  I  can  assure  the 
reader  that  the  two  articles  in  the 
January  number  on  this  country 
have  more  than  a  usual  interest  for 
me.  My  stay  in  Japan  was  of  some 
length,  and  I  a\ailed  myself  of  the 
opportunity  to  remain  with  an 
American  family,  long-time  resi- 
dent in  Tokio.  Commercially  I 
had  many  new  problems  and  six 
weeks  were  consumed  in  going 
from  one  city  to  another,  and  from 


one  official  to  another.  The  article 
"Is  Madame  Butterfly  Japanese?" 
recalls  many  pleasant  memories, 
and  I  can  well  appreciate  the 
writer's  calling  attention  to  the  er- 
rors in  the  presentation  ot  the 
opera.  His  remark  about  a  Japan- 
ese as  soon  going  into  a  house  with 
his  "geta"  on  as  an  American 
going  to  bed  with  his  shoes  on  re- 
calls an  amusing  incident.  When 
the  railroad  was  first  put  intf)  opera- 
tion between  Tokio  and  Yoko- 
hama, a  run  of  some  eighteen  to 
twentN'  miles,  the  Japanese  pas- 
sengers, on  entering  the  cars  at 
Tokio,  renio\ed  their  gela  and 
on  arrival  at  Yokohama  were 
somewhat  dismayed  not  to  find 
them.  Can  I  also  remark  the  strip 
of  white  paint  across  the  car  win- 
dows to  prevent  the  possibility  of 
injury  in  connection  with  jiutting 
one's  head  through  the  glass?  My 
knowledge  of  the  home  life  and 
customs  is  in  no  way  comparable 
with  the  writer's,  but  in  so  far  as 
I  did  learn  such,  I  can  vouch  for 
the  same.     The  home  life    must  be 


Smedley  &  Mehl 
Lumber 

and  Coal 
BUILDING  MATERIAL 

Phones.  Nos.  1100  and  1 101  ARDMORE 


172 


The  Haverfordian 


exceedingly  congenial,  to  judge  from 
the  happy  faces  one  meets  on  the 
street;  the  women  particularly, 
always  cheerful,  though  the}'  may 
be  carrying  heavy  loads,  not  to 
mention  the  infant  strapped  on  the 
back.  I  had  the  experience  of  wit- 
nessing the  lantern  precessions  in 
Tokio  to  celebrate  the  fall  of 
Tsingtao.  The  parade  was  sup- 
posed to  contain  one  hundred 
thousand  persons,  each  with  a 
swinging  Japanese  lantern  held 
aloft,  and  in\'ariably  the  best  of 
order  was  preserved.  The  em- 
bassies of  all  the  Allies  were  visited 
and  speeches  were  made.  A  few 
weeks  later  when  the  English  Gen- 
eral Barnardiston  arri\ed  the  cele- 
bration was  renewed. 

While    celebrating    Xmas    with 


my  American  friends  in  Tokio  and 
preparing  to  return  to  Australia 
I  was  suddenly  called  to  proceed 
to  Petrograd  at  once.  We  fellows 
who  travel  the  foreign  field  are  in 
the  habit  of  carrying  out  orders 
as  soon  as  received,  and  in  doing 
so  I  had  some  rather  unique  ex- 
periences, not  particularly  inter- 
esting save  to  the  one  involved. 
The  censor  of  this  letter  will  not 
let  it  through  if  it  contains  too 
many  details,  but  there  is  nothing 
prohibited  in  the  few  remarks  fol- 
lowing. In  crossing  from  the  little 
Japanese  seaport  Tsuruga  to  Vladi- 
vostock,  our  tiny  boat  succeeded 
in  losing  forty-eight  hours  on  a 
thirty-six-hour  trip  and  the  three 
and  one-half  days  were  spent  mostly 
in  going  up  and  down.      I  had  two 


Pyle,  Innes 
b  Basbieri 


nnnnnnnonnnnnnonnnnnnonnnnnnnnn 

«    A  FEW  REASONS    g 

n 
n 
n 
u 
u 
u 
u 
n 
n 
n 
n 
0 
n 
n 
n 
n 
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n 
n 
n 


n 

n  FOR  YOU  TO  CONSIDER  IN  THE  PURCHASE  HERE  OF  YOUR 
0                                  SPRING  AND  SUMMER  SUIT: 
0?? 

We  specialize  in  clothes  for  young  men  and  thor- 
oughly understand  their  ideas;  we  carry  the 
largest  assortment  of  Woollens  in  Philadelphia; 
our  prices  are  very  moderate  and  each  bolt  of 
cloth  is  plainly  marked;  the  workmanship  is  un- 
excelled and  the  cutting  right  up-to-the-minute 
in  style. 


0 
0 
0 
0 
0 
0 
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0 
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0 
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TAILORS 

MEN  AND  t,aVS 


1115  WALNUT  ST., 
PHILADELPHIA. 


Charge  Accounts  Opened  Upon  Approved  References 

We  are  READY  and  will  be  very  glad  to  see  YOU 

Suits,         -  -  -  -  $25  to  $50 

Full  Dress  and  Tuxedo  Suits,       -     $40  to  $70 

^plE,  3nneg  Sc  Parfaierl, 

LEADING  COLLEGE  TAILORS 

1115  Walnut  Street,         -  -  -         Philadelphia 


000000  0000000  0000000  0000000000  0 


The  Ai.UiMNi 


173 


distiiu'tidiis.  thf  imly  foreign  pas- 
senger and  the  only  one  about  antl 
at  the  table.  We  eventually  :>roke 
our  way  through  the  ice,  at  Vladi- 
vostcck,  and  not  to  my  surprise  I 
learned  that  the  only  Trans-Sibe- 
rian trains  were  trains  which 
made  e\ery  stop,  carried  no  diners, 
and  no  sleeping  accommodations. 
Fortunately  for  me,  who  spoke  no 
Russian  then,  and  English  friend 
had  to  make  the  same  trip,  so  to- 
gether we  collected  a  kitchen,  a 
pantry,  and  a  bedroom.  The  in- 
teresting details  I  must  omit,  but 
\'ou  nia\  be  interested  in  knowing 
that  at  Irkoutsk,  the  capital  of 
Siberia,  we  slept  one  night  on  the 
tile  floor  of  the  station  and  the  next 
in  a  vacant  car  on  a  siding,  and 
the  temperature  was  exactly  58'F. 
lielow    zero.       In    seventeen    days, 


however,  and  nunc  the  worse  for 
the  ex]XTience,  1  entered  this  hotel 
in  Pctrograd  which  is  on  a  ])ar  with 
many  of  the  best  in  America.  I 
lost  n(^  time  getting  to  work,  and 
hope,  like  the  rest  of  the  ever-in- 
creasing transient  army  of  Ameri- 
can business  men  here,  to  do  what 
we  came  here  for.  Everywhere 
while  tra\'elling  in  Russia,  and  I 
ha\e  just  returned  yesterday  from 
a  trip  to  \'ilna,  Warsaw  and  Mos- 
cow, I  ha\e  been  treated  by  Rus- 
sian officials  with  the  greatest 
courtesy.  .\  re\iew  of  Russo- 
American  history  shows  a  record  of 
consistent  friendliness,  with  one 
jiarticular  outburst,  when  in  the 
Civil  War  a  Russian  fleet  lay  in 
New  York  harbor  with  sealed  orders 
to  be  given  only  to  President 
Lincoln.        ~P.  B.  Dcaiie,  '11. 


JOB  PRINTING 

OF    EVERY    DESCRIPTION 
PROMPT  AND  REASONABLE 

MAIN  LINE  PRINTING  GO. 

10  ANDERSON  AVENUE 
ARDMORE.  PA. 


COLLEGE  WORK 
A  SPECIALTY 


ESTIMATES  GIVEN 
PHONE  1087 


OPEN  EVENINGS 


Aubrey  Howell 


Richard  S.  Dewees 


Insurance 

HOWELL  &   DEWEES 

SPECIAL   AGENTS 

Provident    Life   and    Trust    Co. 

Fourth  and  Chestnut  Streets 
F^hiladelphia 


( "luod  Hair  Cutting  is  an  art.    Otir  men  all  knuw 

how,  and  will  give  you  the  best  work  at  standard 

prices.      No  lipping  or  other  annoyances. 


13th  above  Chestnut,      Philadelphia 

Entire    Building 


The  Haverfokdia> 


INSURANCE 

Fire  or  Burglary  Insurance  on  Students'  per- 
sonal effects  while  at  College  or  elsewhere. 

Tourists'  Floating  Insurance  on  personal  ef- 
fects against  all  risks  in  transit,  in  hotels, 
etc.,  both  in  this  country  and  abroad. 

Automobile  Insurance  covering  damage  to  car 
and  Hal  lility  for  damage  to  property  or  for 
injuries  to  persons. 

Longacre  &  Ewing 

Bullitt  Building       HIS.    Fourth  St. 

Philadelphia 

Repairing   of   Hall,    Chimes  and  French 
Clocks  a  Specialty 

A.  A.   FRANCIS,  Jeweler 

lis  W.  Lancaster  Ave.  phone  144D 

Ardmore,  Pa. 


C.  W.  Scott  Company 

Bryn  Mawr,  Pa. 
CaiTiiifjcs,  Wap,ons  and  AutDiiioltilcs 

"Careful  Handling  and  Quality" 

Send  us  Your  Suitings  to  be 

Dry-Cleaned,   Scoured 
and    Pressed 

At   Reasonable  Rates 


Our  College  Agent 

Mf.  I.  Thomas  Steere 


S.  p.  FrankenJField  Sons 

Undertakers 
ARDMORE,  PA. 

Successors  to 
JOSIAH  S.  PEARCE 

33  E.  Lancaster  Avenue 

Phone,    Ardmore    9 

J.  OWEN  YETTER 
General  Shoe  Repairing 

ARDMORE,  PA. 

Will  Ccllect  Shoes  Monday  E\ening  and  Deliver 
Thursday  Morning 
T.   B.  V/h.itson,   College  Agent 


Attractive   Wall   Paper 

At  Popular  Prices 

A.   L.    Diament  &   Co. 

1515  Walnut  Street  Philadelphia.   Pa. 


WILLIAM  S. 
YARNALL 

Manufacturing  Optician 

118  S.  15th  Street  Philadelphia 

Phone   258 

C.  E.  Edwards 

Confectioner 

ICE  CREAM    AND   FANCY  ICES, 

FANCY  CAKES 


Ramsey   Building 


Bhyx  M.wvh,  Pa. 


Bell.  Market  16J2.  163J  Keystone.  Main  109.  110.  Ill 

A.  N.  RISSER  CO.,  Inc. 

PUR\"EVORS  OF 

MEATS,    PROVISIONS 

BUTTER,  EGGS  AND  POULTRY 

215  Callowhill  Street,  Philadelphia 


W'HEN    Patronizing    Advertisers    Kindly  Mention  Thk  Havbrfordia.n- 


Ronsard's  Amoirs,  I,  Li.x  161 

llicir  fa\or.  As  an  aside  it  ma\-  be  wliisfXTccl  thai  the  last  out  of  the 
game  occurred  when  Spank  hit  into  a  douhic  pia\-  with  the  liases  full  and 
only  one  out. 

The  game  ended.  Spank  carelessly  sauntered  otT  the  field,  apparently 
oblivious  of  the  hornet's  nest  which  he  had  stirred  up  among  his  team- 
mates, and  of  the  frankly  expressed  comments  that  they  were  directing 
against  his  person. 

The  same  caustic  \oice  which  a  little  while  ago  had  mocked  him 
when  he  so  shamefully  ducked  from  the  liner  shattering  at  his  head,  now 
greeted  him  once  again. 

"What  ha\e  yon  been  doing  out  there  all  afternoim.  Spank.-*  Pitch- 
ing lia\? " 

".\o,  r\e  been  thinking  up  a  subject  for  my  St'uior  thesis." 

"  Did  you  get  one?'" 

"Yes,  after  mature  deliberation,  I  finally  decided  upon  this;  'Why 
a  Pitcher  Need  Not  Burn  the  Midnight  Oil,  or.  The  Futility  of  a  Study 
of  American  Literature  in  Sohing  the  Complex  Problems  Confronting  an 
Aspiring  Young  Matthewson.' " 

— George    A.    Diiiilap,    '16. 


I,   Lix 

Like  as  the  stag,  when  spring  destroys  the  keen 

And  poignant  hoar-frost  of  cold  winter's  sway, 
To  better  browse  the  honeyed  leaf's  soft  green, 

Flies  from  the  grove  with  earliest  streak  of  day; 
Alone,  secure,  far  from  the  hounds  and  chase 

Now  on  a  mount,  )iow  in  a  vale  doth  speed. 
Now  near  the  water  in  some  hidden  place. 

Free,  wanton  where  his  flying  feel  may  lead 
His  spirit  proud  fears  neither  snare  nor  bow 

Until  the  deadly  arrow  strikes  his  breast, 
Its  shaft  encrimsoned  by  the  bloody  flow; 

So  thus  went  I,  nor  thought  of  hurt  oppressed. 
That  day  her  eye  zcilh  but  one  glance  apart. 

Transfixed  a  thousand  arrows  in  my  heart. 

— Donald  G.  Baird,   '15. 


To  Second  Lieutenant  Donald  Henderson,  of  the  First  King's 
Royal  Rifles,  these  lines  are  sorrowfully  dedicated.  Just  as  the 
Duke  of  Wellington  once  said  that  the  battle  of  Waterloo  was 
won  on  the  playing  fields  of  Eton,  so  the  present  writer  has  come  to  regard 
the  self-sacrifice  of  the  officer  who  willingly  lays  down  his  life  for  his 
country,  as  the  realization  of  the  high  ideals  of  the  schoolboy  of  England. 
-  Second  Lieutenant  Donald  Henderson  was  killed  while  executing  his 
duty,  struck  by  a  shell  in  the  trenches  in  northern  France,  and  is  buried 
in  a  little  cemetery  behind  the  trenches  on  the  road  to  Richebourg 
I'Avoue,  where  a  simple  wooden  cross  stands  over  the  grave  of  a  hero 
who  died  for  his  country. 

Evening  s  cloak  of  black  envelops 

Hill  and  dale  where  was  the  fight, 
And  the  crimson  day  develops 

Slowly  into  murky  night. 

In  a  grass-green  grave  they  laid  him 

Gently.     And  a  wooden  cross 
Was  the  last  respect  they  paid  him, 

I'ltlly  conscious  of  their  loss. 

Deathlike  hush  of  awful  sorrow 

Reigns  around  the  verdant  tomb; 
All  is  quiet  till  the  morrow 

Dawns  with  deaf'ning  cannon's  boom. 

But  when  quiet  life  is  ours, 

When  this  brothers'  fight  w'ill  cease, 
Then  amid  the  dew-kissed  flowers, 

God  will  let  him  sleep  in  peace. 

—J.  G.  LeClercq,   '18. 


The  Haverfordian 


EDITORS 

Robert  Gibson,  1917  Editor-in-Chief 

D.  C.  Wendell,  1916  W.  H.  Chamberlin,  1917 

G.  A.  DuNLAP,  1916  J.  G.  C.  LeClercu,  1918 

BUSINESS  MANAGERS 
Edward  R.  Moon,  1916  (il/gr.)         Arthur  E.  Spellissy,  1917  {Assl.  Mgr.) 

Price,  per  year $1.00  Single  copies $0.15 

The  H.\verfordl\n  is  published  on  the  tenth  of  each  month  during  college 
year.  Its  purpose  is  to  foster  the  literary  spirit  among  the  undergraduates  and 
to  provide  an  organ  for  the  discussion  of  questions  relative  to  college  life  and 
policy.  To  these  ends  contributions  are  invited,  and  will  be  considered  solely 
on  their  merits.  Matter  intended  for  insertion  should  reach  the  Editor  not  later 
than  the  fifteenth  of  the  month  preceding  the  date  of  issue. 

Entered  at  the  Haverford  Post-OflBce,  for  transmission  through  the  mails  as  second-dass  matter 
Vol.  XXXVII  HAVERFORD,  PA.,  OCTOBER,  1915  No.  5. 


(jEugenc  iH.  ^fjaro,  '15, 

won  the  Garret  Memorial  prize  for  the  best  poem  submitted 
with  his  poem  "Old  and  New"  which  appeared  in  the  June 
number  of  this  Volume. 


3n  Wf^ii  Ssisiue 

Special  Features 

The  New  Year Isaac  Sharpless  177 

Friedrich  Nietzsche;  Poet  and  Philosopher 

W.  H.  Chamberlin,  '17  179 

Idling E.  M.  Pharo,  '15  190 

A  Poet  of  the  Forecastle George  A.  Dunlap,  '16  191 

The   Light   of   Truth J.    G.    C.    LeCercq, '18  195 

Only  Eighteen Robert  Gibson,  '17  203 

Stories 

The  Cancelled  Reservation C.  Van  Dam,  '17  184 

The  Intruder '17  204 

Verse 

A  Pool  In  India J.  W.  Spaeth,  '17  178 

The    Dew R.    G., '17  194 

The  Argosy  of  Promise F.  M.   Morley,     '15  202 

The    Simile    Ship D.    C.    Wendell,  '16  202 

Departments 

The   Uneasy  Chair 208 

Through  The  Glasses 

The   Birth    of  a    Nation E.    T.    Price,  '17  209' 

Books 

A  Far  Country 210 

Alumni R.  G.  '17  211 


THE    HAVERFORDIAN 


Vol.  XXXVII.  HAVERFORD,  PA.,  OCTOBER,  1915  No.  S. 


Zi)t  ^etD  Hear 

THE  College  Year  1915-16  opens  comfortably  with  something 
over  180  students:  The  Freshman  Class  seems  to  contain 
good  material  and  to  be  up  to  the  usual  standard. 

Most  Haverfordians  with  whom  I  have  spoken  seem  to  argue 
that  Haverford  should  not  increase  in  numbers  at  the  expense  of  any 
of  the  standards  which  it  has  maintained  in  the  past;  that  it  should 
not  go  into  any  undignified  or  uncoUegiate  methods  of  advertising 
for  numbers  through  athletics  or  otherwise;  and  that  provision  should 
be  made  in  dormitories  for  all  students  accepted,  except  for  a  few  who 
might  live  at  home. 

This  plan  probably  involves  the  continuance  of  an  examination 
system  of  entrance.  This  causes  the  loss  of  more  students,  some  of 
them  desirable,  than  all  other  causes  combined.  We  know  them  all 
around  us.  We  are  the  only  small  college  for  men  in  America,  and 
the  only  one  of  any  size,  except  Harvard,  Yale,  Columbia  and  Princeton, 
to  make  this  requirement.  The  real  Haververfordians  who  appreciate 
life  and  conditions  here,  will  make  the  effort  and  get  in.  But  the  in- 
crease must  come  from  those  who  do  not  know  the  college  well,  and, 
who  other  things  being  the  same,  will  go  to  the  place  where  their  cer- 
tificate admits  them  without  further  trouble.  Some  of  these  are  weak- 
lings whom  we  can  afford  to  lose,  but  some  are  rather  desirable  men  who 
if  they  came  would  always  be  pleased  with  the  decision.  These  facts 
are  mentioned  to  show  the  cost  of  our  efforts  for  good  standards. 

The  other  condition  which  will  make  increase  difficult  is  supplying 
halls  of  residence.  The  break  in  Lloyd  Hall  is  calling  loudly  for  its  two 
sections.  It  is  pretty  safe  to  say  that  $1000  per  student  will  be  re- 
quired for  dormitory  accommodations.  If  we  are  to  have  250  students 
we  must  have  something  like  $70,000.00  for  this  purpose,  not  all  at 
once,  but  in  $10,000.00  sections  as  needed. 

Chase  Hall  now  fills  out  quite  nicely  the  requirements  for  recita- 
tion quarters  for  the  non-laboratory  work  of  the  college.  It  supplies 
two  large  and  two  small  new  rooms  and  has  also  been  well  heated,  lighted 


178  The  Haverfordian 

and  ventilated  throughout.  One  more  laboratory  for  Biology  and 
Physics  we  must  have  at  an  early  date.  With  these  improvements 
our  physical  equipment  upon  which  we  have  been  working  for  15  years 
will  be  in  a  satisfactory  shape  for  250  students.  What  happens  after 
this  will  be  for  another  generation  to  provide. 

Internally  the  college  is  wholesome  and  our  reputation  outside  is 
as  good  as  we  deserve.  The  faculty  is  but  slightly  changed  from  last 
year  and  the  good  old  Haverfordian  spirit  is  undiminished. 

—7.  S. 


^  ^ool  tn  HUnbia 

Aside  a  pool  in  India 
There  squats  an  idol,  leering-eyed. 
Warded  by  countless  lamas'  care 
From  profane  touch  or  worldly  stare, 
But  naught  of  worldly  gold  denied. 

Frankincense  perfumes  his  altars; 

Jewels  from  Eastern  lands  of  wonder 

Tint  his  sallow  skin  with  fires. 

Fill  his  coffers  rich  with  plunder, 
Coffers  of  this  squatting  idol, 
By  a  pool  in  India. 

Aside  a  pool  in  India 
There  rests  a  village,  Death's  retreat; 
Within  its  doorways  mothers  stand, 
Their  naked  child  on  every  hand. 
And  wait  the  father' s  plodding  feet. 

To  these  squalid,  mud-built  hovels 

Death's  dread  angel  on  the  morrow 

Comes  his  master's  toll  to  gather; 

All  is  endless  toil  and  sorrow. 
Nothing  more  than  toil  and  sorrow. 
For  the  dwellers  in  this  village 
By  this  pool  in  India. 

—J.  W.  Spaeth,  '17. 


jFriebricb  ^itt}it\}t:  ^oet  anb  ^ftilosipficr 

Few  men  have  suffered  such  bitter  and  varied  criticism  as  has 
fallen  to  the  lot  of  Friedrich  Nietzsche.  The  obscurity  which  envel- 
oped the  man  and  his  work  during  his  lifetime  has  given  way  to  a  tor- 
rent of  criticisms,  for  the  most  part,  %'irulently  hostile.  The  luckless 
philosopher  is  simultaneously  accused  of  being  a  Prussian  reactionary 
and  an  extreme  anarchist;  he  is  depicted  in  the  double  light  of  a  tiger 
thirsting  for  human  gore  and  a  feeble,  unbalanced  decadent;  above  all, 
he  is  universally  held  up  to  opprobrium  as  the  evil  genius  of  modern 
Germany,  the  guilty  associate  of  Bernhardi  and  Von  Treitschke  in  their 
evil  course  of  unbridled  militarism.  A  brief  review  of  Niezsche's  life 
and  works  may  help  to  show  how  much  of  this  extremely  contradictory 
criticism  is  justified. 

Friedrich  Nietzsche  was  born  in  Saxony  in  the  year  1844.  His 
father,  a  Protestant  clergyman  died  when  Friedrich  was  very  young. 
As  a  boy  Nietzsche  showed  unusual  precocity  of  mind;  and,  at  the  age 
of  twenty-four,  he  received  the  honor  of  a  professorship  in  the  University 
of  Basle.  At  this  period  he  specialized  in  classical  philology;  and  his 
study  of  Hellenic  thought,  especially  of  the  early  Greek  philosophers 
and  dramatists,  exerted  a  compelling  influence  on  his  own  lifework. 
His  first  important  literary  contributions,  published  during  the  years 
1873-1876,  took  the  form  of  four  essays,  entitled  "Thoughts  Out  of 
Season."  These  essaj's  contain  a  severe  arraignment  of  contemporary 
culture  and  a  number  of  suggestions  for  radical  change.  Shortly  after- 
wards his  health  broke  down;  he  suffered  acutely  from  dysentery  and 
excruciating  headaches.  Notwithstanding  this  handicap  he  brought 
out  "Human,  All  Too  Human"  in  1878.  In  the  following  year  contin- 
ued ill  health  and  a  desire  to  devote  himself  entirely  to  literary  work 
caused  him  to  resign  his  professorship.  The  next  ten  years  of  his  life 
are  full  of  creative  work.  Among  his  more  important  works  may  be 
mentioned  "The  Dawn  of  Day"  (1881),  "The  Joyful  Wisdom"  (1882), 
"Thus  spake  Zarathustra"  (1883-1885),  "Beyond  Good  and  Evil" 
(1886),  "The  Antichrist"  (1888),  "Ecce  Homo"  (1888).  In  the  winter 
of  1888-1889  a  combination  of  mental  and  physiological  causes  brought 
about  a  complete  collapse  of  his  faculties;  and  the  last  years  of  his  life 
were  shrouded  in  the  darkness  of  mental  oblivion.  He  died  at  Weimar, 
in  1900. 

So  much  for  the  comparatively  brief  and  uneventful  chronicle  of 
his  life.  His  intellectual  development  may  best  be  considered  by  divid- 
ing his  career  into  three  periods.     The  first  of  these  includes  his  four, 


180  The  Havertordian 

"Thoughts  of  Season,"  "David  Strauss:  Confessor  and  Author,"  "Rich- 
ard Wagner  in  Bayreuth,"  "The  Use  and  Abuse  of  History"  and 
"Schopenhauer  as  Educator."  In  these  essays  Nietzsche  tries  to  reaHze 
the  vision  of  a  new  German  culture,  of  which  Schopenhauer  was  to  be 
the  high  priest,  Wagner  the  poet  and  musician,  and  Nietzsche  him- 
self the  critic  and  expounder. 

Very  different  is  the  spirit  of  the  second  period  as  expressed  in 
"Human,  All-Too-Human."  Nietzsche's  faith  in  Wagner  is  com- 
pletely gone,  his  trust  in  Schopenhauer  is  rudely  shaken.  His  old  ideals 
have  vanished;  as  yet  nothing  new  has  arisen  to  take  their  place.  As 
a  natural  consequence,  this  period  is  characterized  by  bleak  uncom- 
promising negation.  Every  value,  every  ideal  is  mercilessly  tried  in  the 
balance  and  found  wanting.  Schopenhauer  himself,  in  his  darkest  mo- 
ments, never  reached  the  depth  of  pessimistic  despair  which  Nietzsche 
attains  in  "Human,  All-Too-Human." 

But  pride  and  intellectual  honesty  alike  forbade  Nietzsche  to  re- 
main long  in  the  slough  of  despondency.  For  a  man  oppressed  with 
physical  suffering  to  take  refuge  in  pessimism  seemed  to  him  a  cowardly 
abandonment  of  duty.  Instead  of  following  in  the  footsteps  of  Schop- 
enhauer and  setting  up  a  negative  philosophy  of  life  Nietzche,  in  his 
third  and  most  vital  creative  period,  sets  out  to  formulate  a  philosophy 
of  virile  and  defiant  optimism.  His  new  thought  finds  its  first  ex- 
pression in  "The  Joyful  Wisdom."  In  this  book  one  finds  an  abundance 
of  aristocratic  gayety,  of  delicate  mockery,  of  playful  sporting  even 
with  his  most  cherished  theories.  The  whole  work  seems  to  be  written 
in  the  spirit  of  the  dance. 

"Thus  spake  Zarathustra,"  Nietzsche's  best  known  work,  is  a 
lyrical,  highly  colored  and  richly  imaginative  prose-poem,  in  which 
the  author  expresses  the  fundamental  principles  of  his  new  philosophy 
in  allegorical  form.  The  same  essential  ideas  are  expressed  more  clearly 
and  soberly  in  "Beyond  Good  And  Evil,"  the  prose  counterpart  of  the 
poetical  "Zarathustra."  Among  Nietzsche's  original  ideas  the  two 
known  as  the  Superman  and  the  Eternal  Recurrence,  deserve  special 
notice. 

The  Superman  is  an  ideal  human  being,  as  yet  unattained;  but 
possible  of  attainment  in  the  future.  He  is  depicted  by  Nietzsche  as  a 
man  highly  developed  mentally  and  physically  ruthless  in  the  pursuit  of 
his  ambitions;  but  willing  to  dare  everything  for  their  realization.  To 
the  production  of  such  highly  developed  individuals,  humanity  is  to  bend 
all  its  energies.  As  may  be  seen  Nietzsche's  viewpoint  is  the  direct 
converse  of  the  Hegelian  idea  that  the  great  men  are  bound  to  sacrifice 


Friedrich  Nietzsche:  Poet  and  Philosopher  181 

themselves  for  the  benefit  of  the  masses.  In  the  one  case  quantity  is 
sacrificed,  in  the  other  quahty. 

More  abstruse  and  unsatisfactory  is  Nietzsche's  theory  of  the 
Eternal  Recurrence.  Arguing  that  the  number  of  combinations  of  cir- 
cumstances is  limited,  while  time  is  infinite,  he  deduces  that  every  man's 
life  is  ultimately  certain  to  reproduce  itself,  down  to  the  minutest  de- 
tails. He  tried  to  find  a  scientific  basis  for  this  theory;  but  does  not 
seem  to  have  been  very  successful  in  the  attempt.  While  the  Eternal 
Recurrence  can  hardly  be  taken  seriously  as  a  scientific  fact,  it  might 
very  conceivably  have  a  powerful  influence  in  persuading  a  man  to  lead 
the  type  of  life  that  would  be  worth  living  over. 

In  addition  to  elaborating  these  two  theories  and  chanting  his  eter- 
nal hymn  to  life  as  it  is,  Nietzsche  conceived  another  idea,  which,  in 
stupendous  boldness,  has  few  parallels  in  the  history  of  philosophy. 
This  was  the  conception  of  a  transvaluation  of  all  moral  values.  Auda- 
ciously casting  aside  the  most  cherished  ideals  of  morality,  he  aspired 
to  found  a  new  system  of  morals,  radically  different  in  form  and  char- 
acter from  anything  that  had  previously  been  conceived.  Pride,  cour- 
age, self-confidence  were  to  be  put  in  the  class  of  virtues;  meekness, 
humanity,  lowliness  in  that  of  vices.  The  fatal  breakdown  came  upon 
him  in  the  midst  of  the  gigantic  undertaking;  and  "The  Will  to  Power," 
the  book  in  which  he  had  hoped  to  summarize  his  whole  philosophy, 
remains  unfinished. 

We  may  well  leave  to  the  philosophers  of  the  future  the  problem 
of  the  value  of  Nietzsche's  new  philosophical  ideas.  In  his  relation 
to  the  present  world  he  is  more  interesting  from  the  fascination  of  his 
personality  and  the  charm  of  his  poetic  style  than  from  the  academic 
logic  of  his  philosophy.  Let  us,  then,  consider  him  rather  as  man  and 
poet  than  as  philosopher. 

There  can  be  no  question  of  the  compelling  power  and  interest  of 
his  personality.  The  few  who  came  into  contact  with  him  during  his 
lifetime  all  bear  witness  to  the  power  and  brilliance  of  his  mental  attain- 
ments. His  reading,  despite  the  double  handicap  of  weak  eyes  and  bad 
health,  was  omniverous.  Almost  every  page  of  his  works  bears  eloquent 
testimony  to  his  sympathetic  study  and  understanding  of  history  and 
literature.  Wide  and  comprehensive  as  was  his  reading,  his  thought 
was  wider  and  more  comprehensive  still.  In  studying  his  works  we  are 
perpetually  confronted  by  new  theories  on  art,  music,  literature,  eco- 
nomics, history,  theories  that  are  often  heterodox,  to  be  sure;  but 
always  original  and  thought  provoking.  The  broad  culture,  which  was 
so  conspicuous  a  feature  of  Nietzsche's  personality,  cannot  fail  to  have 


182  The  Haverfordian 

a  stimulating  and  helpful  effect  upon  all  who  come  under  his  influence. 

But  it  is  morally  rather  than  intellectually  that  Nietzsche  should 
have  his  most  powerful  appeal.  It  may  sound  strange  to  speak  of  the 
moral  appeal  of  a  man  who  is  so  universally  branded  as  an  atheist  and 
immoralist.  But  a  close  study  of  Nietzsche's  character  cannot  fail  to 
reveal  certain  traits  which  might  well  be  emulated  by  his  bitterest 
critics.  His  very  abandonment  of  Christianity  was,  to  him,  no  stroke 
of  idle  flippancy;  but  a  titanic  inward  conflict,  which  shook  his  very 
soul.  It  would,  unquestionably,  have  been  far  easier  for  him  to  have 
become  an  eloquent  advocate  of  Christianity,  another  Pascal  or  Bos- 
suet.  We  may  deplore  the  unfortunate  mental  processes  that  led  to  his 
infidelity;  but  we  cannot  withhold  our  admiration  for  the  high  and 
exalted  passion  for  truth  which  led  him  to  sacrifice  one  after  another, 
his  most  cherished  ideals  and  convictions,  which  ultimately  led  him  even 
to  the  sacrifice  of  reason  itself.  In  few  places  do  we  find  such  grand 
hymns  of  courage,  loneliness  and  spiritual  friendship  as  in  the  pages  of 
"Thus   Spake   Zarathustra." 

Nietzsche's  surpassing  excellence  of  style  extorts  the  admiration 
of  his  severest  critics.  In  all  his  works,  instead  of  the  unwieldy,  tedious, 
clause-laden  sentences  of  the  typical  German  writer,  we  find  short, 
crisp,  epigrammatic  sentences,  clear  in  meaning  and  happy  in  phrasing. 
In  some  of  his  books  the  depth  and  novelty  of  his  ideas  make  him  rather 
difficult  to  understand;  while  in  others  he  may  fairly  be  accused  of  an 
excess  of  allegory.  But  these  defects  are  more  than  offset  by  the  rich 
vein  of  lyric  poetry  which  runs  through  all  his  works  and  finds  its  fullest 
expression    in    "Zarathustra." 

"  'Tis  night:  now  do  all  gushing  fountains  speak  louder.  And  my 
soul  is  a  gushing  fountain." 

"  'Tis  night:  now  only  do  all  songs  of  the  lovers  awake.  And 
my  soul  also  is  the  song  of  a  lover." 

But,  poetic  and  mystic  though  he  is,  Nietzsche  never  writes  mere 
high-sounding  phrases  without  any  definite  ideas  behind  them.  His 
thought  is  like  the  diamond,  hard,  brilliant,  glittering,  and  his  bitterest 
contempt  is  lavished  on  those  thinkers  who  try  to  conceal  vagueness 
and  inconsistency  of  thought  under  the  cloak  of  spiritual  depth  and 
refinement. 

Another  feature  of  Nietzsche's  style  is  his  remarkable  mastery  of 
the  art  of  satire.  The  rapier-like  thrusts  of  his  wit  combine  the  earn- 
estness of  Schopenhauer  with  the  light  and  carefree  banter  of  Matthew 
Arnold.  His  essay  against  David  Strauss  was  so  keen  and  biting  that 
the  object  of  its  satire  is  said  to  have  died  of  mortification.     But  Nietz- 


Friedrich  Nietzsche:  Poet  and  Philosopher  183 

sche  is  always  conscientious,  according  to  his  own  standards,  in  the  use 
of  this  power.  UnHIvc  Bernard  Shaw,  he  never  aspires  after  brilHance 
for  its  own  sake.  He  only  turns  his  batteries  upon  objects  which  he 
considers  worthy  of  ridicule  and  opprobrium. 

It  was  almost  inevitable  that  such  a  brilliant,  all-inquiring  and 
skeptical  mind  as  Nietzsche's  should  have  brought  itself  to  many  false 
theories  and  erroneous  conclusions.  The  ill  health  and  solitary  life  of 
the  philosopher  often  leads  him  to  lose  his  sense  of  perspective  and  to 
resort  to  unjustifiable  violence  and  intemperance  of  expression.  A  mind 
which  sets  logical  accuracy  as  the  sole  test  of  a  philosophical  system 
can  find  in  Nietzsche  contradictions  and  inconsistencies  without  num- 
ber. But  a  larger,  saner,  more  tolerant  outlook,  even  though  it  may 
reject  most  of  Nietzsche's  views  and  theories,  will  gratefully  acknowl- 
edge the  spirit  of  sincerity,  originality  and  genuine  culture  which  ani- 
mates his  whole  work.  And  in  regard  to  the  frequent  shifting  of  his  view- 
point on  life  we  may  well  remember  the  words  of  a  certain  Chinese  sage: 
"Only  the  foolish  and  the  dead  never  change  their  opinions." 

Finally,  a  few  words  as  to  the  possible  effect  of  Nietzsche  on  America. 
There  is  certainly  very  little  danger,  from  present  indications,  that 
the  United  States  will  be  in  any  way  harmed  by  Nietzsche's  radical 
ideas  on  religion  and  morality.  A  nation  whose  observance  of  Sunday 
is  surpassed  in  strictness  only  in  England  and  which  has  recently  given 
such  abundant  testimony  of  its  capacity  to  respond  even  to  the  crudest 
religious  stimulus  is  hardly  likely  to  succumb  to  a  wave  of  skepticism. 
So  the  possible  evil  effects  from  Nietzsche's  teachings  are  reduced  to  a 
minimum.  On  the  other  hand,  even  the  warmest  admirer  of  America 
can  hardly  deny  that  she  would  be  improved  by  a  considerable  infusion 
of  Nietzsche's  better  qualities;  his  entire  freedom  from  fanaticism, 
the  clarity  of  his  thought,  his  merciless  condemnation  of  mawkish 
sentimentalism,  under  whatever  guise.  Few  unprejudiced  observers 
will  deny  that  the  most  pressing  need  of  the  United  States  is  culture, 
with  all  of  refinement,  discrimination  and  mental  clearness  that  the  word 
implies.  And  among  those  who  have  always  carried  on  the  difficult 
battle  of  culture  against  Philistinism  and  materialism,  very  few,  in 
devotion  and  understanding,  are  superior  to  the  maligned  and  abused 
Friedrich  Nietzsche. 

—W.  H.  Chamberlin,  '17. 


tlTfje  Cancellcb  i^esierbation 

THE  boys  in  the  office  said  I  was  pale  and  had  a  thin  "citified" 
look  about  me.  I  told  them  that  lawyers  were  generally  pale 
and  necessarily  "citified,"  but  this  didn't  stop  them  from 
persuading  my  father  who  incidentally  was  my  employer,  that  I  needed 
a  vacation. 

"Son,"  he  said  one  morning,  "you've  been  working  hard,  I  think 
the  firm  can  live  without  you  for  a  couple  of  weeks.  Take  a  holiday  and 
go  somewhere  for  a  rest." 

I  felt  as  well  as  a  Mellin's  Food  baby,  and  told  him  that  I  couldn't 
break  away  and  leave  everything  in  the  lurch,  as  if  New  York  were 
built  for  my  especial  benefit. 

He  eyed  me  keenly  and  declared:  "The  only  thing  you  can't  leave 
is  a  certain  light-haired,  blue-eyed  lady.  Now  you  just  forget  your 
fiancee  for  a  while,  and  remember  that  she  doesn't  want  a  sick  man  for 
a  husband.  Take  Sam  with  you  and  beat  it  my  boy.  If  you  need 
money  let  me  know." 

I  might  have  known  that  I  couldn't  fool  Dad.  I  was  engaged  all 
right,  and  had  learned  to  my  surprise  what  a  difference  one  little  person 
could  make  in  your  happiness,  in  your  plans  and  your  pocket- 
book. 

Miss  Dorothy  Allen  was  my  first  cousin,  and  when  I  look  back 
on  the  times  when  we  romped  about  together  masquerading  in  each 
others  clothes,  I  find  myself  wondering  how  that  boisterous  tom-boy 
has  ever  blossomed  out  into  my  Dorothy-so-sweet,  and  so  feminine  in 
every  way.  Had  anyone  told  us  in  our  childhood  that  some  day  we 
would  marry,  I  believe  that  we  would  have  joined  hands  and  thumed 
our  noses  at  the  person  for  the  lack  of  some  better  way  of  expressing 
our  surprise.  Since  that  time  her  laughter  and  animated  spirits  have 
always  been  like  wine  in  my  veins.  When,  to  my  shame,  I  reached  that 
feverish  unsatisfied  period  of  manhood,  in  which  a  wife  seems  an  imme- 
diate necessity  to  one's  welfare,  it  was  natural  that  I  should  turn  to 
Dorothy  to  fill  the  bill.  It  was  also  natural  that,  when  I  had  my  wife 
all  "reserved,"  and  only  waiting  to  be  "called  for,"  that  I  should  be  a 
little  loath  to  leave  town. 

How  ever,  that  night  I  ordered  Sam,  my  grinning,  colored  valet, 
to  pack  my  things,  and  told  my  father  that  I  would  take  his  advice. 
While  we  were  talking,  Dr.  Bennett  our  family  physician  dropped  in 
to  see  Dad  and  learned  of  my  intended  trip  and  of  my  reluctance  to 
leave. 


"The  Cancelled  Reservation"  185 

"By  the  way"  remarked  the  grim  "medicine-man"  "Miss  Allen 
is  your  sister's  child  is  she  not?" 

Dad  looked  at  him  in  surprise.  "  Of  course  she  is,  and  a  little  peach 
too." 

"Has  your  son  thought  of  the  possible  danger  of  marrying  a  cou- 
sin?" he  inquired. 

"He  has  consulted  a  specialist,  who  said  that,  in  a  good  healthy 
pair,  there  isn't  one  chance  in  a  hundred  of  any  trouble.  They've  been 
in  love  for  years — he  wouldn't  lose  her  for  worlds!  Would  you  my  boy?" 

I  made  some  little  speech  about  "having  her  or  nobody,"  and 
fled  the  room.     The  subject  didn't  appeal  to  me. 

The  following  day  I  departed  with  Sam  and  my  gun.  Dorothy 
came  down  to  see  me  off  and  I  remember  distinctly  how  she  told  her 

brother  to  await  her,  on  the  dock, how  tightly  she  gripped  my  arm 

with  her  little  hands  as  we  walked  up  the  gang  plank — how  she  said, — 
"Horace!  Please  change  your  mind,  won't  you?  It  isn't  too  late. 
Somehow  I'm  afraid  to  have  you  go  'way  off  there  alone.  I  feel  that 
something  may  happen.     Please 

I  kissed  her  protesting  lips  and  told  her  how  foolish  she  was. 

In  a  few  minutes  a  deep  voice  sounded  down  the  deck.  "All  ashore 
that's  goin'  ashore"  she  left  me  smiling  bravely  and  dry-eyed,  for  which 
I  was  very  thankful.  Weeping  maidens  are  embarrassing  at  best, 
and  if  you  love  them  they  are  unbearable. 

I  waited  on  deck  till  the  flutter  of  her  little  pink  handkerchief  was 
no  longer  visible  and  then  went  to  my  cabin  to  unpack. 

In  four  days  time  we  were  comfortably  settled  in  a  squatty  little 
bungalow  on  the  Island  of  Pass  a  Grille.  This  was  the  most  admirable 
spot  we  could  find — a  little  strip  of  land  in  the  Gulf  of  Mexico,  seven 
miles  long  and  so  narrow  that  you  could  throw  a  stone  across  it.  Sam 
was  one  broad  grin  from  morning  'till  night,  until  the  third  day  when 
he  saw  a  mirage  on  the  Gulf,  and  came  in  to  me  crying  "Gude  Lawd 
Sah!  de  ocean  done  vomit  up  it's  bottom!" 

Our  favorite  sport  was  coon  hunting  We  hired  some  dogs,  and  in 
a  few  nights  we  had  cleaned  up  what  few  were  on  our  island.  Sam  was 
not  satisfied;  it  was  the  delight  of  his  soul  to  see  the  hump-backed, 
beady-eyed  creatures  fall  out  of  the  trees,  when  shot. 

Then  one  memorable  night,  we  decided  to  try  the  mainland  some 
few  hundred  yards  across.  We  learned  from  the  natives  of  a  place 
that  was  especially  good,  and  departed  about  eight  o'clock  in  our  little 
boat. 


186  The  Haverfordian 

If  you  have  not  been  there,  you  do  not  know,  and  never  can  know, 
the  madness  and  the  wild  fascination  of  a  night  on  the  Florida  gulf. 
It  was  as  fantastic  and  unnatural  as  the  fairyland  of  my  childhood  books. 
As  we  "chugged"  through  the  sheet  of  inky  black  water,  great  globules 
of  phosphor  burst  into  flames  behind  us  and  left  a  stream  of  light  on 
either  side  of  the  boat.  There  was  no  moon,  but  the  palms  and  the 
semi-tropic  woods  were  dimly  visble  as  we  glided  by  the  shore.  The 
stars  seemed  to  be  hanging  just  over  our  heads,  and  the  whole  sky  with 
its  thousands  of  glittering  points  seemed  merely  a  curtain  hung  above 
us,  with  the  real  heavens  hidden  behind  it.  The  air  was  soft  and  the 
night  was  so  still  that  our  exhaust  rang  out  like  rifle  shots,  and  echoed 
away  into  the  darkness.  The  night  seemed  unreal  and  unnatural,  and 
when  I  look  back  on  the  events  that  followed,  they  all  seem  blended  in 
a  weird  dream — yet  a  dream  as  real,  as  it  was  horrible. 

According  to  directions,  we  turned  to  port  around  a  jutting  point, 
and  entered  a  quiet  "baiou."  This  little  lake  was  a  picture  that  would 
have  done  proud  to  Venice,  or  Italy.  The  moon  was  just  rising,  and 
its  mellow  light  came  filtering  through  the  wavy  air-plant,  which,  like 
the  shrouds  of  a  ghost,  hung  from  every  branch,  and  swayed  sleepily 
in  the  soft  breeze. 

As  we  grounded  on  the  white  sand  a  weird  cry,  half  wild, — half 
human,  drifted  to  our  ears  from  the  opposite  shore. 

"What's  dat?"  snorted  Sam  suspiciously. 

The  dogs  answered  him  with  nervous  little  barkings,  as  we  jumped 
ashore.  Sam  grabbed  his  knife,  I,  my  gun  and  shells,  and  up  the  beach 
we  marched  at  an  eager  pace.  To  my  surprise  we  found  a  fair  sized 
house  placed  in  the  woods,  a  few  yards  back  from  the  water.  Still 
and  dark,  it  nestled  among  the  palms,  with  the  tall  trees  waving  their 
twisted  arms  above  it.  A  little  wharf  stretched  out  into  the  water, 
and  a  huge  pile  of  oyster  shells  covered  the  beach.  Row  boats  were  lying 
idly  floating,  and  the  place  seemed  to  be  the  home  of  a  thriving  oyster- 
man. 

"Wonder  who  lives  there,  Sam!"  I  commented. 
"Sure  I  don'  know  sah!  No  one  but  de  debbil  himself  would  come  way 
off  here  ter  live." 

We  passed  on,  after  a  few  curious  glances. 

"Look!" 

Sam  suddenly  pointed  up  the  beach. 

A  woman  was  dimly  visible  against  the  darkness  of  the  trees.  She 
came  nearer.  She  passed,  just  on  the  edge  of  the  water,  as  if  trying 
to  avoid  us. 


"The  Cancelled  Reservation"  187 

"Bet  you  dat's  a  witch"  my  companion  mumbled  nervously. 

I  almost  agreed  with  him.  Her  hair  was  down,  head  lowered  sul- 
lenly; an  old  black  skirt  rose  and  fell  with  her  shuffling  gait.  Her  face 
never  turned  aside  and  she  seemed  not  to  notice  us,  but  I  saw  that  her 
feet  touched  the  water  as  if  she  were  keeping  away  from  us  when  we 
came  near. 

We  found  our  coons  in  plenty;  on  the  mud  flats  their  tracks  were 
visible  everywhere.  In  an  hour  our  keen  dogs  had  treed  a  dozen  for 
us.  I  left  Sam  to  skin  them  and  strolled  back  towards  the  boat.  The 
shooting  had  jarred  my  nerves.  The  bang  of  a  shot  gun  and  the  smell 
of  powder  seemed  out  of  place  in  the  still,  pale,  glory  of  that  night. 
There  was  a  warm  radiance  suffused  through  the  air,  which  lulled  my 
brain.  It  seemed  a  time  to  think  of  love  and  dreams — a  spiritual  hour, 
when  heaven  breathes  on  earth,  and  worldly  things  are  far  away. 

Suddenly,  as  I  was  slowly  passing  the  house,  I  came  upon  the 
woman  sitting  dejectedly  in  a  row-boat,  high  upon  the  beach.  My 
curiosity  aroused,  I  spoke  to  her. 

"Beautiful  night  isn't  it?"  I  remarked  pleasantly. 

"Huh?"  she  looked  up  blankly. 

"  Do  you  live  here?"  I  ventured. 

"Yes— I  do.      What  of  it." 

I  remembered  how  she  eyed  me  suspiciously,  as  though  I  were 
challenging  her. 

Just  then  I  glanced  up  the  path,  and  saw,  in  the  shadows,  a  tall 
figure  coming  haltingly  down  from  the  house.  She  heard  the  foot- 
steps also,  and  I  noticed  how  tensely  her  eyes  were  fastened  on  me. 

"What's  the  matter  with  him?"  I  asked  in  dismay.  He  was  reel- 
ing from  side  to  side  like  a  drunkard.  The  woman  did  not  answer 
but  her  head  sank  wearily  on  her  thin  breast. 

The  man  came  down  to  us,  and  such  a  sight  I  have  never  seen. 
He  was  stark  crazy.  His  powerful  frame  was  partly  covered  with 
filthy  clothes.  He  stared  at  me  for  a  moment  with  dizzy  crossed  eyes; 
his  lower  jaw  fallen,  he  was  drewling  disgustingly  from  the  corners  of 
his  mouth.  Inarticulate  sounds  were  gurgling  from  his  throat,  and  his 
fingers  twitched  like  a  nervous  child's. 

A  startling  noise  like  the  baying  of  a  wolf  sounded  from  across 
the  little  "baiou"  and  with  the  leap  of  a  wild  beast,  the  fellow  went 
suddenly  bounding  away. 

The  woman  saw  the  surprise  on  my  face  and  volunteered. 

"That's  my  boy;  don't  look  at  me  like  that!" 

"Your  boy  madam!"  I  repeated  in  amazement. 


188  The  Haverfordian 

"Yes,"  she  replied  wearily.  "I  got  five  more  like  him.  He  went 
to  answer  the  call  of  one  of  his  brothers.  What  do  you  want  'round 
here?" 

I  studied  her  tired,  pinched  face  in  the  moonlight  and  wondered 
why  such  people  were  left  alive  to  suffer  in  that  solitude. 

"Won't  they  sleep  at  night?"  I  asked  gently. 

"Sleep!  No.  They  never  sleep.  They  roam  about  these  shores 
and  cry  to  each  other  like  animals.     Hear  'em?" 

I  knew  the  gruesome  call,  as  it  echoed  through  the  night  like  the 
shriek  of  a  ghost;  It  was  the  same  sound  that  had  frightened  Sam  at 
our  arrival. 

"Wish  they'd  calm  down  a  bit!  I  need  sleep"  the  woman  sighed 
wearily. 

Her  features  were  blank  and  expressionless  as  she  gazed  dully  over 
the  waters;  her  dejected  figure  setting  alone  amidst  all  the  beauty  of 
the  night  seemed  like  an  awful  mistake — an  ugly  scar  in  the  perfection 
of  nature. 

Her  presence  revolted  me,  I  turned  to  go,  but  something  held  me 
back. 

"Your  husband,  where  is  he?"  I  asked. 

"Sleep  I  guess!"  she  repHed. 

"Why  doesn't  he  look  after  them?" 

"  He  don't  care.  Relations  never  do.  I  should  ha' known  that  long 
ago.     He's  my  first  cousin." 

The  words  fell  on  my  ears  like  a  thunder  bolt,  and  for  a  moment 
I  staggered  as  if  stunned  by  the  shock. 

"Good  God  your  cousin  you  say!"  In  my  excitement  I  siezed  the 
old  woman  by  the  wrist. 

"Leg'go,  What's  the  matter  with  yer"  she  grumbled.  After  a 
time  I  questioned  her  carefully,  with  a  little  persuasion  she  told  me  of 
her  youth,  of  her  love  and  marriage,  of  her  children, —  whole  life-tragedy, 
too  harrowing  to  repaeat  in  this  tale. 

My  pulse  was  pounding  hard  when  she  finished:  one  moment  I 
could  have  choked  her  for  telling  me,  and  the  next,  my  heart  was  torn 
with  pity.  Unable  to  express  my  feelings,  I  simply  said  "good  night" 
to  her,  and  fled  back  to  the  boat. 

My  mind  was  dazed  as  I  sat  waiting  for  Sam.  Once  a  wild  un- 
canny cry  drifted  to  my  ears,  and  startled  me  pitifully. 

At  last  he  came.  I  can't  remember  what  I  thought,  or  did,  on  the 
way  home.     Sam  said  afterwards  that  I  was  "like  in  a  dream." 

It  was  not  until  he  had  gone  to  bed,  and  I  strolled  out  to  the  shore 


"The  Cancelled  Reservation"  189 

of  the  gulf,  that  I  was  able  to  think  collectedly.  Even  then,  the  face  of 
that  fellow  haunted  me.  I  saw  it  again  and  again  peering  out  of  the 
darkness,  and  saying  "Take  her,  take  her,  and  you'll  have  one  like 
me, — like  me — see!"  Then  his  jaw  would  hang  down,  and  his  mouth 
would  stream,  and  I  would  shut  my  eyes  in  horror. 

In  those  wild,  lonely  hours  of  early  morning,  I  thought  of  every- 
thing in  my  life.  Dorothy  come  to  my  mind  unceasingly — her  words 
at  parting,  her  kiss,  her  etherial  sweetness.  It  was  inhuman,  unthink- 
able that  she  should  have  a  child  like  that  blabbering  brute :  I  felt  that 
God  was  just  and  fair, — that  he  could  not  send  desolation,  to  such  a  holy 
tender  love  as  was  ours. 

I  looked  up  to  the  sky  as  if  to  find  the  answer  to  my  problem,  but 
it  was  all  changed,  the  moon  was  a  ghastly  yellow,  the  warm  air  stifled 
me,  the  darkness  was  fearful,  and  full  of  hidden  despair. 

I  walked  all  night  in  the  worst  mental  battle  that  I  have  ever  waged. 
I  defied  myself  and  God: — told  him  entreatingly  that  our  love  was  good, 
and  not  to  be  paid  for  in  tears — told  him  defiantly  that,  if  she  and  I 
were  married.  He  would  not  dare  to  curse  us  with  an  idiot-child.  Later, 
when  the  night  was  far  spent,  and  the  moon  had  waned,  the  answer 
came  as  though  from  the  skies.  We  were  doomed  to  bear  the  lesser 
struggle  of  denial,  and  save  ourselves  the  torture  of  breaking  nature's 
law.  My  steps  seemed  to  have  been  guided  by  a  predestined  fate.  It 
surely  was  the  kind  hand  of  God  that  had  led  me  to  that  spot,  out  of  all 
America,  to  show  me  the  price  that  I  must  pay. 

In  the  early  dawn  I  went  home  and  wrote  Dorothy  a  long  letter 
breaking  our  engagement.  I  told  her  the  whole  story  of  what  I  had 
seen,  and  of  how  I  believed  that  Providence  had  spared  us,  by  showing 
me  the  living  sample  of  what  our  fate  might  be. 

— C.   Van  Dam,  '17. 


WHO  has  not  known  the  luxury  of  absolute  idleness,  not  war- 
ranted idleness  but  illegal  ill-timed  idleness?      We  do  not 
advise  such  a  one  to  go  forth  and  seek  that  luxury.     None 
the  less  one  who  is  prone  to  such  occasional  indulgence  has  much  to 
offset  the  sneers  which  the  industrious  visit  upon  them. 

Take  for  instance,  a  day  last  September  which  was  snatched  from 
the  calendar  and  prostituted  in  its  entirety,  to  idling;  an  entirely  use- 
less day  in.  the  way  of  accomplishment.  A  day  in  which  our  mind 
floated  lightly  on  clouds  of  unreality  and  our  limbs  moved  lazily 
in  an  atmosphere  of  ethereal  lassitude.  The  most  real  thing  in  the 
world  was  the  blue  smoke  from  our  pipe,  moving  slowly  across  a  view 
of  drifting  clouds  and  wooded  valleys. — (Somehow  we  had  dragged 
ourself  to  the  top  of  a  hill  where  green  turf  bordered  the  road  and  a 
snake  fence  afforded  back  rest  when  we  tired  of  lying  at  full  length.) 
The  most  illusory  phantasm  in  the  universe,  was  the  day's  labor  we  had 
shirked.  A  grown-up  school  boy  playing  "hookey"  and  with  the  same 
lack  of  conscientious  pangs  for  the  deed — such  we  stood  revealed. 

But  had  we  striven  with  all  our  might  and  the  might  of  ten  thousand 
more,  all  our  sweat  and  effort  would  not  have  brought  us  what  our  fancy 
did  as  we  lay  at  full  length  in  the  shade.  After  all  what  is  the  joy  of 
effort,  but  a  fancy  of  convention?  Our  fancy  works  at  such  a  time,  more 
extensively  than  could  our  muscles  in  a  millenium.  We  pass  from  earth 
to  heaven  on  the  back  of  a  cumulous  cloud.  A  more  extended  journey 
is  made  than  the  most  zealous  drummer  would  undertake.  A  goal  is 
reached  in  an  afternoon,  which  combined  the  hopes  of  the  Hindoo  and 
of  the  christian;  Nirvana  and  Paradise — absolute  forgetfulness  and  the 
blissful  peace. 

We  see  the  clouds  from  our  pipe,  and  the  fleecy  phenomena  of  the 
sky  and  imagine  we  smoke  some  divine  pipe  of  peace  with  the  Creator. 
Our  oneness  with  nature  assures  us  we  commit  no  blasphemy. 

We  glance  lovingly  at  the  winding  road  and  imagine  summer  to 
be  a  twelve  months  affair  and  ambition  to  be  a  silly  obsession.  We 
think  our  forefathers  must  have  numbered  vagabonds  untold  in  their 
midst  and  that  we  receive  the  reward,  and  pay  the  price. 

Our  pipe  goes  out.  We  fill  it  once  more  and  apply  the  match. 
The  smoke  has  lost  its  taste.  A  lead  colored  cloud  is  on  the  horizon. 
We  arise  with  a  sudden  distaste  for  ourselves,  a  sensation  of  "something 
wTong"  suffuses  us,  and  we  step  out  briskly  for  home  and  work. 

—E.  M.  P.,  '15. 


^  ^oet  of  tf)E  Jforecagtie 

THE  Germans  may  blow  up  three  or  four  more  British  Dread- 
naughts  and  reduce  Tommy  Atkins'  ranks  several  hundred 
thousand  more,  but,  with  all  their  boasted  "kultur,"  will  they 
ever  be  able  to  obliterate  England's  imperishable  sea  literature?  The 
war  certainly  cannot  affect  "Mr.  Midshipman  Easy,"  Coleridge's  "An- 
cient Mariner,"  or  Kipling's  "Captains  Courageous."  These  marks  of 
English  devotion  to  the  seas  will  last  as  long  as  there  is  a  reading  public 
to  peruse  them.  But  as  for  the  future,  those  who  believe  that  war 
deadens  literature,  naturally  look  for  the  death  of  England's  sea  litera- 
ture. However  it  is  improbable  that  the  English  people  and  especially 
the  men  of  letters,  can  possibly  neglect  the  great  part  that  the  British 
navy  is  playing  in  the  present  conflict.  Sea  poetry,  and  fiction  as  well, 
will,  I  think,  be  revived,  and  in  this  revival,  the  virile  pen  of  John  Mase- 
field  should  play  a  preeminent  role. 

The  popularity  of  the  sea  tale  has  somewhat  dwindled  in  the  the 
United  States,  and  the  ideal  of  every  scapegrace  runaway,  is  not,  as 
formerly,  to  take  ship  and  sail  the  "ocean  wild."  Still  captain  Marryat 
and  W.  Clark  Russel  have  not  been  wholly  blotted  out  of  the  minds  of 
the  American  youth,  and  Mr.  Masefield's  faithful  delineation  of  life 
under  the  mast,  should  receive  a  favorable  reception  in  this  country. 

Masefield's  poetry  is,  as  it  were,  an  offspirng  of  the  sea  itself.  His 
youth  and  young  manhood  were  spent  in  an  environement  entirely 
different  from  his  later  peaceful  domestic  life,  in  the  vicinity  of  London, 
where  he  has  come  to  be  referred  to  as  a  coming  "literary  lion."  This 
early  training  proved  to  be  invaluable,  as  it  resulted.  At  the  age  of 
fourteen  he  began  his  eventful  career  as  a  seaman.  For  a  number  of 
years  he  sailed  in  all  kinds  of  vessels  over  all  seas;  twice  he  navigated 
around  the  world,  once  he  left  the  sea  and  became  a  tramp  for  a  short 
time,  but  soon  returned  again  to  the  old  life.  His  second  departure  from 
the  sea  resulted  in  his  employment  as  a  bar  tender  in  the  old  Colonial 
Hotel  of  New  York  city.  Later  he  returned  to  England,  where  he 
settled  down,  and  was  prevailed  upon  by  his  friend,  Mr.  Jack  B.  Yeats, 
brother  of  the  poet,  William  Butler  Yeats,  to  write  of  his  life  experiences. 

It  must  not  be  thought  that  all  of  Masefield's  art  has  been  devoted 
to  the  sea.  This  is  by  no  means  true,  for  he  is  extremely  versatile. 
"The  Everlasting  Mercy"  and  "The  Widow  In  Bye  Street,"  his 
first  successes,  were  written  in  an  absolutely  different  vein.  These 
two  poems,  though  they  served  to  first  attract  the  attention  of  England 
to  the  appearance  of  a  new  poet,  are  too  much  reminiscent  of  Masefield's 


192  The  Haverfordian 

bar-tender  days.  Their  unpleasantness  and  over-realism  are  not  ideal 
for  any  poet's  consideration.  The  sea  is  always  more  poetical  than 
John  Barleycorn  or  pugilism.  Then  again,  Masefield's  rough  metre 
and  forceful,  Billy  Sundayesque  vocabulary  are  admirably  suited 
to  a  reproduction  of  life  on  the  high  seas.  It  is  in  this  latter  field,  I 
think,  that  Masefield's  best  work  has  been  done. 

To  support  this  statement,  we  have  but  to  turn  to  the  poet's  works. 
His  best  sea  tale  is,  doubtless,  "Dauber,  The  Story  of  a  Round  House." 
Dauber  is  interesting  for  several  reasons — its  gripping  theme,  its  excel- 
lent psychological  study  of  the  hero,  the  delicate  marine  painter,  tor- 
mented by  his  heartless  round  house  mates.  Finally  it  is  interesting 
by  its  very  form,  for  it  represents  a  daring  and  successful  revival  in 
poetry  of  the  long  narrative  which  has  suffered  a  distinct  decline  since  the 
time  of  Tennyson  and  William  Morris.  One  critic  in  the  "Review 
of  Reviews"  goes  so  far  as  to  make  this  startling  commendation  of 
the  poem.  "There  is  perhaps  nothing  in  the  English  tongue,  not  of 
Swinburne's  nor  in  Noj-es'  magnificent  epic  of  the  sea,  "Drake," 
that  excels  it."  Rather  fine  praise,  but  not  altogether  undeserved, 
as  a  careful  reading  will  testify. 

Masefield  seems  to  be  the  only  modern  English  poet  Vvfho  uses  the 
versified  short  story.  This  form  holds  forth  much  promise  to  future 
poets,  Masefield  uses  it  again  to  advantage  in  "  Daffodil  Fields"  a  work 
which  suffers,  in  its  unfolding,  by  comparison  to  that  masterpiece  of 
romance,  "Enoch  Arden." 

In  the  same  volume  with  "The  Story  of  a  Round  House"  is  "Bi- 
ography," a  poem  of  varying  merit.  Its  thought  while  often  obscure  and 
pessimistic,  is  strongly  personal,  and  therefore  of  special  interest.  The 
poet  recalls  some  of  his  maritime  adventures;  in  the  description  of  the 
crew  race  of  the  rival  cutters  he  is  excellent.  The  following  also  is  vig- 
orous : — 

"Good  swimtning  days,  at  Hog  Back  or  the  coves 
Which  the  young  gannet  and  the  corbie  loves; 
Surf  swimming  between  rollers,  catching  breath 
Between  the  advancing  grave  and  breaking  death. 
Then  shooting  up  into  the  sunbright  smooth 
To  watch  the  advancing  roller  bare  her  tooth." 

In  "Sea  Fever,"  the  poet  yields  to  the  call  of  the  ocean: — 

"/  must  go  down  to  the  seas  again  for  the  call  of  the  running  tide 
Is  a  wild  call  and  a  clear  call  that  may  not  be  denied. 


A  Poet  of  the  Forecastle  193 

And  all  I  ask  is  a  windy  day  with  the  white  clouds  flying 

And  the  fleeing  spray  and  the  blown  spume  and  the  sea  gulls  crying. 

I  must  go  down  to  the  seas  again,  to  the  vagrant  gypsy  life. 

To  the  gull's  way  and  the  whale's  way  when  the  wind's  like  a  whetted  knife; 

And  all  I  ask  is  a  merry  yarn  from  a  laughing  fellow  rover. 

And  quiet  sleep  and  sweet  dream  when  the  long  trip's  over. 

"Salt  Water  Ballads"  a  collection  of  poems  written  by  Masefield 
in  his  early  manhood,  is  another  of  his  consecrations  to  the  sea.  This 
volume  may  best  be  described  by  saying  that  it  is  an  ambitious  attempt 
to  do  for  the  sailor  what  Kipling's  "Departmental  Ditties"  and  "Bar- 
rack Room  Ballads"  has  done  for  the  British  soldier  in  India.  There 
is  nothing  to  match  these  short  tales  in  giving  the  local  color  and  inner 
meaning  of  the  seaman's  life.  They  are  light,  whimsical,  and  often 
ironical.  "The  Yarn  of  the  Loch  Achray"  and  "Sing  a  Song  O'  Ship- 
wreck" are  full  of  this  grim  irony  which  saves  them  from  becoming 
oppressive.  Although  they  describe  shipwreck  and  disaster,  the  reader 
hardly  realizes  it,  so  filled  are  the  poems  with  the  carefree,  elements- 
defying  attitude  of  the  mariners. 

Many  of  the  ballads  are  monologues,  and  in  them  the  speech  of  the 
typical  sailor  is  ably  counterfeited.  He  is  full  of  oaths  and  slang,  but 
through  it  all  runs  a  covering  of  rough  heartiness.  The  sailor's  super- 
stitions are  pictured,  his  fear  of  Mother  Carey  and  her  man,  Davy 
Jones.  In  the  "Burial  Party"  is  presented  the  peculiar  legend  that 
a  dead  body  will  not  sink  in  the  ocean  if  buried  at  night.  In  the  same 
poem  occurs  this  line:  "for  its  bloody  soul's  afraid  of  the  dark  'n'  sticks 
within  the  throat." 

The  use  of  the  adjective,  "bloody"  is  interesting  on  account  of  the 
profound  disfavor  into  which  this  awful  word  has  fallen  in  England 
today,  which  Shaw  has  capitally  satirized  in  "Pygmalion."  Mase- 
field evidently  defies  public  opinion,  for  he  has  used  "bloody"  at  least 
thrice  in  this  one  volume. 

"Philip,  the  King,"  Masefield's  recent  work  is  not  a  sea-drama, 
yet  it  contains  a  vivid  and  striking  description  of  the  defeat  of  the 
Spanish  Armada.  The  following  extract  will  give  a  good  example  of 
the  terseness  and  vigor  of  the  phrasing: — 

"  The  wind  and  sea  were  fair 
We  lay  at  anchor  there; 
The  stars  burned  in  the  air, 
The  men  were  sleeping. 
When  in  the  midnight  dark 


194  The  Haverfordian 

Our  watchman  saw  a  spark 
Suddenly  light  a  bark 
With  long  flames  leaping." 

Another  poem,  "The  River,"  in  the  same  volume  is  more  charac- 
teristic of  Masefield.  It  is  a  narrative  describing  the  wreck  on  the 
shoals  of  the  full-rigged  ship,  "Travancore."  It  has  the  flavor  of  the 
sea  in  every  action.  Only  a  poet  who  has  seen  and  was  perhaps  him- 
self the  survivor  of  such  a  disaster,  could  have  written  "The  River." 
His  training,  no  doubt,  witnessed  several  such  wrecks. 

A  comparison  of  the  sea  poems  of  Masefield  and  Kipling  is  possible, 
but  not  favorable  to  Kipling.  Both  have  absolute  command  of  the 
sea's  jargon,  but  both  do  not  make  equal  use  of  it.  Kipling's  sea  poems, 
with  one  or  two  exceptions  are  heavy  and  dull.  The  swing,  lightness 
and  humor  usually  present  in  his  work  are  absent.  "The  Rhyme  of 
the  Three  Sailors"  and  "The  Liner's  She's  A  Lady"  alone  are  worthy 
of  comaprison  with  Masefield.  Kipling,  in  general,  personifies  the  ship 
and  pays  only  incidental  notice  to  its  sailors,  while  Masefield's  whole 
effort  is  to  humanize  the  sailor.  The  latter  method  is  much  the  better 
and  productive  of  better  results.  However,  the  comparison  between 
these  men  is  not  quite  fair,  considering  the  fact  that  Kipling  has  given 
his  best  work  to  the  soldier,  in  which  field  he  has  no  rival.  Masefield, 
indeed,  has  an  opportunity  to  make  the  "Tommy  Atkins"  or  "Mul- 
vaney"  of  the  sea.  Can  he  do  it?  What  a  splendid  chance  is  given 
him  just  now  when  his  country's  navy  is  engaged  in  a  desperate  struggle 
to  maintain  its  disputed  supremacy  in  European  waters. 

— George  A.  Dunlap,  '16. 


On  summer  morn  it  teguments 
The  grass  with  gleaming  fi,laments. 
Until  the  sun  the  sky  freqttents 
And  drinks  the  crystal  dew. 

It  dazzles  on  the  lily  pad, 
Where  perches  many  a  pert  Naiad 
In  colors  of  the  rainbow  clad. 
To  startle  me  and  you. 

—R.  G.,  '17. 


Z\}t  Hi'sfjt  of  Crutd 

Time:  Night. 

Place:  A  Hill. 

Dramatis  Personae:  A  Man  and  a  Woman. 

{A  storm.  Loud  thunderbolts.  A  flash  oj  lightning,  followed  by  a 
long  silence,  save  the  low  murmur  of  the  western  wind.  The  bleat  of  a  lost 
sheep.  Or  the  cry  of  a  child  from  the  hamlet  in  the  valley.  Bid  silence 
invariably  follows. 

At  length  the  storm  abates.  As  after  any  storm,  the  air  seems  to  hold 
some  surprise  for  one.     Some  uncanny  suspense  pervades  the  atmosphere. 

Presently  a  voice  is  heard.  A  man's  voice.  It  is  gruff  and  harsh. 
The  man  is  swearing  drunkenly:   oath  after  oath  breaks  the  silence. 

Other  sounds.     Somebody  coming  up  the  hill  from  the  village.) 

The  Man.     OGod!  Who  in  the  name  of is  it? 

The  Woman.     I  am a  woman. 

(//  is  indeed  a  woman's  voice.  A  tired,  hoarse  voice,  full  of  discords. 
It  inspires  sorrow;  no  doubt  its  owner  has  suffered  much.  Still  suffers, 
perhaps.) 

The  Man.     A  woman!  Why  here?  at  this  time!  in  this  weather ! 

The  Woman.     I  ask  also,  why? 

The  Man.     Well,  it's  an  ungodly  night.     Sit  down  here. 

{He  makes  a  place  for  her  on  a  heap  of  leaves.) 

The  Woman.    Thanks.     I'm  tired. 

The  Man.     Why  did  you  stop  here? 

The  Woman.    Well But  you? 

The  Man.     I  don't  know.     Lost. 

{The  woman  looks  at  him.    She  seems  to  read  him.) 

The  Woman.     I  see.     Drunk  again. 

The  Man.    What!  .... 

The  Woman.  Deny  it  then!  You  can't.  You  were  drunk.  I 
can  smell  it — the  stink  of  whisky. 

The  Man.    Yes.     It  is  true.     But  you? 

The  Woman.     I  am  here  because  .... 

The  Man.    Well? 

The  Woman.     Because  I  have  nowhere  else  to  go. 

{The  Man  does  not  understand.     The  Woman  explains  rapidly,  sadly.) 

I  live  nowhere.  I  sleep  in  the  ditch  to  day,  in  the  saloon  tomorrow — 
or  on  a  hill — like  tonight.  You  see  there  was  no  man  drunk  enough — 
brute  enough. 

So  I  sleep  on  the  hil!  tonight. 


196  The  Haverfordian 

The  Man.    Then  you're  a  .  .  .  . 

The  Woman  (interrupting).    Yes  .... 

The  Man.  I'm  glad  you  stopped  my  calling  you  a  .  .  .  (again 
checks  himself.)     Anyhow  I  am  not  much  better.     A  drunkard ! 

The  Woman.  (With  the  conviction  of  one  who  has  learnt  from  experi- 
ence— from  sad  experience,  but  from  true.)     No  better. 

The  Man.    What? 

The  Woman.     No  better ! 

The  Man.     I  don't  understand. 

The  Woman.  Yet  it's  easy.  You  sell  your  soul  to  drink.  Your 
body.  Your  strength.  And  I  sell  mine  to  men.  Drunken  beasts.  Like 
you. 

The  Man.    But  .... 

The  Woman.  Then  there  is  yet  another  difference.  You  are 
what  you  are  because  you  are  weak.  A  love  affair,  or  something.  Jilted ! 
So  he  drank.  {Laughs  pityingly.)  But  I  am  what  I  am  because  I  had 
to  choose — choose  between  poverty  and  shame  or  honor.  I  chose 
poverty  and  shame.  Because  I  would  rather  be  true  to  myself. 

I  am  not  a  good  woman.  But  I  might  have  lived  with  what  people 
call  honor  as  long  as  I  was  not  found  out.  Anyhow  I  preferred  the 
honor  that  brings  shame  and  tears.  So  I  am  better  than  you.  For  I 
am  true  to  myself.     I  deceive  no  one.     I  live  in  the  Light  of  Truth. 

The  Man.  I  see  what  you  mean.  Yes,  you  are  more  honorable 
than  many  people  known  as  respectable  people.     You  are  indeed. 

The  Woman  {takes  his  hand.)     Thanks,  my  friend. 

The  Man  {holds  hers.)  You  are  pure  too — impure  in  body  perhaps, 
but  pure  in  soul — in  ideals — in  Truth. 

The  Woman.    Ah ! 

The  Man.    And  I  love  you. 

{He  moves  toward  her.  Sways.  Tries  to  seize  her  waist — madly, 
passionately. 

She  thought  she  had  to  do  with  other  love.  Not  physical  as  his,  but  ideal. 
Alas  for  her!  she  had  forgotten  the  Light  of  Truth.) 

The  Woman.    Stop.  .  .  . 

{She  speaks  with  firmness,  yet  gently,  pityingly.  Something  inde- 
scribably beautiful  in  her  voice  compels  respect.  And  he  is  a  good  man — 
good  in  spile  of  his  sins — or  because  of  them.) 

The  Man.     I'm  sorry  I  did  that. 

{And  he  really  is.) 

The  Woman.     Thanks.     I'm  glad.     Glad  you're  sorry. 

The  Man.  I  don't  know  why  I  stopped.  I  have  never  respected 
woman  before. 


The  Light  of  Truth  1'97 

The  Woman.  No.  You  see  you  don't  understand  Love.  I  do. 
In  spite  of  the  Men — Men — drunken  beasts — like  you.  All  you  love  is 
Passion.     And  Drink. 

The  Man.     {Defiantly.)     Yes. 

The  Woman.  I  also  have  met  your  gods.  Have  known  them — 
have  been  happy  with  them.  But  lately  I  learnt  to  see  Truth.  And 
when  one  knows  Truth  one  cannot  be  happy.  Ignorance  is  always 
bliss;  true  happiness  is  the  incapability  of  appreciating  things  at  their 
right  value.  You  never  prayed — never  mentioned  God's  name,  except 
in  oaths.  But  I  have  prayed.  And  I  shall  go  to  Heaven.  For  my 
sins  are  not  grave  sins — merely  faults.  And  I  am  penitent.  Do  you 
understand?  This  is  my  Trial.  My  crucifixion.  But  one  day  it  shall 
be  over.  And  then  I,  who  have  realized  what  Life  is,  shall  live  eternally 
— in  Paradise. 

The  Man.     Then  Life  is  ...  . 

The  Woman.  Life  is  the  supreme  test.  Realize  that  it  is  a  test,  a 
martyrdom,  and  do  not  try  to  be  happy.  Then  you  will  be  right.  Deny 
this  and  live  in  a  fool's  paradise. 

The  Man.  Ah !  If  only  you  could  prove  this!  (Eagerly,  pleadingly.) 
O  pray  to  your  God!   I  want  the  Light  of  Truth. 

The  Woman.     Then  prepare  never  to  be  happy  again. 

The  Man.     I  am  ready. 

{The  Woman  is  thinking  hard — puzzling.  He  moves  expectantly  to- 
ward her.  Suddenly  she  seizes  his  arm,  and  speaks,  quickly,  confusedly, 
tremulous  in  the  triumph  of  her  discovery. 

The  Woman.  The  veil  of  centuries  is  lifting.  Look,  brother! 
Look!  I  will  show  you  what  you  were — what  I  was — what  we  were  two 
thousand  years  ago. 

( Yells  with  excitement.)     Look !  Look  and  learn ! 

The  same  hill.     It  is  Day.     Bathed  in  glorious  sunlight. 

On  a  heap  of  leaves,  a  Man  and  a  Woman.  Despite  the  sunlight  a 
melancholic  something  fills  the  air.  .  .  . 

The  Man.     Yes,  I  know  it  is  sad.     But  we  must  bear  it. 

The  Woman.     Why?   Why?    {She  weeps.)     Stay,  please  stay! 

The  Man  {gently,  but  with  emphasis).    No.     I  cannot. 

The  Woman.     Would  you  desert  me?    Your  wife! 

The  Man.     Be  good.     Be  reasonable.     I  am  not  yours. 

The  Woman  {with  bitterness) .     Yet  you  asked  me  to  be  yours. 

The  Man  {sadly).  Yes.  I  had  not  received  the  Call  then.  The 
Call  to  Christ. 


198  The  Haverforbian 

The  Woman.     But  you  asked  me  first 

The  Man.  Enough !  I  belong  first  to  God,  to  Christ,  to  the  Church. 
Then  to  you,  to  myself. 

The  Woman  {weeping  piteoiisiy).  Oh!  Why  did  we  join  a  church 
that  separates  man  from  woman,  that  forces  the  wife  to  become  a 
widow;    the  children  to  become  orphans! 

The  Man.     It  is  sad — very  sad. 

{Exalted,  exultant.)  But  I  must  go.  To  the  Savior.  To  Christ.  He 
is  now  before  the  Pilate.  And  although  the  Pilate  is  a  just  man,  yet 
they  may  condemn  him. 

{Shocked.)     Good  Lord!   Condemn  the  Son  of  God  to  Death! 

{Determinedly.)     But  I  will  die  too.     Be  crucified  with  Him! 

{With  faith.)    But  no.    He  has  reserved  me  for  a  higher  destiny. 

The  Woman  {fiercely) .    To  leave  your  wife ! 

The  Man.  Yes.  To  make  sacrifice  after  sacrifice,  to  be  scorned, 
spat  upon.  Like  Christ.  But  to  teach  His  word.  To  go  far  away, 
in  distant  lands.  And  proclaim  His  Gospel.  Preach  His  teachings— with 
him  of  Tarsus — him  whom  they  say  to  have  become  of  our  Faith. 

The  Woman  {sobbing).    And  our  Love? 

The  Man.  First  is  God.  And  Christ — Love  of  Mankind;  then 
you.  Myself — Love  of  Woman. 

The  Woman  {moans.)  Oh!    Oh!    Oh! 

My  husband! 

The  Man.  0  Lord !  Give  me  strength.  Strength  to  go  and  preach 
Thy  word.  And  her — strength  to  live  without  me.  And  make  Thy 
Holy  Face  to  shine  upon  us — upon  her  and  me. — For  the  sake  of  Him 
they  say  to  be  Thy  Son. 

The  Woman  {clutching  the  end  of  his  gown) .    Stay !  stay ! 

The  Man.  I  cannot.  Jesus  calls  me.  Calls  me  to  Him.  I  must 
go.    Go  to  the  Son  of  God.     Farewell! 

{But  still  she  clings  to  him.) 

Be  gentle.     Be  good. 

{He  pushes  her  back  with  force.  She  seizes  him  again.  At  last  he 
tears  himself  away  from  her.) 

The  Man.    Let  me  go! 

The  Woman's  head  falls  on  a  heap  of  stones — and  they  cut  it.  She 
bleeds.  A  red  stream  runs  down,  over  the  stones,  on  the  grass,  staining  it. 
Many  purple  blotches  in  the  mud.     She  buries  her  head  in  the  dirt.) 

The  Man.     God  forgive  me.     But  it  is  for  Christ! 

{Slowly,  regardless  of  her  frenzied  cries,  he  kneels  down  amid  the  stones 
and  dirt.    He  looks  into  her  face.    He  kisses  her  blood-smirched  lips.    Her 


The  Sight  of  Truth  199 

hair  blows  in  his  face.  And  smears  it  with  blood  and  mud.  He  presses  her 
to  him.  Gently,  ever  so  gently.  Then,  he  goes  away-^slowly,  down  the  hill. 
To  his  destiny.     To  Christ. 

The  woman  stays  there.  Her  face  buried  in  the  dirt.  She  still  sobs. 
And  bleeds.) 

The  Woman.    Ah,  God!   You  have  separated  us! 

I  might  as  well  have  been  a  harlot, 

And  he  a  drunkard.     Oh!     Ooooh! 

(She  curses  loudly — fiercely  defiantly. 

But  the  sun  is  gradually  sinking  in  the  western  heaven.     And  she  is 

left  there  as  darkness  comes.     Her  voice,  fierce  and  broken,  sags  as  the  long 

shadows  of  the  mountain  creep  silently  up  to  meet  the  kindred  shadows  of 

the  Night.) 

******** 

(The  scene  is  as  at  first.  But  it  is  not  so  dark.  And  the  wind  has 
ceased. 

In  fact  it  is  morning.  Shadows  of  Night  fioat  away  and  are  replaced 
by  the  grey  mists  of  dawn,  heralding  the  Day  about  to  break. 

Dew  is  on  the  grass — Tears  of  God. 

The  Man  is  speechless.  And  the  Woman.  Like  people  dumbfounded. 
They  have  not  realized.  They  are  still  waiting  to  see  more.  But  it  is  not  to 
be. 

The  veil  hanging  between  Past  and  Present  has  been  wrung  down.  Nor 
will  it  ever  be  lifted  again. 

A  bell  'oils  from  the  Convent,  down  in  the  valley.) 

The  Man.     Good  Lord!   I've  have  seen.     Looked.     And  learnt. 

The  Woman.     What? 

{The  Man  is  sitting  very  close  to  her.  And  he  loves  her.  Not  physically 
because  they  have  both  seen  it:  the  Light  of  Truth.  But  spiritually ;  for  she  is 
his  wife.     Or  mother.    Or  sister.) 

The  Woman.     Have  you  understood? 

The  Man.    Yes.     I  have  seen  the  Light  of  Truth. 

And  you  have  shown  me.     You,  a  woman. 

The  Woman.    Yes.    Are  you  grateful? 

The  Man.  Very.  Grateful  because  you  have  lifted  the  veil  of 
falsehood  from  before  my  eyes. 

The  Woman.     And  how  have  you  profited? 

The  Man.  I  was  a  libertine.  A  drunkard.  I  gave  way  to  Pass- 
ion— to  everything  and  everybody  save  God. 

The  Woman.    Yes. 

The  Man.    And  I  am  grateful  to  you  for    having   taught   me. 


200  The  Haverfordian 

Taught  me  about  Nature.  About  Love.  About  God.  And  about 
myself.  I  know  Nature's  fickleness.  {Bitterly)  Ah  God!  what  irony  to 
say  that  it  consoles  us.  A  mother!  Never!  Nature  cannot  console  me. 
Nor  will  she.     For  I  have  seen  what  she  is.     Eternally  insulting. 

The  Woman.    And  Love? 

The  Man.  Love !  Love  is  a  lure — a  pitfall  set  for  the  best  of  us. 
For  me.  Because  lama  King  among  men.  A  trap  set  by  the  ironic 
powers  of  Life.  A  chance  to  make  us  pay  for  a  second's  pleasure  with  a 
lifetime's  pain.  This  is  Life  and  Love !  As  they  really  are — not  as  people 
say  they  are. 

The  Woman.    And  woman? 

The  Man.     Woman  is  ever  impure — In  mind.     And  body. 

And  woman — tenderly,  unwittingly — is  no  kinder  to  us  than  Nature. 

But  Love  has  some  good  in  it.  It  is  a  passion — a  Martyr's  like 
Christ's.     A  crown  of  thorns.     And  not  one  lacking. 

Love  is  the  atrocious  torture  of  crucifixion. 

I  know  Life — not  wisely,  too  well. 

But  I  shall  live  happy — as  happy  as  I  can. 

The  Woman.    And  God? 

The  Man.  .  .  .Has  deserted  us.  Like  He  deserted  Christ  and 
let  Him  bleed.  Bleed  on  the  Cross.  Ever  since  He  failed  to  answer  his 
Son's  plaint  he  has  been  eternally  silent.     He  will  be  forever. 

Alas  that  there  should  be  a  man  worthy  of  the  name  to  pray  to 
One  who  has  abandoned  him.  Left  him  alone,  opposite  sin,  with  nothing 
better  than  a  name.  A  meaningless  name.  Ah!  I  have  paid  for  the 
True  Philosophy  by  my  disillusion. 

The  Woman.     What  is  the  True  Philosophy? 

The  Man.  Self.  I  shall  live  in  Myself.  For  Myself.  And  by 
myself.     I  am  my  solace. 

I  love  pain.     Grief.     Woe. 

I  am  an  Apostle  of  Human  Suffering. 

The  utter  futility  of  Life  makes  a  hero  of  me.     A  god ! 

For  I  stand  up  against  life. 

Let  my  life  be  one  sweet  song.     One  sad  sob  to  others. 

But  I  shall  not  weep.  My  life  shall  be  the  working  in  obscurity. 
I  shall  work  in  the  Dark — for  Myself,  by  Myself,  in  Myself.  Thank 
God  I've  seen  the  Light  of  Truth! 

{But  the  Sun  is  about  to  rise  in  the  heaven.  Dawn  is  in  its  turn  fleeing. 
Fleeing  before  the  host  of  morning  rays.  The  vapors  of  day  float  up  to 
mingle  with  the  last  shades  of  dawn.  A  cock  crows,  melodiously.  Or  hideous- 
ly.   But  shrilly.     In  the  distance.) 


The  Light  of  Truth  201 

The  Woman.     It  is  Day.    And  I  must  go. 

The  Man.     I  am  sorry. 

The  Woman.     And  I.     I  have  been  very  happy  here. 

The  Man.     You  have  made  me  happy  too.     For  I  have  seen  Light. 

Thanks. 

The  Woman.     Alas!  You  will  not  be  happy  soon. 

The  Man.     {draws  himself  up  proudly) .     I  have  myself 

The  Woman.     Not  happy  in  the  eyes  of  the  world. 

The  Man.  No.  For  their  happiness  ignorance  is  essential.  I 
know  Truth.  You  see  they  will  call  me  a  fool.  You  made  me  a  fool — 
by  revealing  Life  to  me.     But  I  am  glad  to  be  a  fool. 

The  Woman.     Farewell. 

The  Man.     Farewell.     And  thanks. 

The  Woman.    Thanks  too.    Adieu. 

{The  cock  crows  again.     Loudly. 

There  is  a  sound.     A  sound  of  many  voices. 

Music.     From  the  convent  in  the  valley.) 

Voices.  Ave!  Ave  Maria!  Gratiae  Plena!  Sancta  Mater  Dei! 
Ora  pro  nobis  peccatoribus  nunc  et  in  hora  mortis. 

{The  voices  die  down.     Silence. 

Then  a  swell.  Songs  of  Thanksgiving  Te  Deum  Laudamus!  Nuns 
singing  and  praying.     To  a  deaf  God.    Ah!  the  irony  of  it! 

The  air  is  heavy — full  of  sadness. 

The  hill  seems  full — full  of  the  tears  of  the  world. 

Theechoof  many  songs.     Refreshingly  sorrowful.     Sweetly  lugubrious. 

Songs  of  birds.  Dainty  chirruping;   But  sad!   oh,  so  sad! 

At  last  the  sun  rises.     Its  rays  cover  all. 

There  is  no  longer  melancholy.    But  joy.     And  light. 

Yet  it  is  not  the  True  Light.     Not  the  Light  of  Truth. 

And  the  tears  that  filled  the  hill,  the  tears  of  all  the  world,  seem  to  float 
away  in  the  music  of  a  distant  brook. 

The  man  stands  alone.     Alone  at  the  crest  of  the  hill. 

He  follows  the  Woman  with  his  eyes. 

And  she  stumbles  away — far  away — in  the  glory  of  the  morning  sun- 
shine. 

The  Man  sighs.  Another  Day.  Another  thorn  in  the  crown.  But 
in  the  glory  of  his  pride  he  does  not  fear  it.  He  is  an  Apostle  of  Human 
Suffering.  So  he  does  not  fear  the  grief  in  store  for  him.  But  faces  it  proudly. 
Exultingly.     For  he  has  seen  the  Light  of  Truth.) 

—J.  G.  C.  LeClercq,  '18. 


tE^fie  ^rgosip  of  ^romisie 

Thick  upon  the  headland  grows  the  purple,  scented  heather; 

There  the  night  wind  stoops  to  kiss  a  saffron  sea, 
And  there  the  wavelets  whisper  and  the  ripples  laugh  together 

As  they  splash  about  the  rocks  in  childish  glee.- 

I  wonder,  is  it  fancy  that  has  conjured  up  the  maiden, 

Like  a  pearl  that  lights  the  sombre  throat  of  night. 
Who  is  questing  to  the  Westward  for  the  galleon  treasure  laden. 

For  the  ship  that  sailed  away  at  break  o'light. 

But  out  upon  the  ocean  'tis  the  wintriest  of  weather 

And  the  tempests  lash  the  breakers  to  be  free. 
While  amid  the  leagues  of  darkness,  far  from  aid  of  Love's  endeavor, 

Drifts  a  wreck  that  answers  not  the  helms  decree. 

—F.  M.  Morley,  '15. 


A  ship  set  her  sails  on  a  blue-green  sea, 

And  her  wings  gull-white. 

All  unbedight. 

Like  a  Goddess'  drapery. 
Gave  her,  in  the  breeze  of  the  coming  night, 

A  perfect  symmetry. 

And  on  and  on  in  smoothest  dips 
She  bows  with  curtsiful  grace. 
While  curling  swells  in  eager  race 

Kiss  gently  her  maiden  lips. 

And  so  let  me  sail  on  a  warm  spring  day 
In  my  simile  ship,  the  cloud. 
On  my  ocean  the  gray-green  dale — • 
Away  from  the  cruel  city's  crowd — 
Away,  away  and  away. 

—D.  a  Wendell,  '16. 


©nip  Cisbtten! 

May  Ist.^A  clear  day.  This  Spring  is  the  most  beautiful  I  can  re- 
member. My  new  gown  finished.  It  fits  beautifully ;  but  Mother  thinks 
it  ought  to  be  taken  in  a  little  at  the  bottom,  so  we  sent  it  back  for  re- 
pairs.    I  hate  dressmakers! 

Father  promises  to  arrange  my  coming-out  affair  for  early  in  June. 
He  is  an  old  dear,  is  Dad! 

Charlie  V —  called  and  said  he  had  tickets  for  Vajima — the  new  musi- 
cal comedy — for  Saturday  night.  Charlie  is  awfully  kind,  but  a  horrible 
dancer. 

May  2nd. — Bright.  Calls.  Met  a  Miss  Hartshorne  from  Chicago 
at  Sylvia's.  I  think  she  is  rather  a  prig.  Read  story  of  Joseph  before 
going  to  bed.  If  I  had  a  husband  like  Potiphar  I  would  get  a  divorce. 
Joseph  must  have  been  divine. 

May  3rd. — Went  to  Vajima  with  Charlie.  (Oh!  I  forgot  to  say, 
it  was  a  horribly  sloppy  day.)  The  music  was  rather  catchy,  but  Don 
Vino  was  not  a  bit  handsome.  I  like  handsome  heroes — it  always  seems 
so  much  more  romantic  and  fairy-taley. 

May  4th. — Beautiful.  I  met  them — all  four — at  Dorothy  Varden's 
house-party.  Two  are  light  and  tall;  one  is  dark  and  rather  short; 
and  the  other  has  red  hair  and  is — oh !  horrible !  (Sylvia  calls  the  light- 
haired  ones  Castor  and  Pollux.)     They  are  good-looking  and — nice. 

May  5th. — Served  tea  on  the  lawn.  (Wonderful  day.)  Castor  and 
Pollux  were  here,  and  the  dark  one,  and  Torchy  (Virginia  says  he's  just 
like  the  fellow  in  those  Sewell  Ford  stories — I've  never  read  them). 
We  had  the  Victrola  out,  and  Roland  (that's  my  little  brother,  ae.,  10) 
played  it  while  we  danced.  Castor  is  a  won-der-ful  dancer,  and  so  tali 
and  interesting,  and  not  a  bit  fat.  I  hate  fat  ones.  Castor  danced  eight 
times  with  me.  P.  S.  I  have  given  up  reading  the  Bible  at  night — I  am 
always  so  tired.     (Roland  spilled  tea  on  Virginia's  dress.  He  is  an  imp!) 

May  <5i/^.— AWFUL  day!    Rain.     Wet.     Read  Bible  tonight! 

May  7th. — Sunday!  Church.  Poor  sermon:  all  about  generosity. 
(Roland  takes  collection  at  the  services,  and  he  said  Mr.  Stack  gave  a 
talk  on  generous  giving  and  then  put  a  black  penny  in  the  collection 
plate!)  I  don't  like  generosity  like  that.  Charlie  called  tonight.  Poor 
Charlie!    he  is  worried  about  the  new  chaps  and  their  looks. 

May  8th. — DANCE— dance — dance,  at  Elizabeth  Dale's.  Perfectly 
glorious  time.  Castor  was  there  and— so  was  I.  We  had  many  dances 
together.  (He  knows  a  dandy  new  fox-trot.)  Then  one  dance  he  said 
it  was  so  warm  and  proposed  (no,  not  really!)  sitting  it  out.    So  we 


204  The  Haverfordian 

walked  through  the  garden.     Dale's  have  a  beautiful  garden ;  it  was  made 

by  special  Japanese  architects — or  constructors — or  whatever  they  are. 

So,  with  the  flowers  and  sparkling  fountains,  and  moonlight  and — well, 

it  was  all  very  wonderful !   Castor  has  traveled  a  great  deal.     He  helped 

on  the  Panama  canal,  and  is  a  broker  with  offices  on  Wall  Street!   Did 

not  read  Bible. 

May  9th. — My  greatest  ambition  fulfilled — met  a  real,  live  Duke. 

De  Maussin  or  something  is  his  name,  and  he  has  a  string  of  titles  yards 

and  yards.     Good-bye,  Castor! 

*  *  * 

June  2nd. — I  am  terribly  excited,  with  my  debut  only  three  days 
off;  and  getting  ready  and  all.  Went  canoeing  with  the  Duke  this 
morning,  and  he  called  tonight.  I  don't  like  him  quite  so  well  as  I 
thought.  He  is  so  egotistical  and  rather  a  bore.  Castor  came  around 
to  take  me  motoring  this  afternoon,  but  I  was  out. 

June  3d. — Am  all  nerves.  Nice  day.  Come  out  tomorrow.  150 
invitations.  Three  gowns.  Will  wear  white  satin  crepe  and  a  bouquet 
of  orange  blossoms.  That  Duke  is  around  all  the  time.  I  dislike  him 
now,  he  is  so  officious.  Castor  is  lovely ;  wants  to  help  send  invitations 
and  everything.  He  is  the  nicest  man  I  know.  I  believe,  truly,  if  he 
proposes  I  will  accept  him. 

June  4th. — It's  all  over!  I  believe  I  am  getting  old.  Not  that 
"the  coming  out"  wasn't  a  success.  Everything  went  all  right,  and  the 
dance  and  congratulations  and  stupid  presents.  But  oh!  here  comes 
the  sad  part!  A  man  named  Blaine  was  here  from  New  York,  and  he 
knows  the  men  at  the  houseparty  and  told  me  all  about  them.  The 
Duke  is  bogus!  (Well,  that  didn't  surprise  me  so  much.  I  always  did 
hate  him.)     But  Castor  is  MARRIED!  !!!!!— 

My  romance  is  over.  I  shall  remain  an  old  maid.  But  still — there 
is  CharUe! 

— Robert  Gibson,  '17. 


(E^f)£  Sntrubcr 

OUT  in  the  convent  garden  the  stillness  was  profound.  A  light 
mist  had  settled  above  the  plants  and  shrubs  near  the  moist 
earth,  and  the  heavy  leafage  of  the  trees  was  bending  low  in 
the  monlight  as  though  drunk  with  sleep.  The  still  air  was  ladened 
with  the  fragrance  of  flower-beds  carefully  laid  beside  white  paths. 

The  only  visible  life  in  the  peaceful  garden  was  a  sister  wandering 


The  Intruder  205 

aimlessly  and  gazing  at  the  moon.  Occasionally  she  would  bend  over 
to  smell  the  flowers  or  sit  for  a  minute  on  the  rustic  bench  next  the  high 
wall. 

Believing  herself  alone  with  her  thoughts  she  was  startled  when  a 
man's  voice  spoke  just  behind  her.  He  had  climbed  the  wall  and  ap- 
proached unheard  on  the  soft  grass. 

"Sister  Alice?"  he  questioned. 

When  she  turned  he  stood  still  as  a  statue  and  the  moonlight  showed 
a  tall  figure  with  a  handsome  youthful  face. 

"You  are  not  allowed  in  here  sir.  Please  leave  the  way  you  came," 
she  ordered. 

"It  is  you!"  he  murmured  gazing  at  her  intently.  "You  almost 
smiled  at  me  in  church  last  Sunday,  then  I  saw  you  and  you  looked 
down  and  blushed.      You  remember  it?" 

"No!  will  you  leave  or  shall  I  call  father."  She  answered  quickly. 
She  dared  not  tell  him  she  remembered. 

"Sister,  Sister,  he  can  do  us  no  good.  I  expected  to  find  you  here. 
I  must  talk  to  you,  and  you  must  listen."     His  tone  was  eager  and  tense. 

She  shrank  back  glancing  nervously  towards  the  windows  where 
the  other  sisters  were  sleeping. 

"How  do  you  know  my  name?  I  have  nothing  to  do  with  you?" 
The  words  came  in  a  half  frightened  whisper. 

"Nothing  except  that  I've  watched  you  Sunday  after  Sunday  in 
church  and  thought  of  you  every  night  for  so  long  that  at  last  I  swore 
you  should  not  be  only  a  dream  to  me." 

"You  may  continue  your  reveries  sir.  I  must  go  in."  She  de- 
clared coldly  turning  away. 

The  man  seized  her  arm,  and  held  her  firmly. 

"Do  you  dare  stop  me"  she  whispered. 

"I  don't  dare  let  you  go.     I'll  never  see  you  again.  Sister." 

"How  did  you  know  I  would  be  here?"     Her  voice  trembled  slightly. 

"I  didn't  know  it,  but  I've  watched  you  before  and  one  night  you 
remained  to  walk  alone.     I  prayed  that  you  would  to-night." 

His  \oice  became  listless  and  gentle,  and  somehow  the  sister  began 
to  lose  her  fear.  His  manner  was  refined,  his  bearing  manly,  and  his 
tone  almost  reverent.  Thoughts  of  the  past  came  flashing  confusedly 
through  her  brain  and  tore  at  her  will  power.  His  presence  made  her 
cheeks  burn  and  thrilled  her  pulses.  Her  fear  of  him  vanished  and  she 
became  afraid  of  herself. 

There  was  a  moments  silence  with  no  sound  but  quick  breathing. 
Then  he  took  her  by  the  shoulders  and  gazed  into  her  upturned  eyes; 
he  saw  that  they  were  no  ordinary  eyes,  but  large,  deep  and  beautifully 


206  The  Haverfordian 

set  in  a  little  oval  face,   under  long  lashes.      He  spoke  convincingly: 

"You're  not  happy  little  girl!  That's  all  you  are!  Your  face  in 
church  is  sad.  You  never  smile.  You  don't  belong  in  here.  You're 
full  of  healthy  vigor  to  shut  your  heart  in  like  this.  It  flies  away  at 
times.  You're  put  here  in  this  world  to  live  in  the  fullest  way  you  can 
Sister;  not  to  let  a  convent  shelter  you  from  the  blows  of  life.  It's  a 
coward's  business  to  shirk  the  fight  because  once  it  proved  too  strong." 

She  shuddered  as  though  the  words  stung. 

"You  mustn't  talk  like  that!  How  do  you  know  these  things? 
I've  told  them  to  no  one  but  God."     was  her  amazed  reply. 

Ignoring  her,  he  continued,  "You  were  out  here  to-night  dreaming, 
dreaming  of  what  you'd  lost — crying  with  e\Try  fibre  in  you  for  the  life 
you  left  behind." 

"That'  a  lie.  My  thoughts  were  good — until  you  came."  she  de- 
clared closing  her  ej'es  as  if  to  shut  him  out  of  her  mind. 

Suddenly  the  man  seized  her  in  his  arms  and  kissed  her  beautiful 
mouth  fiercely,  almost  cruelly;  The  touch  of  his  lips  seemed  to  flow 
through  her  veins  like  poison,  the  moral  shock  seemed  to  paralyze  her, 
and  she  lay  limp,  half  fainting  in  his  arms.  That  minute  had  wiped 
out  two  years  of  a  holy  life  lived  voluntarily  with  no  obligation  but  to 
herself  and  God.  It  had  dragged  her  back  to  her  starting  point  and  dis- 
counted the  one  strong  deed  of  her  life,  when  that  deed  was  about  to 
bring  her  peace.  The  times  when  her  heart  cried  for  the  world  had 
grown  fewer  and  fewer  until  she  had  begun  to  feel  the  spirit  of  the  sacred 
life  take  possession  of  her  and  shut  out  the  world  like  a  dead  dream  of 
the  past.  Now  her  devotion  was  turned  into  a  mockery  and  she  was  no 
longer  worth}'  of  her  place  among  the  sisters. 

When  she  looked  up  at  him  again  the  words  of  scorn  died  on  her 
half  parted  lips.  His  \oice  was  vibrant  his  eyes  filled  with  tenderness. 
The  words  were  the  simple  message  of  one  soul  to  another. 

"Alice,  I've  looked  for  someone  like  you  for  a  long,  long  time. 
When  I  saw  your  eyes  in  church,  I  thought  I  had  never  seen  anything 
so  beautiful  in  my  life.  Had  I  dared,  I  would  have  spoken  to  you  then. 
Instead,  I  stole  in  here  to-night  to  see  those  eyes  shine  in  the  moonlight, 
and  to  hear  the  voice  that  I  knew  must  go  with  them;  God  made  dream- 
nights  like  this  for  such  as  you  and  I,  Sister.  You're  half  spirit,  half 
human;  that's  why  I  love  you.  Don't  try  to  be  all  spirit.  You  are  made 
of  flesh  and  blood  and  you  can't  get  away  from  the  fact.  C?ome  out 
with  me  and  live  the  life  of  action;  self-restraint  in  a  world  of  sin,  is 
a  higher  tribute  to  your  Maker  than  it  is  behind  these  sheltered  walls. 
I  lo\"e  you  darling,  and  you'll  find  more  of  God  in  love  than  in  oil  the 
prayers  and  churches  of  the  universe," 


The  Intruder  207 

She  had  listened  like  one  enchanted.  A  new  light  had  come  into 
her  eyes.  Then  when  he  took  her  in  his  arms  her  lips  met  his,  almost 
willingly.  As  he  slowly  released  her  she  removed  her  cowl  and  cloak. 
There  she  stood,  the  moonlight  falling  on  her  short  hair — just  a  little, 
little  girl,  gazing  at  her  lover  like  a  thousand  others  might. 

"Take  me"  she  said  simply,  "I  can't  go  hack  and  confess  this. 
It  would  kill  me.  I  did  see  you  in  church,  but  I  wouldn't  let  myself 
watch  you.     I  thought  I  had  forgotten  all  about  love  and  now — " 

She  stopped  helplessly.  For  a  time  they  walked  quietly,  talking 
in  undertones,  then  he  lead  her  out  the  gate,  lea\ing  it  open  behind  him. 

"Where  are  we  going?"  she  whispered.  "I  have  no  clothes  but 
these  and  oh"  she  held  back  half  frightened"  "I  don't  even  know  your 
name  or  what  you  are,  or  anything." 

"Have  faith  Sister,  don't  be  afraid.      We're  going  to  my  home." 

For  the  first  time  the  man  seemed  a  little  nervous,  but  the  girl 
was  too  excited  to  notice  it.  He  looked  about  him  from  side  to  side 
as  the>'  walked  rapidly  down  the  narrow  street.  They  had  reached  a 
dark  building  and  were  about  to  pass,  when  they  heard  voices  in  the 
shadow.     The  man  stopped. 

"\^■hat  is  it?"  the  Sister  asked  fearfully 

In  a  moment  they  were  surrounded  by  a  crowd  of  boisterous  youths. 
Cries  of  ''you  win."  Oh  you  Lady-killer.  She  fell  Flat  for  you,"  filled 
the  air. 

The  girl  slipped  into  his  arms  trembling  like  a  wounded  bird.  The 
man  held  her  for  a  moment,  then,  as  the  fellows  surrounded  the  pair 
he  gently  released  her. 

"Sister  forgi\-e  me.  It's  only  a  bet.  I  can't  marry  you."  he  said 
softly. 

A  little  scream  of  horror  escaped  her  as  she  shrank  away  from  him. 
They  were  all  handing  him  money.  Wild  eyed  the  poor  girl  saw  her 
price  being  payed.  Then  with  a  sob,  she  stretched  her  bare  arms  straight 
above  her  in  appeal. 

"O  Christ  forgi\-e!"  she  murmured  brokenly. 

The  crowd  became  hushed.  Hats  were  removed.  With  transfixed 
eyes  they  saw  her  beautiful  head  sink  upon  her  breast  as  she  turned 
and  walked  away. 

Her  betrayer  watched  for  a  moment  with  teeth  set:  an  angry  scowl 
came  into  his  face. 

"The  devil  take  the  money!"  he  cried,  and  hurled  it  away  into  the 
darkness. 

—  1917. 


THE  UNEASY  CHAIR 


U  UNEASY  lies  the  head  that  wears  a  Crown!"  Little  foresaw  Henry 
IV,  the  portentous  weight  of  this  exclamation  for  future  genera- 
tions of  ill-omened  monarchs.  The  universality  of  the  state- 
ment is  irrefutable;  in  fact  it  is  almost  becoming  a  household  expression. 

As  the  schools  and  colleges  enter  upon  another  year's  work,  the 
world  situation  is  almost  as  uncertain  as  at  the  end  of  spring,  and 
the  clouds  of  war  still  hang  dark  upon  the  horizon. 

We  may  count  ourselves  fortunate  to  be  in  the  peaceful  and  elevat- 
ing atmosphere  of  Haverford,  in  these  trying  days.  Realizing  our  op- 
portunities, we  renew  our  collegiate  tasks  with  increased  vigor. 

Naturally,  with  new  faces  where  the  familiar  ones  were,  and  new 
officers  in  the  various  activities,  the  questions  of  policy  and  purpose 
make    their    annual    reoccurrence. 

Since  the  advent  of  man  in  the  garden,  his  Promethean  nature  has 
led  him  to  invent  schemes  to  outwit  the  gullible  public.  But  the  said 
public  has  proved  times  innumerable  to  be  inguUible,  so  why  waste 
time  in  outlining  a  policy  for  this  magazine? 

It  is  not  patting  the  former  editors  on  the  back  to  say  that  the 
present  board  aspires  to  continue  the  Haverfordi.a.n  as  it  has  been 
edited  in  the  past — with  one  exception.  We  do  wish  the  Haverfordian 
to  be  a  little  more  representative.  We  want  every  man  in  college  who 
is  able, — and  how  much  ability  is  dormant — to  contribute  and  feel  that 
his  contribution  will  obtain  impartial  consideration.  It  is  possible  to 
better   the    magazine.     Will    you    help? 

Eaglesmere  is  almost  forgotten  at  this  time  of  year,  and  yet  its 
mention  awakens  pleasant  recollections  in  the  minds  of  those  privileged 
to  represent  Haverford  at  the  recent  Y.  M.  C.  A.  convention.  Too 
much  stress  can  not  be  laid  on  the  importance  of  maintaining  the  present 
number  of  the  college  delegation,  and  if  possible  increasing  it. 

The  benefits  derived  from  association  with  the  class  of  men  that 
attend  Eaglesmere  conference,  is  traceable  indirectly  by  the  constant 
increase  of  representatives  at  these  con\'entions. 

From  the  moment  the  fellows  spied  the  quaint  narrow  gauge  railway, 
which  ascends  to  the  enchanting  spot,  until  they  unloaded  to  gaze  upon 
the  beauty  of  the  place  itself,  and  to  enjoy  the  wholesome  comradeship  of 
clean  men,  they  were  ready  to  give  a  lusty  "Long  and  Fast  for  Eaglesmere." 


Throuch  the  Glasses  209 

"Al!  day  long,  the  noise  of  battle  rolled."  Arthur  and  his  Round 
Table  have  long  since  vanished  in  the  mist>'  past.  But,  chivaly  and  mercy 
arc  not  entirely  extinct.  The  work  done  by  Havcrfordians  in  the  war 
zone   has   been   noble. 


EfjE  Pirtf)  of  a  i^ation,  Jforrest  Efjeatre 

The  "Birth  of  a  Nation"  is  the  first  really  great  moving  picture 
with  a  national  significance.  So  great  was  the  feeling  stirred  by  its  first 
presentation  in  Boston  that  race  riots  resulted,  and  in  another  Northern 
cit\-  the  negroes  used  every  means  to  prevent  the  arrival  of  the  films. 
In  the  West,  there  have  been  no  succeeding  demonstrations,  due  pos- 
sibK-  to  the  inactive  part  those  states  played,  in  the  Civil  War,  though 
in  Philadelphia  the  results  of  the  unexpurgated  film  are  yet  to  be  seen. 

Such  troubles  are  due  directly  to  a  misunderstanding  of  the  true 
motive.  The  average  white  man  is  simply  stirred  by  the  thrilling 
scenes  and  the  negro  sees  only  the  unflattering  position  in  which  he  is 
placed.  The  true  American  will  find  a  great  lesson  in  patriotism.  He 
will  see  the  great  struggle  of  the  Civil  War  and  the  dark  days  succeeding 
it  as  the  tremendous  efforts  of  a  country  to  become  a  unit. 

It  has  been  remarked  frequently  that  the  United  States,  a  republic, 
is  lacking  in  that  patriotic  fervor  which  characterizes  some  of  the  coun- 
tries of  the  Old  World.  More  of  "God  save  the  King"  and  "Allons 
enfants  de  la  patrie"  would  further  the  fundamental  spirit  of  the  "Birth 
of  a  Nation." 

The  moving  scene  where  Northern  and  Southern  friends  meet 
in  battle  and  die  together,  never  fails  to  bring  the  handkerchiefs  into 
full  play,  and  a  laugh  always  comes  when  the  negro  takes  ofif  his  shoes 
and    stockings    in    the    Legislature. 

Unquestionably  the  negro  is  placed  in  an  unfavorable  light,  but 
shame  is  cast  upon  the  Northern  who  made  the  colored  man  a  tool. 
The  most  exciting  episode  is  probably  the  night  riders'  rescue,  where 
three  thousand  horses  are  claimed  to  be  used,  but  whether  three  thous- 
and or  not  the  film  is  worth  seeing,  and  viewed  in  the  proper  light  is  a 
force    towards    greater    America. 

— £.  T.  P. 


A  Far  Country,  by  Winston  Churchill,  The  MacMillan  Company 

Mr.  Churchill  has  reassumed  the  role  of  a  modern  Isaiah  in  this 
work  which  rips  our  social  fabric  to  shreds  with  the  same  scathing  criti- 
cism that  characterized  the  author's  portrayal  of  the  church  in  "The 
Inside  of  the  Cup" 

Briefly,  the  life  of  one  Hugh  Paret  is  taken,  a  boy  born  of  Puritanical 
parents.  Full  of  ambition  which  is  curbed  at  home  he  goes  through 
Harvard  Law  and  works  up  to  be  one  of  the  foremost  lawyers  in  the 
state.  Still  full  of  ambition,  he  forges  on  never  satisfied  with  his  wealth 
or  home  or  wife  and  children. 

Here  the  question  arises  definitely — Can  a  man  of  his  power  be 
straight?  Hugh  Paret,  as  his  first  success,  pulled  a  bill  through  the 
Legislature  which  was  a  rank  piece  of  special  legislation.  From  this 
level  he  descended  to  wholesale  bribery,  firmly  convinced  through  his 
training  in  the  law  office,  that  this  was  the  only  method  "right"  could 
win. 

This  is  the  "far  country"  where  he  was  obliged  to  eat  his  husks. 
Early  training  had  taught  Paret  that  wrong  was  wrong,  yet  he  believed 
it  could  be  made  right.  Hence  in  this  unnatural  moral  code,  every- 
thing was  confused  and  he  could  find  no  pleasure.  Perhaps  the  natural 
step  came  in  a  surreptitious  love  affair  with  a  former  sweetheart,  but 
certain  it  is  that  having  once  thrown  aside  our  present  social  and  moral 
standards,  he  was  devoid  of  any  ethical  standard.  Even  Nancy,  the 
lover,  now  the  wife  of  a  wealthy  polo-player,  though  returning  his  love, 
refuses  him.  Here  Churchill  strikes  a  blow  at  modern  philosophies. 
Nancy  says: 

"I  have  read  some  of  the  moderns.  I  have  caught  their  mania  for 
liberty,  for  self-realization,  but  their  remedies  are  vague,  they  fail  to 
convince  me  that  individuals  achieve  any  quality  by  just  taking  what 
they  want." 

One  interesting  element  is  brought  out  by  the  teacher  of  Paret 
and  by  one  who  is  called  Banker  Personality.  This  last  is  the  spirit 
of  a  greater  business.  The  Government  should  not  be  fighting  legiti- 
mate business  and  business  should  not  regard  the  Government  as  a 
meddlesome  and  hostile  authority.  This  thought  is  intensified  by  the 
life  and  work  of  Krebs,  a  socialist  leader  of  a  new  type.     His  life  was 


The  Alumni 


211 


consecrated  to  paving  the  way  for  a  logical  economic  evolution.  It 
was  his  belief  that  the  lower  orders  of  society  would  be  raised  by  the 
co-operation  of  all  the  forces  into  a  greater  democracy'  and  a  greater 
freedom. 

Such  new  doctrines  preached  to  Paret  at  a  time  when  his  discon- 
tent and  realization  of  failure  were  highest  turns  him  from  his  business 
life  to  seek  his  wife  and  to  her  alone  he  devotes  himself  forever. 

As  a  no\-el  the  heart  interest  ne\er  plays  too  obtrusive  a  part, 
hence  the  lessons  to  be  drawn,  are  the  greatest  \-alue  of  the  book.  Like 
"The  Inside  of  the  Cup"  it  exposes  the  abuses  of  an  existing  institution, 
but  gives  assurance  that  out  of  this  existing  chaos  a  new  order  will 
appear. 

— £.   T.  Price.  '17. 


The  Alunmi  Department  is  in 
receipt  of  sc\cral  items,  the  full 
particulars  of  which  it  has  as  yet 
been  unable  to  gather.  These 
notes  will  be  published  in  detail  in 
the  next  issue.  Among  these  are: 
the  deaths  of  John  T.  Morris,  '67; 
John  Bacon,  '87;  W.  W.  Pusey, 
2nd,  '02  and  the  marriage  of  Eben 
Spencer,  '11. 

College  opened  Thursday,  Sep- 
tember 23d,  with  an  enrollment  of 
180. 

There  has  been  only  one  change 
made  in  the  faculty.  Dr.  Edward 
D.  Snyder  a  former  fellow  of  Har- 
vard and  instructor  at  Yale,  has 
become  instructor  in  English, 
filling  the  place  of  Dr.  Victor  O. 


Freeburg.  Dr.  Freeburg  is  now  a 
member  of  the  faculty  at  Colum- 
bia University. 

The  card  system  which  this  de- 
partment uses  makes  it  impossible 
to  reach  all  the  Alumni.  It  would 
facilitate  matters  if  every  Alumnus 
who  has  any  news  would  send  it  in 
without  a  direct  request.  The 
Alumni  Department  is  undoubted- 
ly one  of  the  chief  features  in  the 
success  of  a  college  magazine,  so 
the  editor  will  appreciate  you  co- 
operation. 

The  following  open  teller  lo  Theo- 
dore Roosevelt  was  senl  lo  Ihe  leading 
dailies  ifi  America,  and  published 
by  many  of  Iheni  on  September  5th. 


212 


The  Haverfordian 


//   was   signed   by   eight  Haverfor- 
dians: — 

Theodore  Roosevelt  has  clearly 
drawn  the  issue  between  a  military 
and   a   non-military   policy.      The 
question  is  of  vital  importance;  it 
is  the   most  absorbing  topic   now 
before    our    nation.       As    earnest 
pacifists  and  college  graduates  rep- 
resenting   several    professions,    we 
challenge  the  methods  he  so  force- 
fully   proclaims    and    are    sending 
him     the     following     open     letter 
which  is  herewith  released  for  pub- 
lication. 
Signed 
Henry  J-  Cadbury,  '03 
J.  Passmore  Elkinton,  '08 
Edward  W.  Evans,  '02 
M.  Albert  Linton,  '08 
Alfred  G.  Scattergood,  '98 
Francis  R..  Taylor,  '06 
L.  Hollingsworth  Wood,  '96 
Stanley  R.  Yarnall,  '92 

Philadelphia 

September  3,  1915 

AN  OPEN  LETTER  TO  THEO- 
DORE ROOSEVELT 

The  vigor  and  sincerity  with 
which  you  have  recently  pressed 
the  cause  of  military  preparedness 
and  have  condemned  pacifists  as 
mollycoddles,  demand  a  reply. 

In  branding  the  motives  of  the 
pacifists  as  cowardly  you  are  less 
generous  than  the  pacifists  them- 
selves. They  concede  your  sin- 
cerity.      They,    too,    uphold    the 


ideal  of  herosim  and  self-sacrifice 
which  endure  suffering  and  meet 
death  for  righteousness,  justice 
and  honor.  But  they  condemn  the 
method  of  warfare  as  a  means  to 
attain  these  ends,  because  the  act 
that  renders  warfare  effective  is 
not  the  sacrifice  of  one's  self  but 
the  killing  or  maiming  of  others; 
because  the  war  spirit  with  its 
inevitable  elements  of  ill-will,  re- 
venge and  hate  cannot  further  the 
highest  ideal  of  our  Christian  civi- 
lization. On  the  other  hand  the 
true  pacifists  do  not  advocate  mere 
passive  non-resistance.  They 
sound  the  call  to  the  heroism  of  an 
aggressive,  self-sacrificing,  unrelent- 
ing good-will,  which  will  endure 
suftering  or  death,  not  to  kill  or 
maim  an  enemy,  but  to  overcome 
with  good  the  evil  that  is  in  him. 
The  method  is  not  based  upon 
mere  impracticable  sentiment.  It 
has  proved   supremely  effective. 

Jesus  of  Nazareth  founded  a 
kingdom  upon  love,  and,  rather 
than  maintain  his  cause  by  vio- 
lence, died  forgiving  his  enemies. 
In  the  uplift  of  mankind,  what 
soldier  has  surpassed  him?  Seven- 
teen centuries  ago  the  spirit  of  the 
early  Christians  was  victorious  de- 
spite the  crudest  persecution  by 
the  Roman  Empire. 

The  great  need  of  our  country 
to-day  is  leaders  to  fire  us  with  the 
same  victorious  spirit,  to  inspire 
us  with  the  same  high  heroism. 
Young  men  and  women  will  give 
their  lives  for  this  service  as  cour- 


The  Alumni 


213 


ageously  as  ever  men  went  forth 
to  battle.  They  await  the  sum- 
mons from  the  men  of  vision  and 
influence  in  our  nation.  It  may 
lead  to  martyrdom  hut  il  will  lead 
to  victory. 

(Signed  as  above). 

It  is  with  regret  that  we  reprint 
the  obituary  of  Dr.  John  E\-ans 
Sheppard,  '79,  from  the  Brooklyn 
Eagle  of  September  13th. 

Putnam,  Conn.,  September  13 — 
Dr.  John  E.  Sheppard  of  Brooklyn 
died  today  in  the  Day-Kimball 
Hospital  here,  after  an  illness  from 
cancer.  Prior  to  admittance  to  the 
hospital  Dr.  Sheppard  was  at  his 
summer  home  in  Woodstock. 

Dr.  John  Evans  Sheppard,  who 
lived  at  130  Montague  street,  had 
been  for  many  years  one  of  the 
most  eminent  otologists  of  this 
country.  He  was  born  June  1, 
1859,  at  Woodland  Farm,  Green- 
wich, Cumberland  Co.,  N.  J.,  being 
the  son  of  the  late  George  Wood 
Sheppard  and  Ruth  Bacon  Shep- 
pard. He  was  educated  at  a 
private  boarding  school  of  Yardley 
Warner's  Daughters  of  German- 
town,  Pa.;  Westtown  Boarding 
School  of  Chester  County,  Penn- 
sylvania; graduated  from  Haver- 
ford  College  in  1879  and  from  the 
Medical  College  of  the  University 
of  Pennsylvania  in  1882.  He 
took  post-graduate  studies  at  the 
University  of  Vienna,  Austria,  and 
the  University  of  Munich,  Ger- 
many, together  with  hospital  work 
in  London. 

He  began  private  practice  in 
Atlantic  City  in  1883,  then  in  the 


Williamsburg  section  of  Brooklyn, 
and  of  later  years  at  130  Montague 
street,  with  an  office  also  in  Man- 
hattan. He  was  aural  surgeon  of 
the  Brooklyn  Throat  Hospital, 
instructor  in  otology  in  the  New 
York  Postgraduate  Hospital, 
Brooklyn  Eye  and  Ear  Hospital, 
the  New  York  Eye  and  Ear  In- 
firmary, professor  of  otology  at  the 
New  York  Polyclinic,  attending 
otologist  of  the  Church  Infirmary 
and  Dispensary,  member  of  the 
Medical  Society  of  Kings  County, 
charter  member  of  the  Laryngolo- 
gical  Society,  New  York  Otological 
Society,  Brooklyn  Pathological 
Society,  member  of  the  Medical 
Club  of  Brooklyn,  professor  of 
otology  in  the  Long  Island  College 
Hospital  and  in  the  New  York 
Polyclinic,  a  Fellow  of  the  Ameri- 
can Otological  Society  and  a  mem- 
ber of  the  Cresent  Athletic  Club. 
He  wrote  on  dietetics  as  related  to 
the  ear  and  throat  and  was  the 
author  of  m.any  publications,  in- 
cluding "Head  Injuries  With  Aural 
Complications,"  "Pathology  of  the 
Mastoid  Process,"  "Removal  of 
Ossicles,"  "Boric  Acid  in  Aural 
Therapeutics,"  "  Deaf  -  Mutism" 
and  "Mastoiditis." 

Dr.  Sheppard  married  in  Brook- 
lyn August  11,  1894,  Janet  Argyle 
Campbell,  who,  with  their  daugh- 
ter Ruth,  survives  him.  His 
parents  were  members  of  the  Socie- 
ty of  Firends.  He  was  a  member 
of  the  Bedford  Presbyterian 
Church,  Nostrand  avenue  and 
Dean  street,  Brooklyn,  where  his 
funeral  services  will  be  held  Wed- 
nesday afternoon  at   4.30  o'clock. 


214 


The  Haverfordian 


conducted  by  the  pastor,  the  Rev. 
Dr.  S.  Edward  Young.  The  in- 
terment will  be  made  on  Thursday 
morning  in  the  Friends  Cemetery, 
Frankford,    Philadelphia,    Pa. 

75 

Charles  E.  Tebbetts  who  is 
General  Secretary  of  the  American 
Friends  Board  of  Foreign  Missions, 
with  headquarters  at  Richmond, 
led.,  spent  ten  weeks  during  April, 
May  and  June  in  Missionary  Con- 
ference work  within  the  limits  of 
Kansas,  Nebraska  and  Iowa  yearly 
meetings. 

'99 

Francis  A.  Evans  was  married 
to  Miss  Anna  Rhoads  Elkinton  on 
September  twenty- fourth,  at  the 
Friends  Meeting  House,  Fourth 
and  Arch  Streets,  Philadelphia, 
Pa.  After  the  wedding  a  recep- 
tion was  held  at  the  home  of  the 
bride,  3613  Powelton  Ave. 

Mr.  and  Mrs.  Evans  will  be  at 
home  after  December  1st,  at  127 
East  Cliveden  Avenue,  German- 
town. 

A.  Clement  Wild  is  now  asso- 
ciated with  Lyman,  Adams  & 
Bishop  in  the  general  practice  of 
law,  with  offices  at  1610  Chicago 
Title  &  Trust   Building,   Chicago. 

Ex.  '00 
Major  John  Addison  Logan  has 
been  one  of  the  four  foreign 
military  officers  with  General  Jof- 
fre  and  the  French  general  staff 
at  the  front.  Major  Logan  has 
been  in  this  field  since  December, 
1914. 


'02 
Joseph  J.   Barclay  is  running  a 
chicken  farm  at  Bedford,  Pa.     He 
is   enthusiastic   over   country   life. 

'03 
Dr.  Henry  J.  Cadbury  left  col- 
lege on  September  9th  for  Rich- 
mond, Indiana,  where  he  is  to  have 
charge  of  the  Biblical  department 
at  Earlham  College  for  the  first 
half-year,  on  leave  of  absence  from 
Haverford.  Dr.  Cadbury  will  re- 
sume his  work  at  Haverford  for 
the  second  half-year. 

'04 
H.   H.    Brinton  is  a  member  of 
the    faculty    at    Guilford    College, 
N.  C. 

'08 
A   son   was   born   to   M.   Albert 
Linton   on   September    7th.      The 
boy  was  named   for  his  father. 

'09 
Andreas  Bryne  was  announced 
as  dead  at  an  Alumni  meeting  in 
June.  A  letter  from  Mr.  Bryne 
was  received  later  cheerfully  deny- 
ing the  report.  A  brother  of  his, 
of  the  same  initial,  died  last  win- 
ter, which  accounts  for  the  errone- 
ous rumor.  Mr.  Bryne  has  just 
taken  an  M.  A.  at  Harvard.  His 
address  is   13   Farrar,   Cambridge. 

'10 
E.    Page   Allinson    has    recently 
published  a  poem  in  "The  Journal 
of  the  Home  of  the  Merciful  Sav- 
iour." 

Guy    S.    K.    Wheeler    has    been 
engaged  during  the  summer  in  the 


The  Alumni 


215 


preparation  of  a  monograph  "The 
Age  of  Contempt."  He  expects 
to  read  this  before  several  groups  of 
serious  thinkers  during  the  course 
of  the  winter. 

We  reprint  the  following  item 
from  the  "  Foiirlh  Estate"  oi  ]u\y 
17th.,  1915. 

Meigs  O.  P^rost,  city  editor  of 
the  Gaheston  (Texas)  News,  has 
been  compelled  to  take  an  ex- 
tended vacation  on  account  of 
eye  trouble.  Mr.  Frost  is  spend- 
ing thirty  days  in  the  mountains 
and  hills  about  Llano,  Texas. 

'11 

L.  Arnold  Post  is  connected  with 
the  American  ambulance  corps  at 
Nenilly  sur  Seine,  France. 

Through  the  courtesy  of  Presi- 
dent Sharpless,  we  print  the  fol- 
lowing letter  from   Mr.    Post: 

July   17th. 
Dear  President  Sharpless: — 

It  might  interest  you  to  know 
that  I  have  taken  a  second  in  the 
school  of  Litterae  Humaniores  or 
"greats"  at  Oxford  and  am  ex- 
pecting to  get  a  B.  Litt.  next  year. 
There  was  little  hope  of  my  getting 
a  first.  The  only  two  American 
Rhodes  scholars  who  have  ever 
done  it,  took  three  years.  Just 
at  present  I  am  helping  take  care 
of  some  five  hundred  French  sol- 
diers who  are  more  or  less  disabled 
and  helpless.  The  work  is  ex- 
tremely interesting  and  exacting. 
There  is  room  here  for  orderlies 
almost  always.  Besides  the  initial 
expense  a  dollar  a  week  would 
cover    everything.       Greetings    to 


yourself    and    all    my    friends    at 
Haverford. 

L.  Arnold   Post. 

'12 
James  McFadden  Carpenter,  Jr., 
was  married  to  Miss  Paulette 
Hagcmans,  daughter  of  the  Consul 
General  of  Belgium,  on  August 
25th  at  the  Overbrook  Presbyter- 
ian Church,  Overbrook,  Pa.  Mr. 
and  Mrs.  Carpenter  will  be  at  home 
after  November  1st  at  324  Mitchell 
Street,  Ithaca,  N.  Y. 

K.  A.  Rhoad  has  announced  his 
engagement  to  Miss  Mildred  E. 
Bonnell  of  Redlands,  Cal. 

William  E.  Lewis  was  married 
to  Miss  Amy  Lorraine  Linden- 
muth,  on  August  25th  at  Allen- 
town,  Pa.  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Lewis 
will  be  at  home  after  October  1st, 
at  27   N    15th  st.,  Allentown. 

Mark  Balderston  is  teaching 
this  year  at  Guilford  College,  N. 
C. 

'13 

Norris  F.  Hall  was  awarded  a 
George    H.     Emerson    Scholarship 


Smedley  &  Mehl 

Lumber 

and  Coal 
BUILDING  MATERIAL 


Phones.  Nos.  1100  and  1 101 


ARDMORE 


216 


The  Haverfordian 


for  study  in  chemistry  for  work 
done  in  the  Graduate  School  of 
Arts,  and  Sciences,  at  Harvard 
University. 

'13 
L.  Ralston  Thomas  was  married 
to  Miss  Alice  Stanton  Bennett,  on 
September    1st,   at   Pottsville,    Pa. 

W.  S.  Crowder  is  now  with  the 
Girard  Trust  Co.,  Philadelphia, 
Pa. 

Joseph  M.  Beatty  has  changed 
his  address  to  81  Garfield  St., 
Cambridge. 

A.  H.  Goddard  attended  the 
University  of  Pennsylvania  sum- 
mer school. 


George  Montgomery  is  a  teacher 
of  English  in  the  West  Philadel- 
phia High  School. 

H.  V.  Nicholson  sails  for  Japan 
this  month  for  service  as  Secretary 
of  the  Friends  Mission  at  Tokyo. 

Richard  Howson  is  at  present 
with  the  Southwark  Iron  Foundry. 

Ex.   '13 
Dr.   Charles  G.   Darlington  was 
married    to    Miss    Mabel     Isabel 
Heinz  on  June  16th  in  the  city  of 
New  York. 

'14 
L.    B.    Lippman   is   now   in   the 
employ    of    the    New    Remington 
Arms    Co.,    at    Eddystone,    Del. 


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Pyle,  Iknes 
h  Basbieri 


TAILOH^ 

<*'      FOR.     •'O 

MEN  AND  Bav.s 


1115  WALNUT  ST., 
PHILADELPHIA. 


n 

The  largest  stock  in  the  City  and  a  knowl-  H 
edge  of  what  is  correct  for  any  occasion,  ^ 
has  placed  our  store  in  the  front  rank;  our  {i} 
garments  possess  merit  and  character,  and 
the  prices  are  lower  than  others  who  make 
goods  of  equal  quality.  Samples  willingly 
given. 


Suits  and  Overcoats 

Full  Dress  and  Tuxedo  Suits, 


$25  to  $50 
$40  to  $75 


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^ple,  Snnesi  Sc  parfaieri, 

LEADING  COLLEGE  TAILORS 

1115  Walnut  Street,        -  -  -        Philadelphia 

A  couple  of  good  references  will  entitle  you  to  a 
Charge  Account 


The  Alumni 


217 


Douglas  Waplcs  has  returned  to  L.  P.  Crosman  is  with  the  Anier- 

the   Gilman    County   School,    Bal-  ican     Linotype     Company,    Phila- 

timore,  Md.,  where  he  is  leaching,  delphia. 

J.  K.  Garrigues  has  resumed  his  Paul  K.  Whipple  and  Edgar  M. 

work  as  an  instructor  in  the  Ha\-  Bowman   are    teaching   fellows   at 

erford  School.  Ha\erford  College. 


'15 
K.    P.    A.    Taylor    is    studying 
medicine     at     the     University     of 
Pennsyh^ania. 

Cyrus  Falkoner  is  attending  the 
Agricultural  School  at  Cornell 
University. 

E.  N.  Votaw  is  studying  law  at 
the  Universitv  of  Pennsylvania. 


D.  B.  Van  Hollen  and  Hubert 
A,  Howson  are  studying  in  the 
Har\ard  Law  School. 

G.  H.  Hallet  is  studying  mathe- 
matics in  the  Harvard  graduate 
school. 

Yoshio  Nitobe  was  a  reporter 
on  the  Public  Ledger  staff  during 
the  summer. 


\V.    E.    Veil    is   an    assistant    in  C.    Brinkly  Turner  is  with   the 

chemistry  at   Harx^ard   University.      Girard    Trust    Company. 


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EDITORS 

Robert  Gibson,  1917  Editor-in-Chief 

D.  C.  Wendell,   1916  W.  H.  Chamberlin,  1917 

G.  A.  Dcnlap,   1916  C.  D.  \ax  Dam,  1917 

J.  G.  C.  LeClercc.,,   1918 

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Price,  per  year SI. 110  Single  copies SO. 15 

The  Haverfordlvn  is  published  on  the  tenth  of  each  month  during  college 
\ear.  Its  purpose  is  to  foster  the  literary  spirit  among  the  undergraduates  and 
to  provide  an  organ  for  the  discussion  of  questions  relative  to  college  life  and 
policy.  To  these  ends  contributions  are  invited,  and  will  be  considered  solely 
on  their  merits.  Matter  intended  for  insertion  should  reach  the  Editor  not  later 
than  the  fifteenth  of  the  month  preceding  the  date  of  issue. 

Entered  at  the  Haverford  Post-Office,  for  transmission  tlirough  the  mails  as  second-class  matter 

Vol.  XXXVII  HA\'ERF()RD,  PA.,  NOVEMBER,   1915  No.  6 


Colfaf'  Borr  ^an  Bam,  '17, 


\\'e  have  the  pleasure  of  announcing   the  election   of   Colby 
Dorr  Van  Dam,  '17,  to  the  editorial  board. 


3n  Eijis!  3s!s!ue 

Special  Feattres 

r/.'e  Panama  Exposi.'iojis Joshua  L.   Bailv,  Jr.,  '12  221 

The  Prophet  oj Holy  Russia W.  H.  Chamberlin,  '17  229 

Preparedness Carroll   D.    Champlin,  '1-1-  240 

LitUe   Albert C.    Van    Dam,    '17  249 

Stories 

The  Spectre  of  St.  Andrew's  Church.  .  .Donald  G.  Baird,  '15  234 

Circumstantial  Evidence Robert  Gibson,  '17  245 

Verse 

For  the  Slain Albert  H.  Stone,  '16  239 

The  Blind  Beggar Donald  G.  Baird,  '15  248 

Dep.\rimexts 

The  Uneasy  Chair 253 

Alumni Donald  H.  Painter,  '17  254 


THE    HAVERFORDIAN 


Vol.  XXXVII.  H.WERFORD.   PA..   XOVEMBER.    1915  No.   6. 


tl\)t  Panama  €xpogU(on£i 

IT  is  always  asked  by  ^•isitors  from  the  East  why  there  need  be  two 
expositions  commemorative  of  the  same  event,  and  the  answer  is 
the  old  story  of  Remus  and  Romulus  quarreling  over  the  site  of 
the  city.  San  Diego  claimed  the  fair  on  grounds  of  priority,  the  ex- 
pense fund  having  been  subscribed  as  early  as  1910.  The  following 
year  San  Francisco  entered  the  field  with  six  times  the  population,  and 
consequently  six  times  the  money  and  advertising. 

The  Philadelphian  finds  much  on  the  map  of  San  Francisco  to  re- 
mind him  of  home.  Among  the  streets  may  be  mentioned  Market, 
Filbert,  Chestnut,  Sansom,  Pine,  Green,  I.ombard,  and  Montgomery 
Avenue.  There  are  also  the  ferries  at  the  foot  of  Market  Street,  and 
Laurel  Hill  Cemetery.  Here  the  resemblance  ceases.  San  Francisco 
has  water  on  three  sides,  consequently  its  expansion  has  been  somewhat 
limited,  but  it  extends  upward  further  than  any  city  in  the  East.  It  is 
no  uncommon  thing  for  the  difference  in  altitude  between  the  ends  of  a 
city  block  to  exceed  the  height  of  a  six-stor>-  building.  This  slope  is 
steeper  than  the  angle  at  which  gravity  overcomes  traction,  and  trolley 
cars  are  enabled  to  negotiate  them  by  means  of  an  endless  cable,  so  that 
the  car  descending  the  grade  pulls  the  other  up,  the  two  balancing  each 
other. 

Although  San  Francisco  has  two  parks  of  considerable  size,  neither 
was  available  for  the  Panama-Pacific  exposition,  and  it  was  necessarv 
to  reclaim  600  odd  acres  from  the  bay  for  the  purpose,  a  remarkable 
operation  successfully  accomplished.  The  ground  so  made  is  divided 
into  three  parts,  devoted  to  the  amusement  concessions,  the  exhibits, 
and  the  state  and  foreign  buildings.  The  whole  is  surrounded  by  a  wall 
made  of  wooden  boxes  in  which  mesembryanthemum,  the  California 
substitute  for  sod,  has  been  planted,  producing  a  very  beautiful  and 
individual  effect. 

The  most  conspicuous  object  in  the  grounds  is  the  Tower  of  Jewels, 
so  called  on  account  of  the  artificially  manufactured  jewels  ornamenting 
it,  making  it  a  "scintillant  coruscation  of  beauty."     Searchlights  con- 


COURT  OF  ABUNDANCE    (P.  P    I.  E.) 


PALACE  OF  EDUCATION    (P.  P.  J.  E.) 


The  Panama  Expositions  223 

cealcd  all  (i\er  the  grounds  pla>-  upon  it  li\-  ni^ht.  making  it  sparkle  like 
the  cotton  hatting  snow  so  much  in  demand  at  Christmas  time.  But 
a  more  extreme  lighting  effect  is  protluced  h>'  the  Scintillator,  a  dc\ice 
that  imitates  the  Aurora  Borcalis.  Unfortunately,  it  is  very  seldom 
emploN'ed.  The  screen  on  which  it  is  thrown  is  an  artificial  cloud,  gen- 
erated In'  a  steam  locomoti\e  kept  for  that  purpose. 

The  lighting  system  reaches  its  highest  development  in  the  (^)iu-t 
of  Aliimdance.  Two  high  altars  send  up  clouds  ol  incense,  and  red  elec- 
tric lights  concealed  in  the  altars  illuminate  the  smoke.  Serpents  whose 
bifurcated  tongues  serve  as  gas  jets  are  conspicuous  among  the  ornamen- 
tation of  still  other  altars,  wh.ile  more  artfully  concealed  lights  shed  a 
diffused  red  glow  on  the  architecture,  with  no  line  of  discontinuity  be- 
tween darkness  and  light. 

The  most  beautiful  building  in  the  exposition  is  the  Palace  of  Fine 
Arts.  The  San  Franciscans  appreciate  this,  and  are  raising  a  fund  to 
con\ert  it  into  a  permanent  structure.  Unlike  all  the  other  buildings 
in  appearance,  it  is  semicircular  in  shape,  embracing  a  lagoon,  on  which 
the  black  swans  glide  slowly  about,  admiring  the  fidelity  with  which  the 
fluted  columns  of  the  Palace  are  reflected  on  its  surface.  The  statuary 
lining  the  edge  of  the  lagoon  is  well  w'orthy  of  the  attention  it  receives, 
one  statue  in  particular  of  Franklin,  b\'  Dr.  R.  T.  Mackenzie,  of  the  U. 
of  Pa.,  being  of  great  interest. 

Architecturally,  the  exhibit  buildings  show  little  variety.  In  fact, 
they  have  a  rather  incomplete  appearance.  Many  have  half-domes  on 
the  walls,  making  them  look  as  if  turned  inside  out.  The  expansive 
walls  are  unbroken  by  windows,  giving  them  a  barren  aspect,  and  the 
skylights  seem  truncated.  But  inside  the  exhibits  present  great  di\-er- 
sity.  Possibly  the  I)est  are  those  of  the  Bell  Telephone  Co.,  in  which  a 
con\-ersation  between  New  York  and  San  Francisco  takes  place,  and  the 
Edison  Kinetophone  is  demonstrated,  and  of  the  Ford  Co.  in  which  Ford 
cars  are  assembled  in  twenty  minutes.  The  story  goes  that  a  man 
called  up  the  manager  of  the  Ford  exhibit  and  asked  if  it  were  true  that 
they  assembled  a  car  in  such  record  time,  and  on  being  answered  affirm- 
atively replied,  "That  must  be  the  car  I  bought." 

Among  so  many  exhibits  it  is  difficult  to  select  any  as  being  un- 
usually good,  and  different  people  will  naturally  be  impressed  in  different 
ways.  My  own  personal  selection  would  include  exhibits  by  the  Penn- 
sylvania Railroad,  the  Carnegie  Institution,  and  the  U.  S.  Commission 
on  Fish  and  Fisheries. 

The  state  buildings  are  for  the  most  part  rather  uninteresting,  as 
they  contain  few  exhibits.     The  New  Jersey  building  is  interesting  be- 


224 


The  Haverfordian 


cause  it  contains  so  many  photographs,  but  the  best  drawing  card  is  the 
Pennsylvania  building  with  the  Liberty  Bell;  but  when  the  latter  is 
taken  to  San  Diego  there  will  remain  nothing  of  peculiar  interest  to  the 
Pennsylvanian  except  the  bulletin  board  where  news  items  are  posted. 
The  California  state  building  is  an  exception,  as  it  is  full  of  exhibits,  but 
it  is  grouped  with  the  main  exhibit  buildings,  and  one  never  thinks  of  it 
as  a  state  building. 

The  effect  produced  on  the  mind  of  a  visitor  is  that  of  immensity. 
There  is  so  much  to  be  seen  and  heard  that  while  one  may  be  deeply 


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PALACE  OF  FINE  ARTS    (P.  P.  I.  E.) 


impressed,  the  impression  is  very  likely  to  resemble  that  of  a  negative 
on  which  multiple  exposures  ha\'e  been  made.  It  is  very  different  at 
San  Diego.  To  compare  the  two  would  be  like  comparing  a  L.iszt  sym- 
phonic poem  to  a  Mozart  string  quartet.  The  most  satisfactory  distinc- 
tion that  can  be  made  is  perhaps  that  the  Panama-Pacific  appeals  to 
the  emotion,  while  the  Panama-California  appeals  to  the  imagination. 
The  Panama-California  exposition  is  in  three  dimensions,  instead  of  two, 
as  that  at  San  Francisco.  San  Diego  has  perhaps  a  larger  park  area  in 
proportion  to  population  than  any  other  city  in  the  world,  and  no  more 
ideal  location  for  an  exposition  could  be  imagined  than  Balboa  Park 
(surveyed  by  a  Haverfordian,  it  is  interesting  to  note).  The  entrance 
to  the  fair  is  by  way  of  the  Puente  Cabrillo,  named  for  the  discoverer  of 
San  Diego  in  1,^42.     It  is  a  seven-arched  concrete  bridge,  1.35  feet  above 


The  Panama  Expositions  •  225 

the  lily  pond  beneath  it,  leading  to  the  ocean  gate,  be\^ond  which  is  the 
Prado,  lined  by  exposition  buildings. 

Within  the  gate,  the  grounds  are  a  wild  riot  of  \-ariegated  and  bril- 
liant coloring.  The  floral  exhibits  (the  best  of  which  are  the  canna 
beds  by  Conard  and  Jones,  of  West  Grove,  Pa.),  the  peacocks  and 
golden  pheasants  strolling  about  the  lawns  and  Gardens  of  Montezuma, 
the  richly  colored  marquesitas  abo\e  the  windows,  and  the  tiles  on  the 
domes,  all  seem  to  ri\al  each  other  in  presenting  to  the  eye  of  the  visitor 
their  azure,  orange,  and  scarlet.  The  prevailing  type  of  architecture 
is  Spanish-Renascence,  characterized  by  a  wealth  of  ornamentation  and 
statuary  about  the  doorways. 

The  most  significant  building,  architecturally,  is  that  of  the  state 
of  California.  Its  dome  is  modeled  after  that  of  the  cathedral  at  Taxco, 
Mexico,  the  most  beautiful  church  in  America.  About  its  base  runs  a 
Latin  inscription  from  Deut.  8:8,  and  no  more  appropriate  inscription 
could  be  found.  The  tower  has  its  prototypes  in  Seville  and  Cordoba, 
and  the  fachada  is  said  to  be  the  finest  in  existence.  In  its  niches  stand 
statues  of  noted  characters  connected  with  San  Diego  history,  Cabrillo, 
Viscaino,  Portoba,  Vancouver,  Ascension,  Jaume,  Serra,  and  others, 
together  with  the  arms  of  the  four  nations  that  claimed  San  Diego:  Spain, 
Mexico,  California,  and  the  I'nited  States. 

Within  the  building  is  an  exhibit  by  the  American  Institute  of  Ar- 
chaeology. This  association  has  been  engaged  in  making  \ery  extensive 
excavations  in  Yucatan  and  Guatemala,  and  the  space  beneath  the 
dome  is  occupied  entireh'  by  models  of  temples  and  monoliths  from 
Guirigua,  Palencjue,  Chichen  Itza,  I'xmal,  etc.  In  the  vestibule  is  a 
replica  of  the  Farnham  Historical  Frieze  in  the  Pan-American  Union 
at  Washington,  one  of  the  "most  important  achievements  in  modern 
American  sculpture."  Above  the  front  door  the  date  of  the  opening  of 
the  exposition,  Jan.  1st,  1915,  is  inscribed  in  Maya  hieroglyphics. 

There  are  other  exhibits  of  interest  in  this  building,  such  as  the 
pictures  of  the  Santa  Vsabel  and  Mesa  Grande  Inilians,  by  Mr.  Edward 
H.  Davis,  one  of  the  few  white  men  to  be  elected  "El  Capitan"  by  an 
Indian  tribe;  the  series  of  pictures  illustrating  the  evolution  of  exposi- 
tion architecture,  the  Franciscan  Chapel,  the  Fine  .Arts  exhibit,  and  the 
Pioneers'  exhibit,  tnit  onK-  passing  mention  may  be  made  of  them  here. 

The  Science  of  Man  building  contains  the  most  complete  anthro- 
pological exhibit  in  the  world.  Here  are  fac-similes  of  the  liones  of  the 
men  of  Spy,  the  Laquina  woman,  the  Neanderthal  man,  the  Heidelberg 
man,  the  Piltdown  man,  and  the  Ja\a  ape-man.  Pithecanthropus.  This 
collection  has  greath^  increased  in  \alue  since  the   European  war,  so 


236  The  Haverfordian 

many  of  the  originals  from  which  these  casts  have  been  made  having 
been  destroyed.  There  is  also  a  series  of  twelve  btists,  b}'  the  Belgian 
sculptor  Mascre  made  just  before  his  disappearance,  also  a  victim  of 
the  war.     They  are  restorations  from  the  bones  described  above. 

There  is  one  more  archaeological  exhibit  in  addition  to  these — the 
Indian  Arts,  in  ^^■hich  baskets,  blankets,  pottery,  implements  of  stone, 
obsidian,  and  hardened  copper,  totem  poles,  tepees,  and  Eskimo  igloos, 
are  to  be  seen,  an  interesting  exhibit,  but  one  whose  full  significance  can 
not  be  appreciated  except  after  long-continued  study. 

Just  outside  this  building  is  the  Plaza  de  Panama,  a  large  open 
square,  stocked  with  ."^,000  pigeons,  which  have  become  \ery  intimate 
\\ith  the  tourists,  many  of  whom  ha\'e  their  pictures  taken  feeding  the 
pigeons  that  are  roosting  all  over  them. 

In  a  semitropical  climate  like  that  of  San  Diego  a  glass-roofed  bo- 
tanical building  would  have  added  but  little,  consequently  the  green- 
house is  built  of  lath  and  ser\-es  as  little  more  than  a  windbreak.  In 
front  of  it  is  the  Laguna  de  las  Flores,  a  pond  in  which  lilies  of  three 
colors,  and  lotus  flowers  and  hyacinths,  luxuriate,  and  on  whose  banks 
grow  pampas  grass  and  papyrus,  where  the  goldfish  play  and  the  hum- 
ming birds  taste  the  blossoms  of  the  century  plants  by  day,  and  the 
hylas  pipe  their  song  by  night. 

The  outdoor  organ  is  of  importance,  being  the  largest  in  the  world, 
and  many  artists  who  have  visited  San  Diego  have  sung  to  its  accom- 
paniment. Much  more  characteristic  music  may  be  heard,  however, 
by  attending  the  entertainments  by  the  Hawaiian  and  Spanish  troupes, 
who  are  constantly  performing  at  some  point  in  the  grounds. 

The  state  of  New  Mexico  is  the  only  one  to  refuse  to  divide  its  ap- 
propriation, consequently  its  building  has  not  been  duplicated  at  San 
Francisco.  The  Forestry  Service  maintains  an  exhibit  on  the  second 
floor  of  this  building,  which  is  a  reproduction  of  the  old  governor's  palace 
at  Santa  Fe,  and  the  best  state  building,  except  that  of  California,  on 
the  grounds. 

In  addition  to  the  state  buildings  are  the  California  County  build- 
ings, whose  exhibits  are  largely  of  local  interest.  Possibly  the  best  of 
these  is  the  potter  who  makes  small  articles,  and  sometimes  large  ones, 
too,  on  a  potter's  wheel.  He  is  quite  an  artist  and  is  developing  an 
American  fictile  art. 

It  is  not  generally  known  that  there  are  three  fairs  being  held  on 
the  Pacific  Coast  this  year.  The  third  is  at  Tia  Juana,  Mexico,  and  in 
some  respects  is  more  truly'  Spanish  in  spirit  than  either  of  the  other  two. 
Here  one  may  gamble  according  to  the  most  approved  or  disproved  meth- 


LACUNA  DE  LAS  FLORES    (P.  C.  E.) 


CALIFORNIA  STATE  BUILDING    (P.  C.  E) 


228 


The  Haverfordian 


ods;  one  may  stake  a  fortune  on  a  throw  of  dice  or  turn  of  a  wheel,  here 
one  may  bet  on  a  cockfight  every  afternoon,  and  witness  a  bullfight 
every  Sunday.  The  laws  of  Lower  California  do  not  permit  horses  in 
the  arena,  so  other  spectacular  events  are  staged,  such  as  fights  between 
a  bull  and  a  tiger,  or  a  bull  and  a  lion,  a  bull  dog  and  a  wild  cat,  or  coy- 
ote, or  a  man  and  a  chimpanzee.  Most  of  these  events  are  farces,  but 
two  of  the  wealthiest  interests  of  the  vicinity,  one  from  each  side  of  the 
line,  are  co-operating  to  build  a  track  for  horse-racing  that  is  to  surpass 
that  at  Ciudad  Juarez.  Tia  Juana  is  just  far  enough  north  to  be  of  easy 
access  from  San  Diego,  and  far  enough  south  to  be  out  of  the  jurisdiction 
of  the  United  States,  which  explains  the  slogan,  "The  Lid  is  off  at  Tia 


EL  PRADO    (P.  C.  E.) 


Juana,"  and  ever  since  the  gambling  concessions  on  the  Isthmus  at  San 
Diego  have  closed,  the  Tia  Juana  fair  has  prospered  mightily. 

There  has  been  much  expression  of  thought  on  keeping  the  Panama- 
California  exposition  open  one  more  year.  In  such  a  case,  many  of  the 
exhibits  at  San  Francisco  will  be  brought  south,  especially  those  of  the 
belligerent  nations.  The  race  track  at  Tia  Juana  will  prove  an  active 
drawing  card  for  eastern  visitors,  and  a  movement  is  on  foot  to  establish 
museums  in  any  of  the  buildings  which  may  be  \acated,  so  that  there 
will  be  something  to  appeal  to  every  one  who  takes  advantage  of  the 
opportunity  to  visit  Nueva  Espana  by  the  Harbor  of  the  Sun. 

—Joshua  L.  Baily,  Jr.,  1912. 

San  Diego,   Cal. 


tElje  ^ropljEt  of  ?^oI|>  l^ussia 

IN  accounts  of  the  great  struggle  that  is  now  de^•astating  Europe, 
one's  attention  is  sometimes  arrested  by  the  phrase,  "  Holy  Russia." 
The  question  naturalh-  arises:  why  are  Russia's  claims  to  sanctity 
any  more  valid  than  those  of  Germany,  France,  England,  or  Belgium.-' 
Perhaps  the  most  satisfactory'  solution  of  this  problem  may  be  found 
in  a  study  of  the  works  of  Fedor  Mikhailo\itch  Dostoie\sky,  one  of  the 
most  distinguished  figures  in  the  small  group  of  Russian  novelists,  who 
have  done  so  much  to  exalt  their  country's  literature. 

Dostoie\sky  was  born  in  Moscow  in  1821.  His  father  was  an 
official,  of  one  of  the  lower  grades.  After  receiving  the  education  of  a 
military  engineer,  Fedor  decided  to  take  up  the  profession  of  writing. 
He  contributed  to  a  number  of  magazines  and  published  his  first  novel, 
"Poor  Folk."  But  his  career  was  abruptly  suspended  by  an  event 
which  was  destined  to  exert  a  compelling  influence  on  his  life-work. 

The  re\olutionary  year  of  1848  acted  as  a  stimulus  to  independent 
thought,  even  in  despotic  Russia.  Dostoievsky  joined  a  progressive 
debating  society,  whose  topics  of  discussion,  harmless  as  they  seem  to 
us,  were  regarded  by  the  Russian  government  as  highly  treasonable. 
Arrested,  with  a  number  of  his  companions,  the  young  writer  was  con- 
demned to  death.  He  had  actually  been  led  to  the  scaffold,  when  an 
officer  rode  up,  bearing  an  imperial  decree,  commuting  his  sentence  from 
death  to  exile  in  Siberia.  In  the  period  of  his  exile  (1849-1853)  Dostoi- 
evsky's views  on  life  seem  to  have  undergone  decisi\e  modification. 
Far  from  despising  his  fellow-convicts,  he  sought  to  recognize  their  good 
qualities,  even  humbl\-  acknowledging  that  many  of  them  were  far 
better  men  than  he  himself.  He  had  no  faith  in  the  intellectual  aris- 
tocracy of  Plato,  Nietzsche  and  Renan.  The  culture  which  appealed 
to  him  was  that  which  aimed  at  the  enlightenment  and  uplift  of  all  hu- 
manity'. "  I  see  no  reason,"  he  says,  "why  all  the  millions  of  my  fellow- 
Russians  should  not  become  cultured,  happy,  and  contented."  Equally 
notable  is  his  attitude  towards  the  reactionary  government,  which  had 
so  cruelh'  persecuted  him.  The  sentence  of  death,  the  long  years  of 
tedious  exile  in  Siberia  bred  in  him  no  vindictive  desire  for  revenge.  On 
the  contrary,  he  always  spoke  of  the  action  of  the  government  as  having 
paved  the  way  for  his  spiritual  regeneration.  Like  his  successor,  Tolstoi, 
he  preached  the  doctrine  of  unconditional  non-resistance. 

So  much  for  the  psychological  effects  of  his  exile.  The  remaining 
facts  of  his  life  may  be  briefly  summarized.  Returning  to  Russia,  he 
achieved    his  most  significant  literary  triumph  with  the  publication  of 


230  The  Haverfordian 

"Crime  and  Punishment,"  in  1866.  The  success  of  this  novel  in  Russia 
was  enormous,  and  its  reputation  soon  spread  to  other  lands.  The 
book  is  still  the  most  widely  read  novel  in  the  Russian  language.  Dos- 
toievsky devoted  the  last  fifteen  years  of  his  life  to  literary  activit}'. 
Among  his  more  important  works  may  be  mentioned,  "The  Brothers 
Karamazov,"  "The  Idiot,"  and  "The  House  of  the  Dead."  (The  latter 
is  a  record  of  the  writer's  Siberian  experiences.)  He  died  in  1881,  and 
was  escorted  to  his  grave  by  thousands  of  his  countrymen,  who  paid  to 
his  genius  a  tribute  more  spontaneous  and  sincere  than  any  ever  ac- 
corded to  czar  or  emperor. 

We  are  now  led  to  inquire  what  elements  in  his  mind  and  heart 
could  have  inspired  such  enthusiastic  devotion.  Let  us  first  consider 
him  purely  as  a  novelist.  Upon  a  first  consideration  of  his  works,  the 
most  unskilled  critic  cannot  fail  to  detect  a  number  of  serious  flaws. 
His  books  are  written  in  a  loose  and  cumbersome  style,  which  often 
necessitates  excessive  length.  He  deHghts  in  melodramatic  coinci- 
dences, and  lacks  altogether  the  smooth  polish  which  is  such  a  notable 
feature  of  the  work  of  Turgeniev  and  Tolstoi.  But  the  reader  com- 
pletely loses  sight  of  his  faults  in  the  contemplation  of  two  qualities  in 
which  Dostoievsky  is  surpassed  by  few  writers  in  any  tongue:  dramatic 
power  and  psychological  analysis.  A  few  examples  from  his  works  may 
help  to  illustrate  these  points. 

The  hero  of  "Crime  and  Punishment,"  unbalanced  by  lack  of  food 
and  long,  solitary  brooding,  murders  an  old  woman  moneylender  and 
her  sister  for  the  sake  of  their  gains.  As  he  is  about  to  flee  from  the 
scene  of  his  crime,  he  hears  someone  beginning  to  ascend  the  stairs. 
The  picture  of  the  bloodstained  murderer,  crouched  behind  the  locked 
door,  listening,  in  frenzied  terror,  to  the  inexorable  approach  of  the  steps, 
is  worthy  of  Shakespeare  in  his  highest  moments  of  tragic  power.  Take 
another  scene  from  the  same  novel.  The  murderer,  half-crazed  by 
morbid  remorse  for  his  crime,  falls  in  with  a  young  girl,  who,  through 
no  fault  of  her  own,  through  an  irresistible  combination  of  hostile  cir- 
cumstances, has  fallen  into  the  mire  of  prostitution.  Bitterly  the  mur- 
derer rehearses  the  dark  arguments  of  his  atheistic  philosophy.  And, 
in  reply,  the  girl,  in  the  face  of  her  shame,  her  misery,  her  dark  forebod- 
ings and  doubts,  opens  the  Bible,  the  only  book  she  has  ever  known, 
and,  by  a  miracle  of  triumphant  faith,  reads  the  account  of  the  resurrec- 
tion of  Lazarus,  filling  herself  once  more  with  confidence  in  the  existence 
of  a  divine  justice  and  mercy,  in  the  possibility  of  a  new  life  of  hope  and 
regeneration.  The  effect  of  this  scene  can  only  be  compared  to  a  burst 
of  glorious  sunshine  from  skies  ol  leaden  darkness.     And  there  is  another 


The  PuonncT  of  Hoiy  Russia  231 . 

scene  in  "Crime  and  Punishment,"  which  possesses  elements  of  thrilling 
dramatic  power.  A  worthless  debauchee,  cynic  and  sensualist,  Svidri- 
gailoff  by  name,  is  inspired  with  a  mad  passion  for  a  pure  and  innocent 
girl.  Having,  as  he  thinks,  lured  her  into  his  power,  he  is  suddenly  con- 
fronted by  two  loaded  pistols.  Cynically  indifferent  to  danger,  he  ad- 
vances to  seize  his  prey.  The  girl  fires  one  shot,  missing  him  by  a  narrow 
margin.  He  continues  to  advance;  suddenly  she  throws  away  her  other 
pistol,  and  sinks  down,  helpless  as  a  trapped  bird.  Svidrigailoff  turns 
and  leaves  her,  inspired  with  a  vague,  ineffable  longing  for  something 
higher  and  nobler  than  anything  he  has  e\er  known;  he  commits  suicide 
the  next  day. 

Sureh'  e\en  the  bare  outline  of  these  scenes  must  gi\-e  some  indica- 
tion of  the  titanic  power  of  the  man  who  created  them.  But  one  could 
goon  with  similar  descriptions  indefinitely;  for  "Crime  and  Punishment" 
is  a  succession  of  dramatic  climaxes,  piled  high  on  each  other,  like  the 
fabled  peaks  of  Ossa  and  Olympus. 

Nor  is  Dostoievsky's  psychological  insight  less  remarkable  than 
his  tragic  power.  In  "The  Brothers  Karamazov  "  we  have  a  remarkable 
picture  of  the  development  and  interaction  of  a  number  of  complex 
characters.  One  feature  of  Dostoievsky's  character  painting  is  his 
ability  to  recognize  and  express  the  base  and  noble  sentiments  of  his 
characters  simultaneously.  In  "Crime  and  Punishment"  we  have  the 
spectacle  of  the  drunken  Marmeladoff,  sunk  in  the  lowest  degradation, 
still  retaining  a  genuine  and  passionate  interest  in  the  welfare  of  his 
family.  A  Puritan  moralist  might  sneer  at  such  a  combination  of  noble 
feeling  and  ignoble  action ;  but  we  cannot  but  feel  that  this  very  combi- 
nation is  only  too  characteristic  of  weak  and  erring  humanity.  Dos- 
toie\sky  never  paints  a  character  of  one  hue.  The  perfect  hero  and  the 
melodramatic  ^■illain  are  conspicuous  by  their  absence  in  his  works. 
His  characters  are  living,  breathing  men  and  women,  whom  we  love  in 
spite  of  their  faults,  and  whose  virtues  never  blind  us  to  their  humanity. 
With  all  his  mysticism  and  religious  faith,  Dostoievsky  is  an  uncompro- 
mising realist,  as  genuine  and  convincing  in  his  depiction  of  character 
as  Flaubert  or  Zola. 

But  equally  fascinating  with  Dostoievsky,  the  dramatist  and  psy- 
chologist, is  Dostoievsky,  the  mystic,  the  interpreter  of  the  vague  spir- 
itual yearnings  of  Holy  Russia.  For,  in  almost  all  his  books,  we  find  a 
rich  vein  of  religious  and  philosophic  thought,  out  of  which  we  are  able 
to  construct  the  author's  peculiar  and  interesting  \iews  on  life.  The 
foundations  of  Dostoiex-sky's  mystic  philosophy  are  laid  in  humility, 
abnegation,  sacrifice  and  expiation.     His  conception  of  the  duty  of  self- 


232  The  Haverfordian 

depreciation  is  especially  wide  and  far-reaching.  No  matter  how  bad 
a  man  may  be,  one  has  no  right  to  condemn  him,  even  secretly.  In 
"The  Brothers  Karamazov"  the  pure  monk,  Alyosha,  the  embodiment 
of  Dostoievsky's  spiritual  ideals,  feels  no  impulse  to  condemn,  or  even  to 
despise  his  disreputable  rake  of  a  father.  Dostoievsky  follows  out 
Christ's  principles  of  non-resistance  and  unconditional  submission  to 
violence  and  wrong  to  their  logical  extent.  Another  strong  element  in 
the  Russian  writer's  work  is  a  mystic  yearning  for  self-sacrifice,  for  ex- 
piation. It  is  not  very  easy  to  attain  a  complete  understanding  of 
Dostoievsky's  views  on  this  point.  He  seems  to  feel  an  overpowering 
consciousness  that  everyone  is,  somehow,  partly  responsible  for  the  sin 
and  misery  of  mankind,  and  that  it  is  the  duty  of  everyone  to  offer  expi- 
ation, in  some  way,  for  this  responsibility.  It  is  this  strange,  vague, 
but  powerful  impulse  that  drives  the  saturnine  murderer  of  "Crime  and 
Punishment"  to  confess  his  crime  and  suffer  its  penalty.  Another  very 
striking  feature  of  Dostoievsky's  philosophy  is  the  emphasis  laid  upon 
love  and  pity.  His  God  has  none  of  the  wrathful  attributes  of  Jehovah ; 
no  human  sin  can  exceed  the  divine  pity  and  forgiveness.  And  his  con- 
ception of  hell-fire  is  the  torment  of  those  who  are  unable  to  love  their 
fellow-men.  Dostoievsky's  whole  religion  may  be  summed  up  as  a 
creed  of  moral  and  intellectual  democracy,  founded  on  the  principles  of 
faith,  love,  and  humilit}'.  And  his  democracy  is  the  more  real  and 
convincing  because  of  its  utter  freedom  from  the  affectation,  from  the 
straining  after  effect,  which  one  is  sometimes  led  to  suspect  in  certain 
other  noted  republicans,  such  as   Rousseau,  Hugo,  and  Walt  Whitman. 

But,  it  may  be  inquired,  why  is  Dostoievsky  to  be  taken  as  the 
authoritati\e  spokesman  of  the  Russian  people?  Why  do  his  personal 
theories  necessarily  represent  the  ideals  of  a  great  part  of  his  country- 
men? Such  objections  certainly  would  apply  to  any  treatment  of  Kant, 
or  Schopenhauer,  or  Hegel,  or  Nietzsche,  or  Eucken,  as  the  typical  Ger- 
man philosopher.  But  in  Russia  we  do  not  find  any  such  diversity  of 
philosophic  belief.  The  influence  of  the  Radicals  and  Nihilists  is  largely 
confined  to  the  cities.  And  there  can  be  little  doubt  that  the  uncon- 
scious thought  and  feeling  of  the  Russian  peasant  finds  its  best  expression 
in  the  genius  of  Dostoievsky  and  Tolstoi.  The  immense  popularity  of 
Dostoievsky's  works  in  Russia,  the  extraordinary  homage  paid  to  his 
memory  at  his  funeral,  are  convincing  proofs  of  the  firm  hold  that  he 
has  upon  the  hearts  of  the  Russian  people. 

The  reasons  which  led  me  to  choose  Dostoievsky,  instead  of  his 
more  celebrated  compatriot,  Tolstoi,  as  the  representative  of  spiritual 
Russia,   may   require   some   explanation.     Tolstoi,    like  our   own    Walt 


The  Prophet  of  Holy  Russia  233 

Whitman,  was  filled  with  a  burning  desire  to  get  away  from  the  world 
of  fashion,  of  culture  and  dilettanteism,  and  to  reach  the  common 
people.  And,  by  a  curious  irony  of  fate,  both  the  Russian  novelist  and 
the  American  poet  are  now  chiefly  interesting  to  the  literary  critics  and 
dilettanti  whom  they  despised  and  contemned  during  their  life.  For 
the  "common  people"  of  America  do  not  read  Whitman.  If  they  read 
poetry  at  all,  they  prefer  a  writer  who  expresses  a  simple  message  in  me- 
lodious verse,  a  poet  of  the  type  of  Longfellow  or  Tennyson.  And  the 
same  condition  applies,  if  in  lesser  degree,  to  Tolstoi.  The  exquisite 
beauty  of  "Anna  Karenina"  may  well  have  a  general  appeal;  but  only 
professional  critics  or  devotees  of  a  personal  cult  can  derive  much  enjoy- 
ment from  the  pages  of  metaphysical  and  moral  discussion  which  bulk 
so  large  in  "War  and  Peace"  and  "The  Resurrection."  Dostoievsky, 
on  the  other  hand,  makes  no  effort  to  "reach"  the  people;  he  is  one  of 
them  himself.  His  style  is  easy  and  colloquial,  even  if  it  is  loose  and 
long-drawn-out.  And,  above  all,  he  is  a  novelist  of  emotion;  while 
Tolstoi  is  often  inclined  to  subordinate  e\ery  other  consideratioi:  to  the 
working  out  of  some  abstract  intellectual  problem.  Hence  it  can  easily 
be  seen  that  Dostoievsky  gives  a  much  clearer  and  simpler  picture  of 
the  people  with  whom  he  is  in  natural  accord  than  Tolstoi  can  give  of 
the  people  whom  he  is  striving  to  reach. 

So  Dostoievsky  stands  out,  with  peculiar  vividness,  as  the  Prophet 
of  Holy  Russia — not  the  Russia  of  the  Romanoffs,  the  Jew-haters,  the 
Black  Hundreds;  nor  yet  the  Russia  of  the  militant  anarchists  and 
atheistic  radicals,  but  the  Russia  whose  spiritual  ideals  of  humility  and 
self-abnegation,  sacrifice  and  expiation  have  received  the  seal  of  the 
Great  Teacher  of  Galilee.  And  it  is  to  this  Russia,  to  Holy  Russia,  that 
the  spiritual  psychologists  of  the  future  may  well  look  for  light  on  some 
of  their  most  vital  problems. 

—IF.  H.  C,  '17. 


W^ 


tlTfje  Spectre  of  ^t.  ^nbretri's  Cfjurcfj 

HENRY  FIELD  was  merely  an  organist,  in  a  little  town  in  Con- 
necticut, of  the  familiar  type  which  teaches  the  mischievous 
boys  of  small  cities  and  villages  to  sing  praises  to  their  Maker 
for  the  munificent  sum  of  fift}-  cents  per  month  and  twenty-five  cents 
extra  if  their  conduct  so  merits.  There  was  no  mystery  or  romance 
in  his  life,  it  was  decidedly  une\"entful.  Never  deviating  from  his  musi- 
cal studies,  he  had  not  dealt  in  those  healthy,  innocent  love  affairs  so 
natural  to  a  young  man.  Women  were  distasteful  to  Henry,  particu- 
larly },-oung  women.  \\'hene\er  he  found  himself  in  their  presence,  his 
hands  felt  twice  their  normal  size  and  his  collar  seemed  to  be  several 
inches  smaller. 

It  was  his  custom  to  leave  Mrs.  Quilley's  "select"  boarding  house, 
where  the  pretty  young  schoolmistress  scientifically  laid  snares  for  him 
and  the  old  ladies  discussed  him  over  their  tatting  and  knitting,  at  exactly 
four  o'clock  in  the  afternoon  to  practice  at  St.  Andrew's  Church. 

The  diminutive  organist  walked  down  the  lively  little  street  in  a 
most  absent-minded  manner,  seeing  no  one  that  passed  or  saluted  him, 
his  mind  dwelling  in  a  perfect  maze  of  notes,  bars,  sharps,  flats,  double 
sharps  and  scales. 

Henry's  mind  was  never  fully  upon  a  conversation;  instead,  he 
would  go  browsing  off  into  musical  clover  fields.  It  was  said  that  he 
sometimes  played  divine  music  without  being  conscious  of  it.  This 
was  simply  because  he  had  mastered  the  art  of  improvising. 

On  this  eventful  day  he  left  Mrs.  Quilley's  at  the  usual  time,  and 
ambled  down  Center  Street  toward  the  church.  He  was  an  odd  sight, 
this  little  organist,  with  rather  unkempt  brown  hair,  a  black  suit  that 
had  the  appearance  of  never  seeing  a  clothes-brush,  and  a  black  and 
white  necktie  up  almost  under  his  right  ear.  His  mild  brown  eyes  were 
very  nearly  eclipsed  by  a  pair  of  tortoise-shell  spectacles,  which  perched 
high  on  his  aquiline  nose. 

When  Henry  entered  the  church  it  was  his  custom  to  lock  the  door 
on  the  inside,  because  he  preferred  to  be  alone  during  practicing  hours. 
There  had  been  a  time  when  he  left  the  door  open,  but  all  the  old  ladies 
in  the  parish  congregated  there  to  listen  and  give  vent  to  many  soft 
"Oh's"  and  "Ah's"'when  the  divine  music  stirred  their  doting  old  souls. 
With  the  old  ladies  there  came  very  often,  especially  in  Lent,  some  of 
the  young  girls  of  the  little  city,  which  disconcerted  him  not  a  little. 

Henry  Field,  although  he  did  not  know  it,  was  a  desirable  "catch"; 
he  was  honest,  received  a  comfortable  little  salary,  and  his  father,  the 


TiiK  Spectre  of  St.  AndrewV  Church  235 

military  band  leader  and  composer  of  stirring  marches,  had  willed  him 
a  good  fortune.  This  accounted  for  the  presence  of  some  of  the  young 
ladies. 

Ha\ing  locked  the  door  and  walked  up  the  na\'e  into  the  chancel, 
he  dustctl  the  organ  bench  with  a  soiled  handkerchief,  turned  on  the 
water-motor  and  arranged  his  music.  Henry  worked  by  schedule, 
playing  first  the  hymns  for  the  coming  Suncla\',  then  the  anthem,  then 
the  Te  Deum,  and  winding  up  with  the  oftertory.  When  the  work  was 
thus  dispatched,  he  would  play — as  he  said;  any  a^'erage  mortal  would 
call  it  work. 

He  had  just  finished  something  by  Sulli\an,  and  was  beginning  on 
a  dainty  little  composition  by  Mozart  (\ou  ha\e  heard  them,  they  begin 
'way  up  in  the  third  manual  in  the  reeds)  when  from  the  darkest  corner 
of  the  nave  came  a  mournful,  heart-rending  sigh  which  was  echoed  in 
whispers  among  the  heavy  rafters.  What  can  it  be?  thought  Henry. 
He  had  locked  the  door!  Probably  imagination.  Yes,  surely,  that  was 
it.  He  began  again.  Again  that  mournful  sound,  and  a  rustling  as  of 
skirts.  A  woman!  What  was  a  woman  doing  in  there  at  this  hour? 
This  was  deplorable  that  he  should  be  bothered  in  this  way!  He  would 
certainly  ha\e  Mr.  Phipps,  the  sexton,  reprimanded  very  severely  for 
not  keeping  the  lock  on  the  church  door  in  order. 

Henry  made  another  attempt.  Again  that  pathetic  sigh,  and  more 
rustling  and  ripping  of  cloth.  Sheer  pee\ishness  made  him  bold,  and 
without  turning  around,  he  asked: 

"Oh,  I  say!  W'ould  you  mind  not  wheezing  in  that  silly  way?  It's — 
it's  very  annoying,  you  know." 

"Very  well,"  answered  a  sweet  feminine  voice. 

The  organist  was  progressing  beautifully  when  he  was  startled  by 
a  rush  of  damp,  ill-smelling  air  which  seemed  to  fill  the  church  and — 
"Why  has  the  governor  not  hanged  your' 

Here  Henry  made  two  fearful  discords  and  put  on  the  trumpet- 
stop  in  his  excitement. 

"What — what — why  should  I  be  hanged?"  he  managed  to  stammer. 

"They  hanged  my  sister  and  they  hanged  me,"  replied  the  \'oice, 
"because  that  my  sister  made  sweet  music  on  little  rods  of  iron,  and  I 
helped  her." 

"You  were  hanged!"  gasped  the  organist,  and  here  his  eyes  man- 
aged to  pierce  the  deep  gloom  of  the  church.  What  he  saw  there  made 
him  break  into  a  cold  perspiration,  and  the  back  of  his  neck  felt  drawn 
and  bristly.  One  of  the  large  stone  slabs  with  which  the  nave  was  paved 
had  been  raised  up,  and  beside  the  dark  hole  that  it  left  stood  a  very 
beautiful  young  girl,  clumsily    wrapped  in  a  cheap  cloth  shroud. 


236  The  Haverfordian 

The  cloth  was  mouldy  and  brown  with  age.  She  had  pushed  the 
wrappings  back  from  her  head  and  allowed  her  dark  hair  to  fall  down 
her  back.  Henry,  being  extremely  artistic,  could  not  help  showing  ad- 
miration even  in  his  terror.     The  girl  noticed  this. 

"Yes,  there  was  a  time  when  I  was  very  fair,  but  they  spoiled  it  all." 
and  she  tore  her  arms  free  from  the  soggy  cloth  and  rubbed  her  neck 
gently.  Henry  could  vaguely  see,  as  she  moved  nearer,  that  there  were 
hideous  deep  blue  lines  and  ridges  on  the  white  skin. 

The  girl  moved  closer  to  the  chancel  steps  and  the  organist  began  to 
feel  panick}-,  but  he  realized  that  the  only  way  to  escape  was  through  the 
organ  loft,  and  his  knees  were  too  busy  knocking  against  each  other  to 
bear  him  up  the  ladder.     So  he  decided  to  engage  her  in  conversation. 

"Wh-who  are  you?" 

"Mercy  Clawson,  sir." 

"When  were  you — ah — executed?"  he  asked.  He  was  becoming 
bolder  since  it  was  evident  that  she  intended  doing  him  no  immediate 
harm. 

"On  the  second  day  of  ]Ma\'  in  the  year  of  our  Lord  sixteen  hundred 
and  sixty-two,"  she  replied,  "about  forty  paces  from  the  north  side  of 
this  church.  It  may  be  known  to  you  that  they  did  build  this  church 
over  part  of  the  Potters'  Field  in  which  we  were  buried. 

"Sarah  yearned  always  for  bright  things  and  music,  and  when  she 
found  that  she  could  make  music  with  little  pieces  of  iron  she  would 
leave  her  spinning  to  go  up  in  the  loft  and  play  and  sing.  It  happened 
that  Hannah  Dinsborough,  the  daughter  of  our  nearest  neighbor, 
heard  Sarah  playing  one  day  and  said  that  she  was  a  witch,  and  that 
I  aided  her  in  entertaining  the  devil  with  his  warlocks  and  witches.  It 
did  us  no  good  to  deny  it.  All  of  the  townsfolk  believed  her,  and  they 
accordingly  seized  us  and  took  us  to  the  witch-finder,  who  pricked  us 
with  sundry  long  pins,  but  we  could  not  make  outcry  for  very  shame." 

"Why  did  the  girl  say  that  you  were  witches?"    asked  the  organist. 

"  In  truth  she  was  afflicted  with  jealousy,  because  Jonathan  Bassett's 
son  paid  court  to  Sarah." 

"Why  didn't  you  make  a  noise  and  object?"    asked  Henry. 

"We  did  so,  but  the  people  said  that  it  was  the  devil  prompting  us. 
Anyhow,  they  all  were  anxious  to  have  an  execution,  because  the  gov- 
ernor was  coming  to  town  and  it  was  their  desire  that  he  should  enjoy 
himself,  as  they  desired  to  stand  strongly  in  his  favor." 

"Weren't  you  frightened?" 

"  Indeed  yes,  but  that  did  us  no  good.  The  governor  came  into 
town  from  Hartford,  and  when  he  heard  of  the  execution  in  his  honor, 


The  Spectrk  or   St.  Andrew's  Chtrch  237 

he  was  much  pleased,  and  asked  to  see  us.  (This  our  gaoler  told  us.) 
He.  came  to  the  door  of  our  cell,  looked  sharply  at  us  and  said,  'Hum! 
Truly  these  are  witches."  But  his  e>es  were  bleared  with  drink  and  he 
could  not  have  known. 

"Here  ended  all  hope  for  us.  Ah-  poor  mother  was  nigh  unto  death 
with  grief  and  fright.  They  would  not  sutler  her  to  see  us  or  embrace 
us;  she  could  only  speak  from  outside  a  narrow  little  window.  Here 
she  spent  most  of  her  time  sobbing  and  trying  to  comfort  us."  Here  the 
girl  bowed  her  head  and  shook  with  sobs;  then,  calming  herself,  she 
continued:    "Goody  Trumbull  happened  by  and  said  to  my  mother — 

"'You  should  rejoice  that  yon  witches  are  to  be  killed,  even  though 
they  be  your  children;    'tis  for  the  good  of  the  colony.' 

""Twould  be  better  for  the  colony  if  they  would  hang  those 
that  spread  such  evil  reports,  and  those  of  high  authority  who  sanction 
this  ill-treatment  of  innocent  women,'  said  mother. 

"'Hush!'  said  Goody  Trumbull,  'those  words,  if  overheard,  are  apt 
to  bring  trouble.' 

"'I  care  not,'  said  my  mother,  and  fell  to  weeping  bitterly. 

"The  time  appointed  being  come,  our  gaoler  led  us  out.  Pale  we 
must  have  been,  but  we  did  not  tremble  or  shrink,  and  even  that  assem- 
bh'  of  crazed  folk  who  awaited  us  outside  the  prison  murmured  their 
admiration. 

"Never  shall  I  forget  the  little  town  of  Winsor  as  it  was  on  that 
spring  day,  with  the  meeting-house  shaded  by  the  two  great  elms  and 
the  birds  singing  merrily.  When  we  turned  the  corner  of  the  meeting- 
house, there,  stark  and  black  against  the  sky,  stood  the  gallows.  But 
we  kept  on. 

"We  were  led  into  the  meeting-house,  where  many  of  the  elders 
were  present,  and  that  great  assembly  of  people  filled  the  room.  The 
governor  came  in  with  the  rest  of  the  magistrates  and  sat  within  the  bar. 
The  trial  was  tedious,  but  in  short  the  accusers  were  called  forth  and 
bidden  to  give  their  evidence.  This  they  did,  and  out  of  a  few  simple 
psalm  tunes  and  jingles  and  tinkling  iron  grew  up  the  most  gruesome 
and  horrible  falsehoods.  The  people  were  mad,  and  the  magistrates 
were  eager  to  please.  We  knew  before  trial  what  our  fate  would  be. 
Were  not  the  gallows  ready? 

"Finally  we  were  asked  sundry  ciuestions,  one  of  which  I  remember 
distinctly.  It  was  this:  'Now  will  you  confess  that  the  devil  and 
witches  visited  >ou  frequently,  and  that  you  played  and  sang  unholy 
music  for  his  revels?' 

"We  remained  silent.        Then  the  people — the  folk  who  had  called 


238  The  Haverfordian 

themselves  our  friends  and  had  known  us  as  children — spat  on  us,  struck 
us,  and  tore  our  clothing  almost  from  our  backs.  They  were  crazy — 
crazed  with  superstition  and  lust  of  blood. 

"The  magistrates  decided  that  our  guilt  was  so  evident  that  our 
execution  must  be  carried  out  straightway.  Then  we  were  taken  from 
the  meeting-house  to  the  place  of  execution,  with  the  throng  howling 
about  us  and  calling  us  vile  names. 

"Mj'  sister  was  led  up  the  ladder  first  and  when  she  was  standing 
ready  and  praying  softly,  young  Jonathan  Bassett  shouted  out  against 
them  all  and  tried  to  save  Sarah,  but  thej-  cried  that  she  had  bewitched 
him  and  held  him  back,  although  he  struggled  hard  to  get  free.  When 
the  plank  fell  I  swooned,  and  when  I  was  revived  I  was  told  that  my 
poor  mother  had  been  led  from  the  accursed  place  quite  mad,  which  was 
a  blessing." 

"What  then?"    questioned  Henry. 

"Then  I  walked  up  the  ladder  as  the  blood-red  sun  sank  below 
Winsor  hills,  commended  myself  to  God,  and  bowed  my  head  for  the 
noose " 

Suddenly  Henry  again  felt  that  rush  of  damp,  foul  air  and  the  figure 
seemed  to  sink  as  the  paving  stone  dropped  back  into  its  place. 

When  Henry  Field  came  to  himself  he  was  lying  on  the  davenport 
in  Mrs.  Quilley's  sitting  room,  with  a  doctor  and  the  young  schoolmis- 
tress by  his  side.  The  latter  was  gently  applying  witch-hazel  to  his 
throbbing  head  and  calling  him  pet  names.  Henry  was  astonished  to 
find  that  this  was  not  at  all  unpleasant;  in  fact  he  rather  enjoyed  it,  and 
lay  there  blinking  under  the  anxious  gaze  of  the  exceedingly  pretty 
schoolmistress. 

"What  happened?"  the  bewildered  and  entranced  Henry  finally 
managed  to  ask. 

"Ceiling  of  organ-loft  fell;  beam  hit  your  head;  sexton  found  you. 
Don't  talk,"  growled  the  doctor. 

Henry  dozed  off  again,  with  the  hand  of  his  fair  attendant  tightly 
clasped  in  his  own. 

The  next  week  Henry  and  the  schoolmistress  spent  a  day  at  Hart- 
ford,and  at  his  suggestion  they  went  to  the  Library,  where  Henry  asked 
to  see  a  certain  book.  When  it  was  found,  Henry  carefully  searched  its 
crisp  pages,  brown  with  age.     On  page  44  he  found — 

"May  it  please  yr  Honble  Court,  we  the  grand  inquest  now  setting 
for  the  County  of  Winsor,  being  made  sensable,  not  only  bj^  common 
fame  (but  by  testamonies  duly  billed  to  us)  that  Sarah  &  Mercy  Clawson 
daughters  of  Thankful  Clawson,  both  of  Winsor,  remain  under  the  suss- 


For  the  Slain  239 

pition  of  iiseing  witchecraft,  which  is  ahomanable  both  in  ye  sight  of 
God  &  man  and  ought  to  be  witnessed  against.  We  do  therefore  (in 
complyance  to  our  duty,  the  discharge  of  our  oathes  and  that  trust  re- 
posed in  us)  prescnte  the  abo\  e  mentioned  persons  to  the  Honble  Court 
of  Assistants  now  setting  in  \\'insor,  that  they  may  be  taken  into  Custody 
&  proceeded  against  according  to  their  demerits. 

"in  behalfe  of  the  Grand  Jury, 
"Joseph  Dinsborough,  foreman. 
"Winsor  IStli,  Apr.,  1662" 

And  written  below  in  a  strong  hand  w'as — ■ 

"Clawson,  Sarah  and  IVIercy;  daughters  of  Thankful  Clawson. 
Executed  for  witchcraft  Ma\-  2,  1662." 

Henry  quickh'  closed  the  book  and  handed  it  back  to  a  library  at- 
tendant, who  carefully  placed  it  in  its  lined  box. 

"Why,  Henry!  I  didn't  know  you  were  interested  in  the  Salem 
witchcraft  scare,"  said  the  schoolmistress. 

"Oh,  tolerably,  tolerably,"  mumbled  Henry  as  they  went  out  to 
lunch.  He  was  too  faint  to  say  any  more,  and  his  collar  seemed  too 
small  for  his  neck.  But  the  fact  remains  that  Henry  never  tokl  what 
he  saw  and  heard  in  the  dark  nave  of  the  church  on  that  eventful  after- 
noon. 

— Donald  G.  Baird,  '15. 


Jfor  tlje  ^lain 

White  waves  that  beat  in  vain. 
Storm-cloud  and  driving  rain. 
Tempest  and  hurricane, 
Wail  for  thee. 

Long  shadows  creeping  slow, 
Sad  gusts  bemoaning  low, 
Rose  leaves  that  withered  blow, 
Mourn  for  thee. 

Gray  fields  that  silent  lie. 
Chill  rain  from  leaden  sky, 
Willows  that  droop,  and  I 
Weep  for  thee. 


-Albert  H.  Stone,  '16. 


^reparebn££f£i 


DISCUSSIONS  on  preparedness  are  the  order  of  the  day.  In 
limes  of  international  crises  and  world-wide  disturbances,  it 
is  well  to  be  awake  to  possible  exigencies.  But  the  world  is 
always  at  war.  Every  day  is  a  battle  to  which  we  are  all  called  by  the- 
great  conscription  of  nature,  and  for  which  a  college  education  aims  to 
provide  a  complete  and  incomparable  preparation.  There  will  be  found 
herein  no  treatment  of  armaments,  so  called,  but  of  ornaments  which 
are  a  safer  and  more  substantial  defense  to  individuals  than  dread- 
noughts and  regiments  are  to  nations.  Historic  and  current  events 
prove  the  fallacy  of  the  claim  that  a  nation  is  immune  from  attack  when 
primed  for  resistance;  but  that  personal  preparedness  is  a  preventive 
against  abuse  and  injury  cannot  be  so  readily  refuted.  I  wish  to  write 
regarding  two  aspects  of  this  better  kind  of  preparedness. 

The  physical  equipment  of  men  is  the  first  phase  to  be  considered. 
Digressing  a  little  at  the  start,  America's  peace  proclivities  are  due  in 
great  part  to  the  combative  natures  and  practices  of  her  citizens,  para- 
doxical as  this  may  seem.  Halls  of  legislation,  stock  markets,  athletic 
fields,  etc.,  are  the  scenes  of  continual  conflict;  and  it  is  in  such  places 
that  we  Americans  express  our  passion  for  rivalry  and  competition .  We 
energize  our  instincts  in  a  harmless  manner,  yet  in  a  profitable  way 
withal.  We  are  so  occupied  with  our  daily  struggles  for  intellectual, 
business,  and  athletic  supremacy  that  we  allow  no  such  cankerous  ha- 
treds to  arise  as  the  peoples  of  Europe  seem  to  have  for  one  another. 
Especially  are  our  diamonds  and  gridirons  excellent  safety-valves  for 
draining  us  of  any  desire  to  plan  and  perpetrate  wars.  Team  enthusiasm 
and  rigorous  training  are  efficient  substitutes  for  military  discipline. 
Doubtless  the  European  powers  will  imitate  us  eventually. 

Our  many  games  have  their  individual  benefits,  but  it  is  impossible 
to  continue  some  of  them  after  graduation.  They  are  too  violent  for 
the  indulgence  of  the  average  man,  as  he  advances  to  middle  life.  Fur- 
thermore, our  arms  will  need  the  most  attention,  for  men  must  of  neces- 
sity do  much  walking  in  performing  their  daily  duties.  A  few  minutes 
of  judicious  boxing  twice  a  week  will  enable  any  man  to  keep  the  muscles 
of  his  arms  on  a  par  with  those  of  his  legs.  Men  who  box  are  quick  and 
strong  because  they  box;  they  do  not  box  because  they  are  quick  and 
strong.  Boxing  is  a  practical  and  pleasant  form  of  life  insurance;  and 
there  are  no  premiums  to  pay.  A  man  can  have  no  more  healthful  and 
fascinating  physical  hobby.  Nor  is  this  sport  so  strenuous  as  some  are 
inclined  to  believe.     The  aim  should  be  skill  and  generalship,  not  mere 


Preparedness  241 

slugging  ability.  Judgment  of  time  and  distance  are  essential  for  suc- 
cess. Boxing  broadens  the  shoulders,  strengthens  the  neck,  and  fore- 
stalls obesity.  ]Moreo\er,  the  expert  performer  is  always  courageous 
and  confident  in  times  of  attack,  and  he  is  always  phlegmatic  and  com- 
posed in  the  midst  of  excitement.  Men  are  ever  in  danger  of  assault 
from  rioters  and  thugs,  but  he  who  knows  what  to  do  and  how  to  do  it, 
is  comparati\'ely  secure.  The  bo.xer  is  seldom  boastful  or  given  to  brawl- 
ing. It  is  a  well-known  fart  that  order  is  easily  maintained  in  those 
parts  of  a  large  city  where  boxing  clubs  are  located.  The  fighting 
spirit  is  curbed  rather  than  stimulated  by  boxing.  The  day  of  doom 
for  firearms  is  fast  approaching — the  present  increased  output  to  the 
contrary  notwithstanding;  and  the  regime  of  the  fist  is  about  to  begin. 
Do  not  let  any  prejudices  give  an  unfair  connotation  for  the  term  fist. 
Since  the  future  is  sure  to  relegate  guns,  and  since  thieves  and  assassins 
will  be  compelled  to  rely  more  upon  clubs  and  blows,  it  behoo\'es  men 
to  learn  for  themselves  and  to  teach  to  others,  the  manly  art  of  sparring. 
This  is  no  knock  at  the  college  sports  of  to-day.  In  short,  my  thesis  is 
this:  ability  to  box  should  be  the  crystallization  of  all  athletic  endeavor, 
the  culminating  achievement  of  all  physical  training.  The  perils  of  life 
are  many.  Are  we  ready  to  defend  ourselves  and  those  who  will  be  de- 
pendent upon  us? 

The  second  part  of  this  paper  is  concerned  with  the  art  of  oratory, 
and  here  I  must  not  be  so  brief.  He  who  can  present  his  thoughts  logi- 
cally and  forcefully  to  others  is  an  orator.  The  oratory  which  interests 
us  as  college  men  is  the  oratory  of  the  mind  and  of  the  heart.  The  arti- 
fices of  the  elocutionist  or  vaudeville  monologist  have  nothing  in  com- 
mon with  this  subject.  Word  juggling  and  vocal  inflections  are  irrelevant 
matters.  The  force  of  the  true  orator  is  within,  not  without.  Men  can 
be  eloquent  without  being  clever  or  loud.  Clarity  of  ideas  and  sincerity 
of  convictions  are  the  foremost  attributes  of  the  true  orator.  Socrates 
once  said,  "All  men  are  eloquent  in  that  which  they  understand."  An 
appreciation  of  and  a  devotion  to  a  cause  will  do  much  toward  making 
a  great  orator.  The  temperance  and  equal  suffrage  movements  have 
made  orators  of  many  who  had  thought  themselves  without  talent.  A 
more  general  interest  in  political  and  social  reforms  would  react  fa^'o^- 
ably  upon  the  number  and  quality  of  our  platform  workers.  Emerson 
wrote,  "Eloquence  is  the  appropriate  organ  of  the  highest  personal 
energy."  Mathews  eulogizes  the  art  in  the  following  manner:  "Of 
all  the  efforts  of  the  human  mind,  there  is  no  one  which  demands  for  its 
success  so  rare  a  union  of  mental  gifts  as  eloquence."  In  another  place 
this  last-named  thinker  has  written  that  to  make  a  success  of  oratorv  is 


242  The  Haverfordian 

"the  greatest  triumph  of  which  the  human  mind  is  capable,  and  that 
in  which  its  divinity  is  most  signally'  revealed."  We  have  philosophers, 
then,  for  the  claim  that  oratory  is  no  mean  art. 

Although  Cicero  was  right  in  claiming  that  "poets  are  born  such, 
while  orators  are  made  such,"  it  is  indisputably  true  that  oratory  demands 
an  unusually  wide  range  of  intellectual  faculties.  Sound  reasoning,  a 
fertile  imagination,  quick  wit,  profound  judgment,  a  strong  memory,  and 
a  deep  appreciation  of  the  beauties  of  nature  and  of  the  realities  of  life, 
are  the  necessary  ingredients  of  the  orator's  mental  equipment. 
Is  it  not  obvious  that  all  our  education  tends  to  make  orators  of  us? 
Certainly  Cicero  was  correct.  Then  why  is  the  standard  of  ability  so 
low  among  college  men?  Our  failure  in  this  regard  is  due  to  a  lack  of 
what  may  well  be  called  rhetorical  reflection,  caused  by  the  almost  infinite 
number  of  things  for  us  to  see  and  to  hear  and  to  do.  Our  hurried 
American  life  is  detrimental  to  oratory  as  well  as  to  poetry,  for  both 
require  the  practice  of  meditation.  He  who  is  ambitious  to  become  a 
public  speaker  should  have  for  his  slogan:  in  times  of  silence  prepare 
for  speech;  just  as  for  our  physical  preparation  we  should  lay  up  a  re- 
serve of  vitality  when  well,  in  order  to  tide  us  through  any  illness  that 
may  overtake  us  later.  And  incidentally  the  practice  of  oratory  itself 
is  a  splendid  aid  to  good  health.  Anemic  orators  are  as  scarce  as  flat- 
lunged  prima  donnas.  It  is  a  profitable  practice  to  think  in  terms  of 
complete  and  well-balanced  sentences.  During  spare  moments  create 
a  paragraph  that  would  pass  creditably  the  blue  pencil's  test.  While 
waiting  for  trains,  when  dining  alone,  during  idle  moments  under  all 
conditions,  organize  the  thoughts  of  your  wayward  mind  into  literary 
form.  Experiment  with  your  mind's  fringe,  transforming  vague  no- 
tions into  clear-cut  ideas.  When  reading  a  book,  sum  up  every  few 
pages,  just  as  if  you  were  giving  the  resume  aloud  to  friends.  In  study- 
ing your  college  textbooks,  anticipate  the  professors'  questions,  and 
recite  to  yourself  in  fully  expressed  sentences.  The  fluent  man  is  not 
necessarily  gifted.  He  has  simply  refused  to  waste  time  day-dream- 
ing. The  speeches  of  many  orators  seem  to  be  delivered  extemporan- 
eously, when  in  truth  they  were  composed  piece  by  piece  on  man>^  dif- 
ferent occasions.  Webster  reasoned  out  his  ponderous  arguments  during 
the  recesses  of  the  Senate,  and  he  coined  many  of  his  most  striking 
phrases  while  angling  along  the  river  banks  of  New  England.  Clay 
performed  before  cows  and  horses,  imagining  them  to  be  his  opponents 
and  judges  in  debate.  Bryan  had  been  preparing  his  memorable  Chicago 
address  during  the  three  or  four  years  prior  to  its  delivery.  Countless 
other  cases  could  be  cited  to  show  that  both  orators  and  orations  are 


Preparedness  243 

created  b>-  the  mind's  proper  use  of  time.  Think  in  terms  of  sentences, 
and  the  day  will  come  when  you  will  be  repaiti  for  your  painstaking. 
Talk  seldom,  but  be  read\-  to  speak  ah^ays.  Be  patient  and  persevere, 
for  some  day  the  world  will  listen  while  you  speak.  You  will  have  not 
onh-  the  thoughts  to  convince,  but  the  language  to  captivate  as  well. 

How  different  history  would  be  if  certain  men  had  not  been  intel- 
lectually prepared  for  the  crucial  periods.  Greece  and  Rome  were  wise 
in  educating  their  youths  for  the  rostrum,  and  this  al)ility  for  argument 
was  the  power  that  saved  these  nations  time  and  again.  As  long  as 
Demosthenes  and  Cicero  were  permitted  to  express  their  views,  Greece 
and  Rome  were  able  to  give  liberty  to  their  citizens;  but  when  they 
were  silenced,  tyranny  and  despotism  prevailed.  Pitt,  Burke,  and 
Gladstone,  through  the  influence  of  their  oratory,  preserved  for  pos- 
terity England's  best  political  ideals.  In  America,  Otis,  Henry,  and  the 
Adamses  spoke  our  independence  into  being.  The  logic  of  Hamilton 
established  our  government,  and  the  eloquence  of  Webster  saved  it. 
But  the  old  style  of  oratory  will  not  do  to-day.  The  average  audience 
will  not  tolerate  ^■erbosity  and  bombast.  The  simplicity  and  sincerity 
of  Lincoln  are  more  acceptable  than  the  classicism  and  labored  language 
of  Everett.  To  be  natural  is  always  the  first  lesson  in  oratory,  although 
the  aspirant  should  strive  continually  to  improve  that  which  nature  has 
furnished.  When  stud\ing  the  masterpieces  of  the  past,  affect  only  the 
lofty  ideals  that  led  to  their  delivery.  Read  to  get  imbued  with  am- 
bition and  familiar  with  the  arrangement  of  arguments,  but  imitate 
never. 

The  benefits  from  public  speaking  are  manifold.  The  memor>'  is 
made  tenacious,  when  one  carries  out  faithfully  those  exercises  that  aid 
the  orator.  The  essential  points  of  any  subject  are  made  permanent 
by  being  brought  repeatedly  before  the  consciousness.  The  orator  ac- 
quires a  fondness  for  reading  and  composition,  that  will  serve  him  well 
for  other  purposes  than  speaking.  Letter-writing  becomes  a  pleas- 
ure, and  listening  to  lectures  and  sermons  becomes  the  best  of  treats. 
Oratory  makes  a  man  self-confident  and  fearless.  Orators  develop 
rugged  features  as  well  as  vigorous  constitutions.  Continual  prepara- 
tion for  public  speaking  conduces  to  the  higher  life  and  prevents  morbid 
wanderings  of  mind.  It  teaches  its  devotees  to  be  students  of  human 
nature.  None  can  analyze  a  heterogeneous  collection  of  men  so  well 
as  the  experienced  orator.  Lawyers  and  preachers  become  keen  stu- 
dents of  language  and  literature.  They  dissect  and  criticise  the  works 
of  the  masters.  They  saturate  themselves  with  the  gems  of  art,  and 
thus  build    up  a  fringe  that  will  be  of  use  in  times  of  need.     A  deep  and 


244  The  Haverfordiax 

abiding  interest  in  poetry  is  often  aroused  by  looking  about  for  apt  ex- 
cerpts to  quote;  and  many  an  orator  has  learned  to  respect  the  Bible 
from  his  professional  contact  with  it.  Ex-senators  DoUiver  and  Bev- 
eridge  were  always  learning  new  poems  and  anecdotes  for  their  speeches. 
In  this  way  the  habit  of  illustration  and  a  vast  fund  of  information  were 
acquired.  Their  language  became  automatically  elegant  from  the  fre- 
quent perusal  and  use  of  eloquent  passages.  Finally  the  long-continued 
practice  of  oratory  creates  in  man  a  passion  for  perfection.  These 
advantages  are  worth  any  effort.  Let  us  not  feel  that  we  are  missing 
much  in  not  receiving  instruction  in  oratory,  for  life  itself  is  the  best 
school  of  expression.  Observation  and  self-culture  can  do  more  for  us 
than  the  most  capable  corps  of  instructors.  Grace  and  power  will  come 
with  practice  and  depth  of  feeling.  Oratory  has  been  used  in  stirring 
up  wars.  Let  us  use  it  in  helping  to  bring  about  peace  among  men. 
Are  we  prepared  to  use  this  potent  weapon  both  for  ourselves  and  for 
our  fellow  men? 

As  the  ability  to  box  is  the  apex  of  all  athletic  attainments,  just  so 
is  oratory  the  climax  of  all  intellectual  training.  As  the  manly  art  of 
self-defense  is  the  practical  aspect  of  physical  culture,  just  so  is  public 
speaking  the  application  of  knowledge;  for  what  profit  is  there  in  dis- 
covering the  Truth  and  not  being  able  to  impart  this  elixir  of  wisdom 
to  the  world?  The  ability  to  box  has  saved  many  a  life,  and  the  power 
of  oral  expression  has  prevented  many  a  man  from  suffering  embarrass- 
ment and  disgrace.  Boxers  are  the  least  pugnacious  of  men,  and  ora- 
tors are  no  more  loquacious  than  grand  opera  stars  are  ostentatious  of 
their  musical  prowess.  Public  speakers  are  too  busy  to  talk;  their 
time  is  spent  in  thinking  and  speaking  within  themselves.  May  we 
college  men  bring  our  training  to  such  a  culmination  that  we  shall  always 
control  completely  and  know  how  to  use  most  advantageously  our 
athletic  and  intellectual  capabilities.  Let  us  be  prepared  both  physi- 
cally and  mentally  to  meet  the  emergencies  of  life. 

— Carroll  D.  Champlin,  '14. 


Circumstantial  Cbidcnce 

FRANK  XORRIS  must  uiKiouhtedly  k■a^e  Haverford.  This  was 
no  surprise  to  Teclcl\'  Perkins — Teddy  the  busybody,  the  tale- 
carrier,  the  spy,  the  all-around  nuisance,  the  jackal  which  hangs 
at  the  rear  of  the  chase.  Teddy  had  long  been  convinced  that  Frank 
was  a  sneak.  Now  he  wa.-.  doubly  certain.  Things  were  being  missed 
li\'  I  he  fellows.  Stickpins,  watchchains,  and  e\en  money  were  being 
purloined  from  the  dormitories  by  some  mysterious  agency.  The  Pres- 
ident made  theft  the  subject  of  his  talk  in  Tuesday  morning  collection. 
Teddy,  under  cover  of  his  Trig,  book,  darkly  insinuated  to  his  neighbors 
that  "he  knew  things  about  some  fellows  which  were  best  kept  dark." 
There  was  a  general  air  of  annoyance  and  uneasiness  among  the  classes, 
and  the  Rhineys  were  roundly  hissed  because  their  Jack-a-Napes  had 
surreptitiously  left  his  seat  and  was  squelched  into  an  apologetic  blush. 
The  miasma  of  distrust  was  polluting  the  wholesome  comradeship  of 
the  college.  And  between  Teddy  and  the  authorities  it  was  pretty  cer- 
tain that  Frank  Norris  would  he  expelled.  Not  publicly,  but  tacitly, 
tactfully.  To  be  sure,  Frank  had  ne\er  been  caught  in  any  of  the  mis- 
deeds attributed  to  him.  There  was  no  first-hand  witness  of  his  guilt. 
In  fact  the  affair  was  a  disagreeable  surprise  to  his  close  friends.  Frank 
had  always  been  so  straightforward  and  honorable  that  he  had  won  the 
respect  of  his  associates.  The  thinking  men  could  not  readily  admit 
that  their  esteem  was  unwarranted.  A  good  reputation  was  not  a  bauble 
to  be  cast  aside  at  the  slightest  provocation.  However,  there  were 
other  men  in  college — men  who  wore  the  distinguished  insignia  of  the 
fraternity-  of  "Knockers."  Critiques  "par  excellence,"  they  observed 
their  official  dignity  with  solemn  importance;  and  being  themselves  in 
that  enviable  state  of  idleness,  they  assumed  a  divine  power  to  hold  in- 
quests over  the  actions  of  their  more  productive  brethren.  Teddy  Per- 
kins was  an  important  functionary  in  that  cosmopolitan  society.  He 
was  well  \ersed  in  its  tenets  and  consequently  was  proficient  in  the  art 
of  holding  a  grudge.  Well  he  remembered  the  time  Frank  had  dis- 
placed him  as  quarterback  on  the  "Scrub"  and  had  eventually  become 
the  varsity  star.  And  the  girl — but  here  he  smiled  vindictively.  Time 
would  tell!  Of  course  the  evidence  was  not  conclusive.  But  his  face 
assumed  an  expression  of  malevolent  satisfaction  as  he  took  a  gold 
watchchain  from  his  pocket  and  eyed  it  reflectively.  He  had  found  it 
by  Frank's  door — undoubtedly  dropped  on  a  hurried  return  from  one 
of  his  doubtful  escapades.     The  blow  would  fall  tomorrow,  then.... 


246  The  Haverfordian 

Now  for  Sunday  evening  supper  (he  grimaced),  Y.  M.  C.  A.  (he  was 
smug),   and   then   a   quiet  session   with   the   Dean. 

Fall  twilight  on  the  campus.     Y.  M.  C.  A.  in  the  Union  at  6.30. 

From  Lloyd  issue  the  strains  of  a  "rag."  On  the  second  floor  of 
the  same,  four  stolid  figures  are  playing  bridge.  From  the  kitchen 
comes  the  clatter  of  dishes.  The  library  is  lighted  and  a  spectacled 
youth  pores  over  a  book.  Several  fellows  are  rambling  towards  Merion 
via  the  bushes.  In  the  Annex  an  animated  "game"  is  already  in  pro- 
gress. In  Merion  Cottage  a  "familiar"  figure  is  ensconced  in  an  arm- 
chair, in  a  posture  of  extreme  fatigue,  smoking  a  cigarette.     The  talk 

ends  in  the  Y.  M.  C.  A.     The  music — "Now  the  day  is  over" A 

small  group  issues  from  the  Union. 

And  over  all,  the  Spirit  of  Classic  Haverford  looks  below  and  frowns. 

Frank  Norris  rushed  out  of  Y.  M.  C.  A.  in  a  tumult  of  emotions. 
He  had  an  intuition  that  he  was  "in  bad" — quietly  black-balled  by  pop- 
ular verdict.  Hester  Prynne  with  her  shame  incarnadined  on  her 
breast  could  not  have  felt  more  poignantly  the  agony  of  soul  which 
Frank  was  undergoing.  If  his  shame  were  blazoned  from  the  trees, — 
shouted  in  the  highways, — it  would  be  preferable  to  this  awful,  silent, 
accusing  finger.  What  would  his  parents  say?  What  would  she — ah! 
the  bitter  tears  came  into  his  eyes.  She — whose  friendship  had  meant 
so  much; — a  friendship  which  he  fondly  called  love.  But  it  was  even 
more  than  love.  She  had  spurred  him  to  great  efforts.  She  had  stim- 
ulated his  ambition.  He  was  content  to  pursue  his  work  without  the 
vague,  unprofitable  ramblings  of  so  many  other  fellows, — with,  of  course, 
an  occasional  visit  to  her.     And  now  he  must  confess  his  disgrace. 

Stunned  in  mind,  unconscious  of  movement,  he  made  his  way  up 
Lancaster  Avenue  to  her  house. 

She  was  sitting  by  the  log  fire,  crocheting,  and  received  Frank  with 
the  sweet  naivete  he  knew  so  well.  She  was  very  attractive  in  her 
little  white  frock,  with  the  funny  ruffles  on  the  bottom.  She  knew  it 
was  his  favorite  .  After  the  conventional  greetings  (the  servant  girl 
was  just  disappearing),  Frank  sat  down  on  a  chair  she  had  placed  before 
the  hearth  for  him.  The  fire  burned  brightly  and  threw  a  rosy  light 
upon  his  pallid  countenance.  His  nervousness  was  apparent.  She 
glanced  at  him  curiously. 

"Why,  what  is  the  matter  tonight,  Frank?  Not  like  your  old  self 
at  all.  What  can  be  the  trouble?"  She  drew  her  chair  closer  in  a  de- 
lightfully confiding  manner. 


Circumstantial  Evidence  247 

"Oh — nothing — "  he  began,  at  a  loss  how  to  break  the  news.  Then, 
his  position  unbearable,  he  blurted:  "Yes,  everything  is  the  matter! 
I  have  to  tell  you — I  am  going  to  be  fired!" 

She  paled  instantly.  "Fired?  \Vh\-,  what  do  you  mean?  They — 
you  don't  mean " 

"Yes,  expelled  from  college,"  he  interrupted  savagely. 

"Oh!  Frank,  >ou  aren't?     What  for?" 

"Stealing!" 

She  drew  back  in  horror.  "Stealing?  You!  Oh!  it's  not  true! 
It  can't  be!     Tell  me  it  isn't  true,"  she  pleaded. 

Frank  attempted  to  answer,  but  failed.     He  could  not  frame  the 
words  which  would  express  his  innocence.     He  covered  his  face  and 
gritted  his  teeth  to  keep  back  the  tears. 

Then — marvel  of  marvels! — he  felt  a  soft  hand  on  his  head  and  a 
sweet,  sorrowful  ^•oice  whispered  in  his  ear: 

"Ne\'er  mind,  Frank,  dear.  I  know  there  is  some  awful  mistake. 
It  will  come  out  all  right.      I " 

She  did  not  finish.  Frank  sprang  to  his  feet  and,  without  a  word 
of  farewell,  rushed  hastily  from  the  room. 

She  heard  the  door  open  and  shut,  and  then  sank  limply  into  her 
chair. 

All  was  silent  in  the  room  save  for  the  merry  crackling  of  the  flames, 
which  now  flared  brightly  and  then  subsided. 

Outdoors  the  sky  was  black.  The  wind  howled  dismally  through 
the  trees,  and,  like  a  silent  guardian  of  the  campus,  old  Barclay  opposed 
her  somber  walls  to  the  raging  elements.  A  sudden  gust, — a  sound  of 
rending  wood, — a  mighty  crash!  One  more  of  the  historic  college  trees 
had  bowed  to  the  hand  of  time. 

The  next  morning  Frank  awoke  with  a  start  from  a  troubled  sleep. 
Lewis  had  just  entered  with  the  mail.  He  leafed  oxer  it.  One  letter — • 
two — three — nothing!  Frank  breathed  a  sigh  of  relief.  Just  then  a 
knock  at  the  door.  Cap  bowed  his  apologies.  "You  are  wanted  by 
the  President  immediately,  sir."     Frank's  heart  sank. 

"All  right.  Cap" He  hastily  pulled  on  his  clothes.     He  was  to 

be  fired,  then!  The  Dean  had  intimated  as  much  the  other  morning. 
Somebody  had  given  him  the  suspicions — and  the  watchchain.  Frank 
burned  with  rage  and  mortification.  He  pulled  on  a  brown  shoe  and  a 
black  pump  with  nervous  haste,  and  tied  his  cravat  in  a  sailor's  knot. 
Then  he  ran  for  the  ofifice.  It  seemed  ages  before  he  reached  Roberts. 
In  reality  it  was  only  thirty  seconds.     Every  incident  in  his  college  life 


248  The  Haverfordiax 

seemed  to  flash  before  his  eyes.  His  mind  was  a  jumbled  phantasma- 
goria. His  hopes,  his  successes,  his  failures, — all  the  little  odds  and 
ends  of  his  happy  three  years  were  crammed  into  that  one  mental  picture. 
Now  he  was  to . 

Frank  Norris  knocked  at  the  President's  door  with  a  firm  hand. 
He  would  at  least  "face  the  music." 

The  President  volunteered  a  grave  "Good  morning."  Frank  al- 
most fell  upon  his  knees  to  beg  leniency.  This  man,  whom  everyone 
respected  so  much,  inspired  a  ray  of  hope  in  his  breast. 

"Norris,  you  will  ha\-e  to  attend  church  if  you  stay  at  college  on 
Sundays.  You  overcut  above  all  allowances  the  last  quarter.  That  is 
all.     Good  morning!" 

"Wha — "  began  Frank,  then  ran  to  the  window.  There  were 
shouts  on  the  campus.  A  crowd  was  collecting  in  front  of  Barclay. 
Frank  rushed  out  to  learn  the  trouble,  forgetting  in  his  excitement  the 
plight  he  was  in.  "Only  kidding  the  old-clothes  man,"  he  surmised.  A 
jostling,  laughing  mob  surrounded  the  big  chestnut  tree,  which  had 
blown  down  the  night  before.  Frank  shouldered  his  way  to  the  front, 
where  he  could  see  what  was  causing  the  disturbance.  The  tree,  rotten 
and  hollow  from  age,  had  broken  close  to  the  ground.  And  there 
among  the  shattered  branches,  on  a  glittering  heap  of  coins,  pencils,  pins, 
and  all  imaginable  articles,  sat  a  very  excited  gray  squirrel,  chattering 
defiance  at  the  boisterous  crowd. 

— Robert  Gibson,  '17. 


Men  speak  of  sun  on  the  Temple  icall, 
The  bright-robed  throng  "within  the  mall, 
The  brazen  sun  enlightening  all — 

Light!    Light!    Light! 
While  I  who  sit  forever  blind. 
Begging  alms  from  the  passers  kind, 
Can  picture  only  in  my  mind — • 

Light!    Light!    Light! 
Of  what  avail  the  gushing  lean" 
The  gods  I  worship  draw  not  near. 
Consigned  to  Darkness  and  to  Fear, 

Blind!    Blind!  Blind! 

— Donald  G.  Baird,  '15. 


HittlE  Albert 

Cast  of  Characters 

A  German  Guard  of  the  Imperial  Army 
Little  Albert, — A  youthful  Belgian 
His  Mother 

THE  scene  is  a  street  corner  in  the  shattered  city  of  I.ouvnin  on  the 
morning  after  it  has  been  destroyed  by  the  Germans.  Wreckage 
and  smouldering  timber  extend  in  the  background.  In  front  to 
the  left,  a  German  guard  is  sitting  in  the  shadow  of  a  ruined  cathedral, 
reading  a  }wwspaper.     It  is  nine  o'clock  in  the  morning. 

A  little  boy  of  five  enters  on  the  right,  threading  his  way  through  the 
fallen  masonry  and  glass  which  fill  the  side  tvalk.  He  is  neatly  dressed 
in  a  blue  linen  suit,  his  golden  hair  is  Dutch  cut  and  socks  expose  his  chubby 
legs.  He  looks  about  him  in  a  bewildered  jashion  and  then  steps  up  to  the 
guard  and  touches  him  on  the  shoulder. 

Little  Albert — Have  you  seen  my  daddy  anywhere? 

Guard — Why  no,  sonny!  I  haven't  seen  anybody  to-day.  (There 
is  a  pause)  Guess  most  of  the  men  that  live  'round  here  are  sleeping 
late,  eh?  (He  smiles). 

L.  yl.— What  for? 

G. — There  are  no  alarm  clocks  in  eternity  my  boy. 

L.  A. — Then  that's  where  my  daddy  is;  he  loves  to  sleep.  How 
can  I  get  there? 

G. — A  real  little  Belgian  just  crazy  to  die.  Well  .  .  .  they  all 
seem  to  like  it  pretty  well,  but  (indulgently)  you  can't  get  there!  Come 
here  and  tell  me  how  you  happened  to  be  left  behind. 

L.  A. — (Perplexed)  I  haven't  been  left  anywhere.  I  live  right 
over  there.  Where  are  all  the  people,  and  what's  the  matter  with  all 
the  houses?     They're  all  falling  apart. 

G. — Where  were  >ou  yesterday?  Did  you  miss  the  little  party  we 
had? 

L.  A. — Yes;  mother  kept  me  in  the  house  all  day;  and  we  had  an 
awful  thunderstorm.  She  was  afraid.  I  saw  her  crying  once  and  laughed 
at  her;  I  wasn't  a  bit  afraid.  It  was  a  bad  storm  though  and  I  couldn't 
go  to  sleep,  so  I  went  up  in  the  attic  closet  awa\'  from  the  noise  and 
lay  down  on  some  blankets.  I  woke  up  this  morning  with  all  my  clothes 
on.  I  couldn't  find  mamma  but  she'll  be  back;  she  often  goes  out  early. 
Every  one  was  gone :  the  dining  room  and  kitchen  were  all  mixed  up 


250  The  Haverfordian 

so  I  came  out  here.      I  wish  mamma  would  come  back,  I  want  some 
breakfast,  I'll  go  and  see  if  she  is  home  yet. 

G. — She  isn't.      You  stay  here  with  me;  I'll  give  you  something 
to  eat. 

L.  A. — Thanks.     Say,  what  happened  to  all  the  houses  anyway? 

G. — I  guess  they  were  all  struck  by  lightning  in  the  storm.  You 
see  it  was  a  new  kind — a  German  thunderstorm.      They're  much  worse. 

L.  A . — Are  you  a  German  ? 

G.— Yes. 

L.  A. — Fighting  in  the  big  war? 

C— Yes. 

L.  A. — Then  why  don't  you  shoot  me? 

G. — Oh,  that  wouldn't  do  any  good. 

L.  A. — Does  it  do  any  good  to  shoot  the  other  men? 

G. — Yes,  they  must  be  shot  so  that  they  can't  shoot. 

L.  A. — Oh!  (He  sits  down  beside  the  Guard)  Have  you  got  a  little 
boy? 

G. — Yes,  I  have. 

L.  A. — Like  me? 

G.  — A  little  younger.     (He  hands  him  some  bread  and  jelly). 

L.  A. — Thanks;  (Eating)  That's  good,  it  tastes  like  mamma's. 

G. — Perhaps  it  is.     (Amusedly). 

L.  A. — Say,  does  your  little  boy  miss  you  like  I  miss  my  daddy? 

G. — I  hope  so. 

L.  A. — Then  why  don't  you  go  back  to  him?  There's  no  more 
men  to  shoot. 

G. — I  wish  I  could,  my  boy. 

L.  A. — I  wonder  if  his  mamma  cries  like  mine  when  there  is  a 
German  thunderstorm? 

G. — (Startled)  I'm  afraid  she  would,  but — er — we  don't  have 
them. 

L.  A. — (Seriously)  I  don't  think  it  is  nice  of  God  to  send  them  to 
us  when  no  one  else  has  them. 

G. — God  will  send  them  to  all  Europe  before  long.  "Some" 
storms  they  will  be,  too.  The  Allies  will  need  umbrellas  and  raincoats. 
It  will  be  raining  bullets.    Ha  I  Ha !  Ha !  (He  slaps  his  knee  at  the  thought.) 

L.  A. — What!  God  doesn't  send  bullets,  it  rains  water. 

{A  womaji  enters  suddenly  ai  the  right.  She  is  still  youthful  in  appear- 
ance though  her  hair  is  disheveled  and  her  shirtwaist  torn.  She  rushes  to  the 
hoy  and  clasps  him  fiercely  in  her  arms.) 


LlTTI.E    Al.RF.RT  251 

The  Mother — Thank  God  I've  found  you! 

L.  A. — (Puzzled)  Where  have  you  been  Mamma? 

M. — Been?  I've  been  searching  for  you  all  night;  where  were     you? 

L.  A. — I'pstairs  in  the  closet.  I  went  up  there  at  bed  time  because 
of  the  thunder. 

M. — To  think  what  I've  suffered  for  nothing.  (She  draws  her 
hand  wearily  across  her  forehead,)  I  thought  >ou  had  gotten  out,  you 
had  been  wanting  to  go  all  day,  and  I  found  the  door  left  open.  (Then 
noticing  the  guard,  she  draws  herself  up  to  her  full  height  and  faces  him 
scornfully)  Well,  Sir?  What  do  you  want,  him  too? 

G. — No,  mine  Frau. 

L.  A. — Oh!  mamma,  he  knows  where  daddy  is  and  we're  going 
to  find  him. 

-1/. — Hush,  child.     (She  closes  her  eyes  and  draws  in  a  quick  breath) 

G. — He  was  hungry  and  we  had  something  to  eat. 

L.  A. — It  was  good  too! 

M. — (Addressing  the  Guard)  What  are  you  left  here  for?  Are 
there  houses  which  your  shells  have  missed?  Or  has  someone  been  left 
alive  by  mistake? 

G. — (Laughing  insultingly)  No;  I'm  the  porter  left  to  watch  the 
stage  after  the  play  is  over.  It's  rather  slow  too,  now  that  the  curtain 
has  gone  down. 

M. — (Looking  at  him  with  startled  eyes)  Good  God,  is  it  all  a  joke 
to  \ou?  Have  you  Germans  all  gone  mad?  Where  are  your  minds 
and  where  are  your  hearts? 

G. — (Earnestly-)  My  heart  is  with  my  children  and  their  mother. 
As  for  my  mind,  men  do  not  stop  to  think  in  war — they  act.  If  we 
should  stop  to  think,  half  of  us  would  go  mad.  We  obey  the  command 
of  our  officer  as  if  he  were  a  god,  and  follow  the  man  in  front. 

M. — Officer! — I  suppose  you  mean  Lutwitz,  he  ought  to  be  a  galley 
slave,  not  an  officer.  Because,  in  desperation,  our  men  killed  and  wound- 
ed fifty  Germans,  he  orders  the  city  to  be  wiped  out.  He'll  be  an  officer 
in  Hell  soon. 

G. — We  fight  for  lives  as  other  men  do.     (Coldly). 

M. — No:  you  fight  because  you  love  it.  It  is  your  pride  and  your 
pleasure.  (Scornfully)  Aren't  you  proud  now?  Doesn't  it  rejoice 
your  heart,  that  you  have  crushed  Belgium? 

G. — Mine  Frau — We  will  not  complain  whether  we  win  or  lose. 
We  have  learned  that  it  is  a  privilege  to  die  for  our  countr\-.  If  you 
were  a  good  Belgian  you  would  think  the  same  and  not  wail  at  your 
losses.    Because  we  bite  the  dogs  at  our  throats,  you  think  us  heartless, 


252  The  Haverfordian 

but  we  fight  to  the  end,  and  if  we  lose  we  smile;  our  women  smile;    our 
children  smile,  and  say,  "We've  done  our  best  for  our  Fatherland!" 

M. — (Stepping  close  and  gazing  into  his  face  with  burning  eyes) 
And  you've  done  your  best  for  Belgium  too.  (Seeing  him  smile  amus- 
edly) Yes,  and  >-ou're  proud  of  your  conquest,  you  brutes!  How  brave 
you  have  been  to  attack  this  little  country  just  one  twentieth  of  your 
size.  (She  comes  close  to  him  with  her  fists  clenched)  I'm  a  good  patriot 
as  well  as  you.  I  gave  m\-  husband  to  be  slaughtered.  Yesterday  I 
received  a  damnable  little  slip  of  paper  saying  that  my  nineteen  year 
old  boy  was  dead.  That  boy  didn't  belong  to  Belgium.  He  belonged 
to  me.  /  suffered  to  bring  him  into  this  world;  it  was  my  breasts  that 
nourished  him;  my  arms  that  rocked  him  to  sleep,  and  my  lips  that 
kissed  away  his  baby  tears,  and  in  the  name  of  God,  will  j'ou  tell  me 
what  right  they've  got  to  kill  him. 

G. — Mine  Frau,  War  is  not  "right."  It  is  one  huge  sacrifice. 
Men  give  their  blood,  and  women  give  (He  hesitates  with  a  grim  smile) 
.  .  .  their  tears.  It  is  all  they've  got  to  give,  but  it's  an  even  bargain, 
I  guess. 

M. — (Fiercely)    Don't  we  bear  the   men   that   fight  and   aren't  our 
hearts  torn  worse  than  their  flesh?      (Then  slowly  she  turns  to  little 
Albert  who  has  been  watching  her  in  amazement)  I  didn't  mean  that 
you  should  know  all  this,  Albert,  try  to  forget  it,  won't  you? 
L.  A. — But  Mamma,  he  knows  where  Daddy  is. 
M. — And  so  do  I,  darling.     He  and  brother  are  together  and  happy, 
I  hope.    We  can't  see  them  again,  Albert,  but  if  we  are  good  and  brave, 
they  will  look  after  us.     We'll  forget  all  this  and  just  love  each  other, 
won't  we,  darling?     (She  smiles  bravely  at  her  boy,  then  turning  to  the 
soldier:  she  bows  courteously)  Thank  you  for  feeding  him,  sir! 
G. — I'd  do  it  for  any  boy,  M'am,  I  got  one  too. 
M. — Come  Albert,  (She  takes  him  by  the  hand). 
L.  A. — Are  we  going  home.  Mamma? 

M. — No  dear,  we're  going  to  America,  away  from  all  this  horror 
and  death. 

L.  A. — Do    they   have    German    thunder   storms    there.  Mamma? 
M. — No,  there  the  sun  shines,  and  there  is  peace.       (She  takes 
him  in  her  arms  and  walks  slowly  off  stage). 

Curtain 

— C.    Van  Dam,   '17. 


THE  UNEASY  CHAIR 


THE  CASE  OF  DR.   NEARING:     INDIVIDUAL  FREEDOM 
VERSUS  CONSTITUTED  AUTHORITY 

THE  dismissal  of  Dr.  Scott  Nearing  by  tiie  Board  of  Trustees  of  the 
L'ni\ersit\'  of  Pennsylvania  last  June  attracted  such  widespread 
notice  and  comment  that  it  would  be  superfluous  to  go  into  the 
early  details  of  the  case.  Recently  Dr.  J.  William  White  presented  a 
justification  of  Nearing's  dismissal  in  the  columns  of  the  "  Public  Ledger"; 
and  the  Board  of  Trustees,  moved  by  the  torrent  of  protest  aroused  by 
their  action,  has  issued  a  written  statement  of  the  ostensible  grounds  of 
their  action.  But  neither  Dr.  White's  well-expressed  arguments  nor 
the  reasons  of  the  Board  ha\e  altered  the  case  for  the  better.  The  truth 
of  the  matter  is  that  Dr.  Nearing's  dismissal,  in  one  respect,  is  very 
similar  to  the  rape  of  Belgium  and  the  sinking  of  the  "Lusitania."  It 
is  so  bad  that  the  most  skillful  defense  only  makes  it  look  worse.  Dr. 
Nearing  is  accused  of  setting  radical  economic  theories  before  a"  class 
of  people  that  is  incapable  of  understanding  properly  such  unsettling 
doctrines,"  and  of  "compromising  the  University  by  an  inordinate  desire 
for  personal  exploitation."  In  regard  to  the  first  objection,  it  may  be 
observed  that  Dr.  Nearing's  theories,  if  true,  may  very  well  be  com- 
municated to  those  who  are  most  affected  by  them ;  while,  in  regard  to 
the  second,  it  would  seem  that  the  University  could  hardly  object  to 
any  excess  of  coarseness  and  vulgarity  after  giving  its  unreserved  sanc- 
tion to  that  remarkable  religious,  histrionic  and  financial  genius,  the 
Rev.  William  A.  Sunday,  during  his  stay  in  Philadelphia  last  winter.  Dr. 
Nearing's  thorough  knowledge  of  his  subject,  magnetic  personality  and 
power  of  inspiring  his  students  with  genuine  enthusiasm  are  unques- 
tioned. And  yet,  despite  these  facts,  despite  the  recommendation  of 
Nearing's  colleagues  of  the  faculty  (the  only  proper  judges  of  a  professor's 
competence),  the  Board  of  Trustees  dismissed  Dr.  Nearing  merely 
because  he  had  certain  radical  economic  theories  and  was  not  afraid  to 
express  them.  A  more  damning  proof  of  the  disgraceful  subservience 
of  the  University  to  corrupt  business  and  reactionary  politics  could 
hardly  be  recjuired. 

But  Dr.  Nearing's  case,  while  interesting  in  itself,  is  peculiarly  in- 
structive as  illustrative  of  the  age-long  battle  between  individual  free- 


254 


The  Haverfordian 


dom  and  constituted  authority,  the  bulwark  of  those  unfortunate  indi- 
viduals who  feel  divinely  commissioned  to  relieve  their  neighbors  of  the 
trouble  of  thinking  for  themselves.  It  is  a  battle  which  has  taken  many 
forms;  but  which  has  had,  and  always  will  have,  only  one  result.  Charles 
I  and  Archbishop  Laud  tried  to  relie\"e  the  English  people  of  the  respon- 
sibility of  doing  their  own  political  and  religious  thinking;  and  the 
English  people  sent  king  and  priest  to  the  block.  The  Bourbons  made 
the  same  attempt  in  France,  with  the  same  result.  And  the  whole  ten- 
dency of  history  has  been  slowly,  but  irresistibly  inclining  away  from  the 
divine  right  of  the  Church,  from  the  divine  right  of  the  State,  to  the 
human  right  of  the  individual  to  self-e.\pression  and  self-development. 
It  should  be  the  part  of  e^"ery  college  student  who  believes  in  true  democ- 
racy, to  work  for  free  thought  and  free  speech  to  such  an  extent  that  a 
repetition  of  the  Scott  Nearing  outrage  will  become  impossible. 

—  TT'.  H.  C,  '17. 


JLUMNI 


The  Ha\'erford  undergraduates 
of  this  and  future  generations  owe 
much  to  the  memory  of  John  T. 
Morris,  Ex-'67,  whose  death  oc- 
curred during  the  late  summer. 
Not  only  did  he  contribute  the 
money  for  building  the  Morris 
Infirmary,  but  he  personally  su- 
pervised and  provided  for  every 
detail  of  its  nearly  perfect  con- 
struction and  equipment.  And 
he  spared  neither  time  nor  thought 
nor  money  to  do  this.  Only  those 
who  have  been  so  unfortunate  as 
to  have  been  sick  in  the  three 
rooms  on  the  top  floor  of  Founders 
Hall,  which  formerly  served  as  an 
infirmary,  can  fully  appreciate 
this  debt. 


To  do  things  as  nearly  perfect 
as  was  humanly  possible  was  his 
predominant  characteristic.  Only 
that  which  was  real,  genuine,  per- 
fect, held  his  interest.  And  what 
he  did  was  done  without  the  noise 
of  trumpets,  without  expectation 
of  reward,  other  than  the  lasting 
satisfaction  of  having  performed 
his  undertaking  to  the  best  of  his 
abilit}'.  A  friend  of  long  standing, 
when  told  that  he  had  offered  to 
build  the  proposed  Haverford  Col- 
lege Infirmary,  remaiked,  "If 
they" — meaning  the  college  au- 
thorities— "will  keep  their  hands 
off  he  will  build  the  finest  college 
infirmary  in   the   country," 

He    never    took    anv    credit    to 


Tnii  Alumni 


255 


himself  for  what  he  had  done,  nor 
did  he  wish  any  gi\-en  him,  rather 
holding  the  opinion  that  the  part 
he  had  played,  first  in  making  Hav- 
crford's  Infirmary  possible,  and 
then  nearly  perfect,  was  of  but 
little  moment.  It  was  most  fit- 
ting with  his  other  traits  of  char- 
acter that  only  those  who  were 
close  to  him,  only  those  who  gave 
him  their  \cive  and  who  held  his 
love,  should  ha\"e  known  of  his  ex- 
treme kindliness  of  heart,  his  ready 
sympathy  and  his  generous  in- 
stincts. A  good,  kind,  brave,  honest 
man  of  strong  convictions  has  be- 
gun a  bigger  life — a  stout  heart 
that  recognized  and  held  to  the 
genuine  beauty  of  his  world,  in 
spite  of  its  rush  and  cold,  has  gone 
on. 

— By   An    Alumnus. 

The  sad  report  of  two  more 
Haverfordians  who  have  crossed 
the  bar  and  who  are  now  only 
cherished  memories  to  their  friends, 
includes  Alexander  A.  Richmond, 
E7-'54,  and  \\'ilson  L.  Smith, 
Ex-'89. 

Alexander  .-\.  Richmond  was 
born  in  Xew  Bedford,  Mass.,  Juh' 
11th,  1836,  the  son  of  Joshua  Rich- 
mond and  Hannah  H.  Husscy. 
He  entered  Haverford  in  the  year 
1851  and  was  here  for  only  one 
term,  leaving  in  1851.  On  Octo- 
ber 13th,  1868,  he  was  united  in 
marriage  with  Miss  Emma  Frost. 
Their  home  was  in  Peekskill,  N.  Y., 


where  occurred  the  death   of   Mr. 
Richmond  on  October  15th,  1915. 

Wilson  Longstreth  Smith  died 
at  his  home,  135  South  18th  St., 
Philadelphia,  Pa.,  on  Sunday,  Octo- 
ber 3d,  after  an  illness  of  three 
weeks.  Mr.  Smith  was  born  in 
Philadelphia,  April  28th,  1867, 
the  son  of  Horace  J.  Smith  and 
Margaret  Longstreth.  He  was  a 
direct  descendant  of  James  Logan, 
who  came  to  this  country  with 
William  Penn.  Mr.  Smith  en- 
tered Haverford  in  1885  and  left 
at  the  close  of  his  Sophomore  year. 
On  September  21st,  1893,  he  mar- 
ried Miss  Frances  Evehn  Busiel, 
of  Laconia,  N.  H.  He  was  a 
member  of  the  Art  Club,  the  Hun- 
tingdon Valley  Country  Club,  the 
Philadelphia  Historical  Soci2ty 
and  the  Rumson  Country  Club,  of 
Rumson,  N.  J.  Funeral  services 
were  conducted  at  Mr.  Smith's 
home  by  the  Rev.  A.  J.  P.  Mc- 
Clure,  of  the  St.  James'  Protestant 
P2piscopal  Church. 

President  Sharpless  received  in 
June  the  honorary-  degree  of  LL.D. 
from  Har\ard  Uni\ersity.  "He 
resisted,"  said  President  Lowell, 
"the  lure  of  numbers  and  insisted 
on  upholding  the  ideals  of  scholar- 
ship and  character." 

At  a  joint  meeting  of  three 
committees,  consisting  of  the 
President  of  the  College,  the  Chair- 
man,  and    a    special     Committee 


256 


The  Haverfordian 


from  the  Board  of  Managers,  and 
the  Alumni  Extension  Comm.ittee, 
Richard  M.  Gummere,  '02,  was  ap- 
pointed Assistant  to  the  President. 
to  assume  his  duties  at  once  and 
correlate  the  work  in  which  Alumni 
and  Faculty  and  undergraduates 
have  been  interested.  He  will 
assist  the  President  in  any  detail 
matters  which  the  President  con- 
signs to  him,  he  will  act  as  an  inter- 
mediate and  connecting  link  be- 
tween Alumni  and  undergraduates 
in  all  lines  when  those  bodies  come 
together,  and  he  will  have  charge 
of  such  matters  as  the  correspond- 
ence which  has  grown  up  in  ^•arious 
Eastern  newspapers.  He  has  a 
desk  in  the  Dean's  office,  Roberts 
Hall,  and  can  be  reached  there 
every  morning. 

'65 
Professor  Jones  expects  to  de- 
liver a  Lowell  Lecture  in  Boston 
the  coming  winter  on  "The  Influ- 
ence of  the  Quakers  in  New  Eng- 
land." 

'71 

William  D.  Hartshorne  has  had 
published  recently  by  the  Rockwell 
and  Churchill  Press,  of  Boston, 
Mass.,  a  monograph  on  "The 
Relations  Between  Humidity  and 
Regains  on  Wool  and  Cotton." 

Mr.  Hartshorne,  who  has  for- 
merly published  studies  concern- 
ing the  effects  of  moisture  on 
cotton  and  worsted,  purposes  to 
show    the    results    on    weights    of 


climatic  changes.  The  article  is 
explained  by  means  of  unit  system 
charts  based  on  readings  from  the 
Sling  Hygrometer. 

This  work  is  of  additional  in- 
terest from  the  fact  that  the 
cotton  industry  is  now  facing 
serious  problems. 

Wm.  D.  Hartshorne,  Jr.,  '11, 
attended  summer  school  at  Co- 
lumbia LTniversity  in  New  York 
last  summer,  as  also  did  L  C.  Poley, 
'12,  and  Stanley  R.  Yarnall,  '92. 
A.  G.  H.  Spiers,  '02,  taught  French 
at  this  same  summer  school. 

'84 
Chas.  Jacobs,  who  has  taught 
modern  languages  at  Moses  Brown 
School  for  a  great  many  years,  is 
suffering  fron  a  severe  illness  and 
will  not  be  able  to  carry  on  his 
teaching  this  year. 

'92 
Christian  Brinton  has  been  ap- 
pointed Trowbridge  Lecturer  at 
Yale  University.  He  will  deliver 
an  illustrated  lecture  on  "Im- 
pressionistic and  Decorative  Ten- 
dencies in  Landscape  and  Figure," 
on  January  10th. 

'94 
Dr.  C.  B.  Farr,  who  recently 
got  his  M.A.  from  Haverford,  is 
now  Professor  at  the  Polyclinic 
Hospital  on  Diseases  of  the  Stom- 
ach. 


The  Alumni 


257 


'96 

The  engagement  is  announced 
of  L.  HoUingsworth  Wood  and 
Miss  Helen  I'nderhill,  of  Jericho, 
L.  I. 

Mr.  Wood  recenth-  sent  pamph- 
lets to  the  students  at  Haverford, 
in  an  endea^■or  to  eliminate  the 
smokers  of  cigarettes.  The  de- 
mand of  the  world  is  elficienc\' 
and,  as  Mr.  Wood  expresses  it, 
"some  important  business  inter- 
ests are  feeling  the  advantage  of 
eliminating  the  smokers  of  cigar- 
ettes." The  booklet,  published 
by  Henry  Ford,  is  entitled,  "The 
Case  Against  the  Little  White 
Slaver,"  and  contains  the  com- 
ments of  some  of  the  successful 
business  men  of  this  country. 

Mr.  Wood  was  also  among  the 
speakers  at  the  International  Peace 
Congress  held  at  San  Francisco, 
California,  on  Oct.  10th,  11th,  1.5th. 

'97 

T.  X.  Maxfield,  who  is  assistant 
in  Philosoph\-  at  the  Uni\-ersity  of 
Pennsylvania,  recently  delivered 
several  lectures  on  Psychology  at 
Ha\-erford. 

'98 
Dr.  ^^'illiam  W.  Cadbury  had 
published  in  the  October  number 
of  Present  Day  Papers  an  article 
on  "The  Method  of  Presenting 
the  Fssence  of  Christianity  to  a 
Non-Christian  People."  Dr.  Cad- 
bury is  a  member  of  the  faculty 
at  Canton  Christian  College,  Can- 


ton, China,  and  is  well  fitted  to 
treat  this  subject,  in  which  he  is 
especially  interested.  The  arti- 
cle proves  that  Christianity  con- 
tains the  most  complete  and  per- 
fect revelation  of  the  fundamental 
truths  of  religion.  Therefore  it 
is  the  duty  of  missionaries  to  study 
the  attitude  of  their  people  toward 
religion  and  life  in  general,  in 
order  to  "present  Christianily 
from  the  point  of  \  iew  that  will 
win  their  interest  and  attention." 
r3r.  Cadbury  goes  on  to  show  how 
these  methods  have  been  applied 
in  Canton. 

Dr.  Cadbur>'  is  at  present  in  this 
country,  and  spoke  at  a  recent 
meeting  of  the  College  Y.  M.  C.  A. 

'01 
E.  Marshall  Scull  was  one  of 
the  speakers  at  a  meeting  of  the 
"Society  for  the  Promotion  of 
Liberal  Studies,"  at  the  Orpheus 
Club  Rooms,  1520  Chestnut  St., 
Philadelphia,   on   October   29th. 

'02 

Dr.  P.  Nicholson  is  assisting 
Dr.  Gittings  on  the  Children's 
Hospital  service. 

Children  were  recently  liorn  to 
C.  R.  Cary  and  to  W.  \ .  Dennis. 

'05 
Sigmund  C  Spaeth,  who  is  the 
music    critic   on    the    "New    York 
Evening    Mail,"    has   recently   an- 
nounced his  engagement. 


258 


The  Haverfordian 


•06 
Roderick  Scott  has  accepted   a 
position  as    assistant   professor    of 
English  at  Oberlin  College,  Ohio. 

'07 
Dr.  Joseph  G.   Birdsall  is  asso- 
ciated now  with  Dr.  B.  A.  Thomas, 
Professor  of  G.  U.  at  the  Univer- 
sity and  Polyclinic  Hospitals. 

Dr.  Wilbur  H.  Haines  is  associ- 
ated now  with  Drs.  Uhle  and 
McKinney  in  the  Williams  Build- 
ing and  the  German  Hospital. 

Chas.  R.  Hoover  is  associate 
professor  of  Chemistry  at  Wesleyan 
University,  Middletown,  Conn. 

'08 

Fisher  C.  Baily  has  provided 
the  Alumni  Department  with  a 
pamphlet  advertising  "  The  Baily's 
Baby  Bathluh"  the  new,  portable, 
collapsible,  detachable,  seamless, 
sanitary  baby  bathtub,  scientifi- 
cally made.  To  prove  the  su- 
periority of  the  new  method,  a 
B.  B.  B.  baby  is  pictured  standing 
on  the  North  Pole,  kicking  an  obso- 
lete instrument  of  torture  into 
space. 

Price  85.00  at  all  progressive 
dealers. 

T.  Morris  Longstreth  has  had 
published  by  the  Outing  Publishing 
Co.,  of  New  York,  a  book,  "Read- 
ing  the   Weather."     This   \'olume 


is    one   of   the    Outing    Handbook 
Series. 

'10 
H.  S.  Hires  has  been  made  New 
York  manager  of  the  Hires  Root 
Beer  Company'. 

W.  P.  Tomlinson  attended  the 
University  of  Wisconsin  summer 
school. 

'11 
Wilmer  J.  Young,  who  has  been 
teaching  at  the  Friends'  Boarding 
School  at  Barnesville,  Ohio,  for  the 
past  four  years,  will  teach  Higher 
Mathematics  at  Moses  Brown 
School,  at  Providence,  R.  I.,  during 
the  coming  year. 

David  Hinshaw's  address  is  now 
565  West  113th  Street,  New  York 
City. 

'12 
Guy  Wheeler  and  David  Colden 
Murray  attended  the  Convention 
on  Football   that  met  recently  in 
New  York. 

Lance  Lathem  is  with  the  Hem- 
inger-Nicholson  Evangelistic  Or- 
ganization— a  miniature  Billy  Sun- 
day troupe.  They  will  carry  on 
religious  campaigns  in  Pennsyl- 
vania towns  during  the  coming 
winter,  having  begun  at  Leighton, 
Pa.,  early  in  September. 


TnR  Au'MM 


259 


Carrol  Crosman  is  engaged  on 
the  Publicity-  Bureau  of  the  Her- 
shcy  Chocolate  Co. 

Norris  Hall  is  teaching  two  sec- 
tions of  freshman  Chemistry  at 
Harvard  University  this  year,  and 
doing  further  work  towards  his 
Ph.D.  degree. 

E.  T.  Kirk  announces  the  arrival 
on  July  12,  1915.  of  ]VIar\-  E\elyn 
Kirk  at  State  College,  Pa. 

'U 
Carroll  D.  Champlin  is  assistant 
to   Dr.   Snyder,    the    instructor   in 
English  at  Haverford. 

'15 
P.  R.  Allen  is  in  the  employ  of 
the  General  Radio  Company',  Cam- 
bridge, Mass. 

VV.  C.  Brinton  is  engaged  in 
business  with  his  uncle  in  Philadel- 
phia, Pa. 

N.  B.  Coleman  and  E.  N.  Cros- 
man are  with  the  Rhoads  Leather 
Belt    Co.,    Philadelphia. 

J.  W.  Gummere  is  studying  at 
the  General  Theological  Semi- 
nary, New  York. 

P.  C.  Hendricks  is  the  secretary 
to  Dr.  Hancock,  former  professor 
of  English  at  Haverford,  at  At- 
lantic City,  N.  J. 


Thomas  Hoopes,  Jr.,  and  W.  H. 
Leland  spent  the  summer  tra\- 
eling  to  California  by  "auto." 

E.  M.  Levis  is  in  business  with 
his  uncle. 

Joseph  McNeill  is  studying  at 
the  Princeton  Theological  Sem- 
inary. 

E.  L.  Moore  is  in  the  stock  busi- 
ness at  the  Galloway  Stock  Farm, 
Easton,  Md. 

F.  M.  Morley  is  a  member  of 
the  Ha\erford  ambulance  corps 
in  France. 

E.  M.  Pharo  is  a  reporter  for 
the  Atlantic  City  Review. 

Elmer  Shaffer  is  studying  Biol- 
ogy in  the  Princeton  Graduate 
School. 

Yvo  Wain  is  teaching  at  the 
l'ni\-ersity  of  Maine. 

E.  R.  Dunn  is  one  of  the  teach- 
ing fellows  at  Haverford,  instead 
of  E.  IVL  Bowman,  as  was  stated 
in  the  October  Haverfordiax. 

E.  M.  Bowman  is  assistant  in 
French. 

Andrew  Harvey  is  an  assistant 
in  Chemistry  at  Juniata  College, 
Huntingdon,   Pa. 

Edgar  C.  Bye  is  teaching  in  the 
West  Chester  Normal  School. 


260 


The  Haverfordian 


We  are  pleased  to  publish  the  following  communication: 

To  the  Author  of  "The  Intruder," 
Haverford  College, 

Haverford,  Penna. 

Dear  Sir: 

I  am  sorry  for  the  e\'il  mind  of  the  author  of  such  a  diabolical  plot, 
the  only  redeeming  feature  of  which  was  that  the  "Lad}'  Killer,"  Judas- 
like, threw  away  the  unholy  coin. 

If,  as  in  my  case,  your  only  daughter  was  a  Sister  of  Charity,  and 
you  knew  the  real  life  of  the  Sisters,  you  would  employ  your  talent  in 
a  different  direction  and  not  endeavor  to  throw  a  slur  on  defenceless, 
holy  women,  who,  from  supernatural  motives,  have  given  up  everything 
in  life  which  the  world  holds  dear,  to  serve  God  and  their  fellow-beings. 

You.r  picture  is  not  truthful  about  the  Convent  walls — except 
where  fallen  women  are  looked  after,  and  the  idea  is  possibly  derived 
from  the  stories  of  "escaped  nuns"  or  "The  Menace."  The  idea  of  a 
Sister  wandering  around  the  grounds  in  the  moonlight,  while  all  the  rest 
were  asleep,  is  only  intended  for  the  ignorant  or  bigoted.  I  enclose  you 
an  article  describing  the  motive  and  life  of  a  Sister  of  Charity,  which 
would  be  well  worth  your  perusal. 


Bell  Phone  868 
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261 


One  might  be  led  to  lielie\e  from  your  article  that  your  associates, 
before  you  entered  Ha\'erford  College,  were  such  as  those  who  made 
the  bets  with  the  "Lady  Killer." 

If  you  had  any  knowledge  of  the  Convent  life  of  the  Sisters  of 
Charity,  \ou  would  know  that  no  Sister  who  is  unhappy,  is  permitted 
to  remain  there,  and  great  care  is  exercised  in  ascertaining  whether  a 
newcom_er  will  make  a  desirable  addition  to  the  Family.  For  three 
months  after  their  entrance,  they  wear  the  clothes  they  came  with; 
at  the  end  of  that  time,  they  receive  the  Novice's  veil,  and  then  for 
two  years  are  under  the  strictest  obser\'ation  to  see  whether  a  religious 
life  is  their  real  vocation.  They  are  not  allowed  to  take  any  vows  until 
ten  years  have  elapsed  front  the  time  they  entered  the  Convent. 

There  is  one  thing  to  be  noted  about  the  article,  for  which  I  give 
you  credit,  and  that  is  that  >'ou  were  probably  ashamed  to  write  your 
nam.e  at  the  foot  of  it. 


Yours  truly. 


A.  A.  Hirst. 


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EDITORS 
Robert  Gibson,  1917  Editor-in-Chief 
D.  C.  Wendell,  1916  W.  H.  Chamberlin,  1917 

G.  A.  Dunlap,  1916  C.  D.  Van  Dam,  1917 

Donald  Painter,  1917  J.  G.  C.  LeClero^,  1918 

BUSINESS  MANAGERS 
Edward  R.  Moon,  1916  (Mgr.)        Arthur  E.  Spellissy,  1917  {Assl.  Mgr.) 
J.  Stewart  Huston,  1919  (Asst.  Mgr.) 

Price,  per  year SI -00  Single  copies SO.  15 

The  Haverfordian  is  published  on  the  tenth  of  each  month  during  college 
year.  Its  purpose  is  to  foster  the  literary  spirit  among  the  undergraduates  and 
to  provide  an  organ  for  the  discussion  of  questions  relative  to  college  life  and 
policy.  To  these  ends  contributions  are  invited,  and  will  be  considered  solely 
on  their  merits.  Matter  intended  for  insertion  should  reach  the  Editor  not  later 
than  the  fifteenth  of  the  month  preceding  the  date  of  issue. 

Entered  at  the  Haverford  Post-Office,  for  transmission  through  the  mails  as  second-class  matter 
Vol.  XXXVII  HAVERFORD,  PA.,  DECEMBER,  1915  No.  7. 


We  are  glad  to  announce  the  election  of  Donald  Painter,  '17, 
to  the  editorial  board,  and  of  J.  Stewart  Huston,  '19,  to  the 
business  board  of  the  Haverfordian.  The  ability  shown  by 
the  former  in  versification  and  essay  writing,  and  the  con- 
scientious work  of  the  new  assistant  business  manager,  make 
them  both  welcome  additions  to  the  magazine. 


3n  trfjifi  Ssisiue 

Special  Features 

The  Philistine W.  H.  Chamberlin,  '17  265 

? Robert  Gibson,  '17  276 

Billy  Sleeps  Late C.  Van  Dam,  '17  278 

Stories 

Five  to  Two  on  Ima D.  C.  Clement,  '17  270 

Sons  of  Attila J.  G.  C.  LeClercq,  '18  285 

A   Summer  of  Psychology G.  A.   Dunlap,  '16  288 

Verse 

A  Ballade  of  France F.  M.  Morley,  '15  269 

La    Soledad Albert    H.    Stone,  '16  275 

Dreams Donald  H.  Painter,  '17  277 

The  Last  Robin Robert  Gibson,  '17  284 

The  City D.  C.  Wendell,  '16  287 

Nox  Advenil J.  W.  Spaeth,  '17  291 

Departments 

Books E.  T.   Price,  '17  292 

The  Uneasy  Clmir 293 

Alumni Donald   H.    Painter  294 


THE    HAVERFORDIAN 


Vol.  XXXVII.  HAVERFORD,  PA.,  DECEMBER.   1915  No.  7. 


THE  term  Philistine,  while  always  suggestive  of  an  unfavorable 
meaning,  has  been  subjected  to  a  large  variety  of  interpreta- 
tions. To  Matthew  Arnold  the  word  brought  up  a  vision  of 
the  smug  self-complacency  and  spiritual  barrenness  of  the  English  middle 
class.  Nietzsche  brands  the  academic  pedants  of  his  time  with  the 
phrase  "Culture-Philistines."  Robert  Schumann,  an  able  critic  as  well 
as  a  great  composer,  divides  his  brother-musicians  into  two  groups,  the 
Davidsbundler  (League  of  David)  and  the  Philistines.  Needless  to  say, 
the  former  group  was  supposed  to  include  the  musicians  whose  work  was 
true  and  enduring,  while  the  latter  was  designed  to  contain  the  composers 
who  sacrificed  genuine  art  to  meretricious  brilliance.  And  Schumann 
gave  his  idea  an  excellent  setting,  when  he  wrote  a  stirring  piece  of  music, 
entitled,  "The  March  of  the  Davidsbundler  Against  the  Philistines." 
But  it  is  evident  that,  when  the  word  Philistine  is  used  to  express  obtuse- 
ness  and  bad  taste  in  so  many  fields,  very  few  can  be  altogether  free  of 
the  charge.  So  Tolstoi,  consummate  master  of  the  art  of  literature,  is 
a  sad  Philistine  in  questions  of  art  and  music.  Wagner,  a  monarch  in 
the  realm  of  music,  is  a  novice  when  he  tries  to  interpret  philosophy. 
On  the  other  hand,  Schopenhauer,  for  all  his  mastery  of  pessimistic  philos- 
ophy, displays  puerile  taste  in  music.  Hence  it  may  readily  be  perceived 
that,  while  very  few  are  entirely  free  of  the  taint  of  Philistinism,  very 
few,  on  the  other  hand,  are  so  unfortunate  as  to  conform  to  the  perfect, 
or  ideal  type  of  Philistine.  But,  for  the  sake  of  convenience,  let  us  as- 
sume that  the  perfect  Philistine  exists,  let  us  imagine  him  as  living  in 
our  own  America  of  the  twentieth  century,  and  let  us  see  what  sort  of  fig- 
ure meets  our  gaze. 

In  the  first  place,  the  true  Philistine  is  very  active  in  church  work 
and  very  eager  to  impress  the  world  with  his  devotion  to  religious  and 
spiritual  interests.  Nor  can  he  be  justly  accused  of  hypocrisy.  The 
Philistine  is  too  sincerely  convinced  of  his  own  wisdom  and  virtue  to 
admit  the  conscious  self-contempt  which  is  almost  necessarily  involved 
in  hypocrisy.     He  is  an  ardent  upholder  of  dogmatic  religion,  partly 


266  The  Haverfordian 

because  it  relieves  him  of  the  painful  trouble  of  thinking  for  himself,  and 
partly  because  he  has  a  vague,  but  strong  conviction  that,  if  it  were  not 
for  the  Church,  and  his  support  of  the  Church,  society  would,  somehow, 
sink  into  a  state  of  hopeless  demoralization.  If  atheism  were  the  pre- 
vailing rule  in  the  "best"  circles,  he  would  be  an  atheist  with  equal  firm- 
ness of  conviction  and  absence  of  reason.  Another  advantage  of  religion, 
from  the  Philistine's  standpoint,  is  the  opportunity  that  it  gives  him  to 
introduce  his  own  ideas  as  direct  revelations  of  the  Deity.  To  deserve 
a  high  place  in  the  ranks  of  Philistia  one  must  have  an  overweening 
confidence  in  one's  own  judgment  and  a  firm  conviction  that  it  is  a  sacred 
duty  to  impose  that  infallible  judgment  upon  one's  less  fortunate  neigh- 
bors. The  oppressive  laws  for  Sunday  observance,  which  still  linger 
on  in  our  eastern  states,  bear  eloquent  testimony  to  the  handiwork  of 
the  Philistine. 

In  politics  our  Philistine  will  give  his  heartiest  support  to  the  most 
corrupt  political  machine,  if  he  derives  any  personal  advantage  from  its 
success,  and  will  very  probably  convince  himself  that  his  course  is  worthy 
of  Washington  and  Lincoln.  If  he  does  not  have  any  direct  interest  in 
the  triumph  of  the  machine,  he  may  pose  as  a  reformer  and  work  himself 
into  a  noble  fit  of  righteous  indignation  over  the  way  in  which  the  igno- 
rant voters  are  misled  by  unscrupulous  politicians  into  voting  against 
the  candidates  nominated  by  the  Philistine  and  his  brethren  of  the  "better 
classes."  He  may  even  head  a  reform  ticket,  and  receive  a  respectful 
obituary  notice  the  morning  after  the  election.  But  it  is  safe  to  assume 
that  any  movement  looking  to  genuine  progress  will  meet  with  resolute 
opposition  on  the  part  of  the  Philistine.  His  political  activity  is  based 
sometimes  on  personal  interest,  sometimes  on  personal  vanity,  never  on 
enlightened  patriotism. 

Very  similar  considerations  enter  into  his  views  on  the  industrial 
problems  of  the  day.  He  will  give  liberally  of  his  time  and  money  to 
committees  for  the  suppression  of  the  social  evil;  and  pay  less  than  a 
living  wage  to  the  women  and  girls  in  his  employment.  The  eloquence 
with  which  he  thunders  against  union  labor  and  the  violence  which  is  an 
occasional  accompaniment  of  strikes,  is  worthy  of  Webster.  But  that 
eloquence  is,  somehow,  conspicuous  by  its  absence  when  the  disorder 
and  violence  are  initiated  by  the  agents  of  the  em.ployer,  rather  than  by 
the  strikers.  For  Germans  to  kill  women  and  children  in  Belgium  is 
quite  shocking;  for  "deputy  sheriflfs"  and  "militia,"  in  the  pay  of  the 
Colorado  Fuel  and  Iron  Co.,  to  turn  machine  guns  on  the  helpless  wives 
and  children  of  the  strikers — that  is  altogether  different.  We  all  remem- 
ber the  tirades  of  perfectly  just  and  proper  indignation  with  which  the 


The  Philistine  267 

reactionary  Philistine  press  received  tlie  conviction  of  the  McNamaras. 
But  we  have  observed  very  few  strictures  on  the  far  worse  outrages  re- 
cently committed  by  Rockefeller's  private  army  in  southern  Colorado. 
However,  reason  and  consistency  are  not  Philistine  virtues.  Let  us 
return  to  our  observation  of  the  individual  Philistine. 

It  is  in  the  realms  of  music  and  literature  that  we  find  the  Philistine 
most  formidable,  roaming  about,  seeking  what  he  may  devour.  Amer- 
ican music,  to  be  sure,  is  at  so  low  an  ebb  that  very  few  composers  would 
even  be  recognized  as  compatriots  by  the  Philistines  of  Schumann.  The 
syncopated  rhythms  of  the  ragtime  composers  are  distinctly  suggestive 
of  a  barbarous  or  cannibalistic  origin.  Perhaps  the  most  genuine  exhi- 
bition of  Philistinism  in  music  is  to  be  found  in  the  conduct  of  the  typical 
American  audience,  which  arrives  late,  departs  early,  and  consumes 
the  intervening  time  in  talking,  yawning,  gazing  aimlessly  about,  and 
reading  the  programme  advertisements. 

But  in  literature  the  Philistine  finds  his  most  congenial  field.  There 
is  nothing  that  appeals  to  his  soul  so  much  as  to  take  a  work  of  genius 
and  subject  it  to  the  moral  standards  and  conventions  of  Mudville,  Ar- 
kansas. Give  him  a  book  with  a  thousand  noble  thoughts  and  but  a 
single  phrase  of  doubtful  or  suggestive  meaning,  and  he  will  pounce  on 
the  phrase  like  a  vulture  on  carrion.  By  some  curious  process  of  reason- 
ing the  Philistine  considers  an  abnormal  quickness  to  scent  out  what  is 
suggestive  and  immoral  as  a  convincing  proof  of  superior  morality.  The 
French  provincial  fanatics,  who  prosecuted  Flaubert  for  writing  "Ma- 
dame Bovary";  the  American  Postmaster-General  who,  by  virtue  of 
his  own  surpassing  personal  purity,  took  it  on  himself  to  bar  Tolstoi's 
"Kreutzer  Sonata"  from  the  mails:  these  are  examples  of  prurient  lit- 
erary Philistinism  par  excellence.  The  petty  and  ignoble  mind  of  the 
Philistine  takes  a  malignant  delight  in  attacking,  slandering  and  mis- 
interpreting the  products  of  genius  which  transcend  the  limits  of  his 
narrow  understanding.  The  Philistine  of  one  generation  sets  up  statues 
to  the  men  whom  the  Philistines  of  the  preceding  age  have  hounded 
and  persecuted. 

Volumes  could  be  written  of  the  eternal  struggle  between  genius 
and  Philistinism,  a  struggle  which  has  been  waged  with  equal  fierceness 
in  every  age  and  country.  It  is  impossible  to  estimate  the  number  of 
masterpieces  which  have  been  lost  to  the  world  through  the  blind  hos- 
tility of  the  Philistines.  And  what  a  terrible  struggle  has  fallen  to  the 
lot  of  those  indomitable  spirits  who  have  resolutely  forced  their  genius 
upon  a  hostile  or  indifferent  generation!  Let  us  take  a  brief  glance  at 
the  artistic  history  of  the  last  century.     We  see  Turgeniev,  one  of  the 


268  The  Haverfordian 

world's  masters  of  fiction,  producing  his  greatest  artistic  triumph,  "  Fath- 
ers and  Sons,"  only  to  be  greeted  with  a  chorus  of  silly  partisan  abuse. 
We  see  Wagner,  driven  to  the  verge  of  suicide  by  the  Philistinism  of  his 
contemporaries,  saved  and  enabled  to  carry  out  his  priceless  artwork  by 
the  caprice  of  an  inspired  lunatic.  We  see  Flaubert,  receiving,  as  his 
laurel  crown  for  creating  one  of  the  world's  finest  novels — a  trial  for  im- 
morality! And,  if  the  artists  of  the  most  highly  cultured  nations  of 
Europe  suffer  such  an  abundance  of  persecution  and  misunderstanding, 
we  can  only  dimly  imagine  the  trials  of  a  true  genius  in  our  own  America, 
which,  with  all  its  good  qualities,  real  and  assumed,  is  undoubtedly  the 
most  Philistine  country  on  the  face  of  the  globe.  Fortunately,  the  true 
genius  is  as  stouthearted  as  the  doughty  hero  of  Israel,  who  overthrew 
the  mighty  Philistine  champion  of  yore. 

If  any  genuine  Philistine  should  happen  to  notice  this  article  he  will 
not  be  affected  in  the  least.  He  will  either  miss  the  application  en- 
tirely or,  perchance,  take  the  description  of  himself  as  highly  complimen- 
tary. But  there  are  many  who  cannot  justly  be  ranked  either  with  the 
powerful  host  of  the  Philistines  or  with  the  small  group  of  masters  who 
have  attained  the  fullness  of  Matthew  Arnold's  "sweetness  and  light." 
There  arc  many  who  have,  in  conjunction  with  certain  very  human  and 
very  Philistine  impulses,  certain  other  impulses  that  drive  them  onward 
to  the  heights  of  truth  and  freedom.  It  is  for  them  to  remember  that  it 
is  far  easier  to  combat  Philistinism  in  the  flesh  than  in  the  spirit;  that  it 
is  far  easier  for  one  to  point  out  the  Philistinism  of  his  neighbor  than  to 
develop  the  sweetness  and  light  within  himself.  For  there  are  times 
when  we  are  all  Philistines.  To  join  in  the  popular  chorus  of  abuse  of 
an  unpopular  man  or  idea,  to  accept  blindly  an  outworn  dogma  or  tra- 
dition ;  to  yield  to  the  specious  fallacies  of  a  demagogue — who  can  boast 
that  he  has  never  fallen  into  these  pitfalls  of  Philistia?  The  difTerence 
between  the  Philistines  and  those  whom,  in  deference  to  Matthew  Arnold, 
we  may  call  the  "children  of  light, "  is  that  the  former  are  proud  of  their 
servitude  to  the  conventions  of  the  moment,  while  the  latter  are  con- 
scious of  a  vague,  but  irresistible  longing  for  something  higher  and 
nobler.  And  it  is  in  the  transformation  of  this  vague  longing  into  defi- 
nite mental  and  spiritual  ideals  that  we  have  the  best  hope  for  the  ulti- 
mate annihilation  of  Philistinism  and  the  establishment  of  a  genuine 
culture,  founded  on  the  eternal  principles  of  truth  and  freedom. 

— W.  H.  Chamherlin,  '17 . 


ia  PallabE  of  Jframe 

(With  memories  of  French  III  with  Dr.  Spiers) 

Nowhere  does  grain  more  golden  grow, 

Nowhere  there  beats  a  sea  more  blue 
Than  girts  the  land  that  legends  know,—- 

The  hnd  of  rosemary  and  rue. 

Here  lapping  wavelets  ripple  through 
The  reeds,  to  join  in  merry  dance, 

Whilst  morning  glints  the  flashing  dew 
Amid  the  sunny  fields  of  France. 

'Twas  here  once  swaggered  Cyrano, 

And  Villon,  prince  of  comrades  true; 
From  hence  rode  Huon  of  Bordeaux 

To  teach  the  paynim  how  to  woo. 

And  Pantagruel  a  giant  slew 
Beneath  that  very  elm,  perchance; — 

With  other  deeds  of  derring  do 
Amid  the  sunny  fields  of  France. 

Softly,  from  flowered  casement  low. 

Floats  sadly  sweet  the  word  "adieu" 
■To  knights  who  forth  to  combat  go. 

So  proudly  riding,  two  by  two. 

Ah!    Did  not  Chivalry  imbue 
With  all  the  virtues  of  Romance 

Their  children,  blithe  yet  doughty  too. 
Amid  the  sunny  fields  of  France. 

L'Envoi 

Gone  are  the  days  that  knighthood  knew; 
Stilled  is  the  crash  of  shield  and  lance; 
Yet  ever  burns  their  soul  anew 
Amid  the  sunny  fields  of  France. 

F.  M.  M., 
3rd  September,  1915. 


Jfibe  to  ^bio  on  3ma 

Being  a  Tale  of  the  Idle  Rick 

"'l  "T  Tell,  my  son,  at  last  four  unprofitable  years  are  ended,  and 
^^  although  I  never  expected  you  could  acquire  a  degree,  by 
some  strange  oversight  on  the  part  of  your  instructors  you 
possess  a  diploma.  I  consider  the  time  wasted  at  Harvard  a  serious  set- 
back in  your  future  life,  but  nevertheless  you  may  survive  even  under 
the  pressing  strain  of  being  the  heaviest  social  man  to  graduate  in  many 
years. 

"You  are  your  mother's  own  son,  you  are  a  credit  to  her,  but  as 
your  father  I  tell  you  that  to  succeed  in  this  world  you  must  be  a  lot  more 
than  '  the  best  dawncer  at  Hawvad.' " 

Cries  of  "all  aboard  "  and  the  starting  of  the  train  from  the  Grand 
Central  brought  this  lecture  to  a  sudden  close.  Reginald  Dawson 
breathed  a  sigh  of  relief  and  swung  quickly  to  the  Pullman  step,  care- 
lessly waving  his  hand  to  his  father  on  the  platform  below  him. 

Reggie  sauntered  idly  through  the  car,  nodded  nonchalantly  to  a 
few  friends  and  flung  himself  into  the  chair,  over  which  hung  a  fawning 
porter. 

His  well-proportioned  but  useless  six-feet  lay  stretched  out  at  full 
length,  the  target  for  a  dozen  pairs  of  busy  eyes,  and  a  dozen  whispered 
breaths  passed  his  name  to  a  dozen  inquisitive  companions. 

The  object  of  their  interest  was  an  extremely  attractive  youth  of 
perhaps  twenty-two  years,  light-haired,  blue-eyed,  with  the  build  and 
grace  of  an  athlete,  but  the  brain  and  ability  of  a  goat.  Here  in  all  his 
glory  reclined  the  "prince  of  Newport,"  the  man  who  caused  the  hopeful 
flame  to  burn  in  the  bosoms  of  a  score  of  the  "season's  buds";  the  man 
for  whom  nets  were  being  prepared  by  dozens  of  aspiring  "mammas"  of 
Newport.  And  here,  poor  unsuspecting  creature,  he  was  sailing  right 
into  the  harbor  of  disaster,  for  this  very  night  would  find  him  at  the 
Vandoria's  ball  in  the  midst  of  the  most  dangerous  mines  and  submar- 
ines. 

At  the  station  Reggie  was  met  by  his  old  friend  Jim  Experience. 
Reggie  had  been  forced  on  Jim  as  a  room-mate  by  two  conspiring  moth- 
ers in  freshman  year,  and  since  they  had  interests  in  common,  a  firm 
friendship  resulted.  Jim,  however,  was  anything  but  the  helpless  young 
infant  that  Reggie  proved  to  be,  and  it  was  only  under  his  careful  guid- 
ance that  Reggie  ever  reached  senior  year  at  all. 

After  the  usual  demonstrative  greetings  Reggie  broke  away  from 


Five  to  Two  on  Ima  271 

the  admiring  group  which  had  gathered  to  welcome  him,  joining  Jim, 
who  awaited  him  in  his  Mercer  runabout. 

Neither  spoke  for  some  time.  Then  Reggie,  suddenly  assuming 
the  gravest  importance,  turned  to  Jim  and  in  a  voice  pitched  especially 
deep  for  the  occasion,  begged  for  a  drive  through  the  open  country,  be- 
fore turning  towards  his  "tiny  cottage." 

"For  you  know,  Jim,  old  fellow,  the  real  purpose  of  your  meeting 
me  was  this  drive.  You  see  I  must  slip  one  ovah  on  fathah,  he  is  so  in- 
sulting. Says  I'll  never  be  a  business  man  and  all  that!  Now,  I  really 
know  lots  about  business;  you  know  that  from  college,  Jim." 

Jim  smiled  to  himself  and  headed  for  the  open  country.  Aboul 
twice  a  year  Reggie  got  these  spells  and  he  knew  just  how  to  take  them. 

"Jim,  I  have  a  tip  from  Wall  Street,  you  know.  Wheat  is  extremely 
low,  but  really,  Jim,  it's  to  rise  very  high  before  this  week  is  ovah.  1 
know  that  for  a  fact.  I  want  you  to  invest  my  million  from  grand - 
fathah  for  me,"  and  he  shoved  some  papers  into  Jim's  lap. 

Jim  was  an  experienced  driver,  and  he  knew  Reggie,  but  neverthe- 
less he  nearly  ditched  the  Mercer  before  he  could  recover. 

"Certainly,  Reg,  but  you  know  you  are  running  a  great  risk;  you 
must  remember  that  your  father  has  sworn  to  disinherit  you,  if  you  don't 
possess  that  million  when  he  dies,  and  that  time  isn't  very  far  away." 

"Oh  now,  Jim,  don't  be  absurd,  this  is  my  pahty,  you  know.  If  I 
lose  I  should  certainly  be  inconvenienced,  but  dash  it  all,  Jim!  I  cawn't 
lose,  I  say  it's  a  sure  thing.     Oh,  I  know  it." 

"All  right,  Reg,  old  fellow,  after  all  it's  your  money.  I'll  fix  it  up 
for  you  Monday.     Shall  I  drive  you  home  now?" 

Reg  and  Jim  parted  at  "the  cottage,"  which,  by  the  way,  would 
have  done  justice  to  any  ordinary  mansion,  but  then  the  Dawsons  were 
not  ordinary  people. 

Reggie  was  the  first  of  the  family  to  arrive  at  Newport. 

"Oh,  what  a  beastly  bore!"  he  murmured  to  himself,  as  he  lazily 
reclined  in  an  easy  chair  on  the  spacious  side  porch  after  dinner,  "to 
be  heah  all  alone  with  all  these  stupid  servants!  I  suppose  Emily  is  at 
the  boat  races  at  New  London  about  this  time,  and  Jack — let  me  see. 
Jack  is  probably  at  Bay  Head.  Mother  and  Tillie  are  abroad.  How 
silly  to  go  abroad!  It's  such  a  nuisance  moving  about.  And  fathah, 
oh,  of  course  he's  back  on  Wall  Street.  Beastly  dull,  this!  Oh — ah, 
heah's  the  cah  at  lawst." 

This  dance  simply  couldn't  be  passed  by;  in  fact  Reggie  generally 
managed  to  be  at  every  large  dance,  and  this  one  in  particular  meant 


272  The  Haverfordian 

missing  the  boat  races,  a  golf  tournament,  and  a  house-party,  but  then 
a  dance  at  Newport  looked  "ace  high"  to  Reggie,  so  here  we  find  him  at 
eleven-thirty  on  the  night  of  his  arrival,  in  the  very  heart  and  soul  of 
Mrs.  Nicodemus  Vandoria's  sensational  ball. 

"  Reg,"  Jim  was  speaking,  "  I  want  you  to  meet  Miss  Hunter.  You've 
often  heard  me  speak  of  Ima  Hunter  of  Chicago?" 

"So  this  is  Reggie  Dawson?  You  know  I've  heard  so  much  about 
you,  I  feel  as  though  I'd  known  you  perfect  ages.  How  is  sweet  little 
'Tillie'P  You  know  she  and  I  were  such  friends  at  Radcliffe.  Yes,  I 
was  there  a  year.  A  perfect  bore!  I  hated  it.  Isn't  this  a  perfectly 
lovely  dance?  Every  one  is  here.  I'm  thrilled  to  death,  that  attractive 
Van  Dyke  man  has  been  giving  me  the  heaviest  rush  all  evening.  Oh, 
I've  really  been  having  a  most  perfect  time.     Yes,  I'd  love  to  dance." 

Not  that  Reg  had  said  anything  about  dancing,  in  fact  there  hadn't 
been  the  least  opportunity  for  him  to  say  anything. 

"Jim,"  he  said  laughingly,  later  on,  "  I  certainly  am  strong  for  that 
Hunter  person,  and  oh,  how  that  woman  can  dawnce!" 

Then,  still  later,  "Oh,  Jim,  who  is  the  sweet  little  girl  over  there, 
with  all  those  unnecessary  clothes?  You  know  it's  so  foolish  to  weah 
all  those  clothes  this  time  of  the  yeah.  They're  not  doing  it  this  yeah, 
you  know." 

"Oh,  that's  Patience  Love.  Mighty  sensible  girl  from  somewheres 
outside  of  Philadelphia.  Heaven  only  knows  where — one  of  the  prov- 
inces, I  suppose."  Reg  did  not  get  the  humor  of  this  last  remark,  he 
was  too  much  attracted  by  Patience  Love. 

"  I  want  you  to  meet  my  old  friend  Reggie  Dawson,  Patience.  Reg, 
this  is  Miss  Love." 

"I'm  so  pleased  to  meet  you,  Mr.  Dawson.  Your  sister  Emily  and 
I  were  mighty  close  friends  at  Westover;  she  used  to  tell  me  so  much 
about  you." 

Reg  was  a  lady-killer,  that  can't  be  denied.  He  usually  started 
with  a  look  and  then  swept  them  off  their  feet  with  a  long  monologue 
of  flattery,  deviltry  and  what-not,  but  somehow  this  girl  was  different. 

She  certainly  was  intelligent  looking,  and  attractive.  She  dressed 
simply  but  stunningly;  she  was  dignified,  but  she  had  a  winning  smile; 
he  could  tell  from  her  manner  that  she  was  completely  at  ease,  would  be 
able  to  talk  with  the  "best  of  'em,"  and  in  short  looked  as  though  she 
were  "lots  of  fun."  And  yet  she  showed  that  she  was  always  to  be  the 
mistress  of  the  "situation."  This  time  it  was  Reggie  who  suggested 
that  they  "dawnce." 

That  night,  or  rather  the  next  morning,  for  fully  an  hour,  two  faces 


Five  to  Two  on  Ima  273 

kept  slipping  before  his  eyes,  keeping  him  from  the  "restful  sleep"  so 
much  desired,  causing  him  to  start,  turn  over,  rub  his  eyes,  only  to  find 
the  first  rays  of  the  sun  creeping  through  his  darkened  room.  He  had 
left  the  ball  long  before  the  end,  for  Patience  and  Madge,  as  he  now- 
called  Ima,  had  both  left  early. 

Finally,  with  an  oath,  he  burrowed  into  the  depths  of  his  pillow 
and  slept  till  noon. 

********* 

Three  days  later  Ima  and  Reg  were  motoring  through  the  country 
districts  of  Rhode  Island.  It  was  a  typical  July  day — hot,  stuffy,  and 
dusty.  The  two  had  been  seeking  some  place  where  a  breath  of  wind 
was  stirring,  but  for  three  hours  they  had  sought  uselessly.  For  a  long 
time  neither  spoke,  in  fact  half  a  dozen  sentences  hadn't  been  exchanged 
during  the  entire  ride. 

"Reg,  I'm  as  sorry  as  I  can  be  I'm  such  a  perfect  devil  today,  but 
I  just  can't  get  comfortable."     No  answer. 

"I'm  sure  you  haven't  the  least  idea  where  you  are  going  anyhow. 
I'm  as  hungry  as  an  old  bear.     When  do  we  have  lunch?" 

"We're  almost  there,  Madge." 

"Reg,  forgive  me,  you're  an  old  dear,  and  I'm  a  silly  little  fool." 
No  answer. 

"  Reg,  you  know  you  should  really  be  frightfully  afraid  of  me."  This 
with  a  coy  smile. 

"Why?" 

"Well,  here  I  am  miles  from  everywhere  with  you,  you're  such  an 
admirable  catch.  I'm  such  a  designing  woman.  And  then  you  must 
remember  this  is  leap  year.  Why,  just  suppose  I  should  propose  to 
you!"  This  with  mock  gravity  from  Madge,  but  with  the  subtlest  of 
meanings. 

"Who's  afraid,  Madge?" 

"Will  you  marry  me,  Reg?"  persisted  the  girl,  breaking  into  a 
rippling  laugh,  but  perfectly  serious  in  her  purpose. 

"Chure,"  bantered  Reg  mockingly.  Then:  "Truly,  Madge,  I'd 
love  to,  but  I  proposed  to  Patience  last  night,  and  do  you  know,  really, 
Madge,  she  accepted.  Of  course  we  don't  love  each  other,  but  mothers 
must  be  obeyed ;  but  I'd  do  anything  for  you,  Madge.  I  do  love  you. 
Will  you  marry  me,  Madge?     Please?" 

Reg  lied,  he  did  love  Patience,  but  in  his  uncertain  mind  he  thought 
he  loved  Madge  a  little  too;  Patience  of  course  the  most,  but  then  Pa- 
tience was  only  after  his  money.     She  was  so  undemonstrative,  and 


274  The  Haverfordian 

Madge  was  so  sincere.     Yes,  Madge  loved  him,  deserved  his  money, 
and  would  be  his  wife. 

********* 

It  had  come  to  a  showdown: — three  weeks  after  this  event,  Madge 
and  Patience  had  "come  to  blows,"  and  were  demanding  an  explanation 
from  Reg  on  the  side-porch  of  the  Casino. 

"Reg,  dearest,"  began  Ima,  "by  the  way,  is  it  true  that  you  in- 
vested all  your  money  in  wheat?" 

"Yes,  Madge,"  answered  our  despondent  hero. 

"But  didn't  you  see  in  the  paper  this  morning,  the  wheat  market 
has  gone  to  smash?" 

"Yes,  Madge." 

"You  lost  all  your  money?" 

"Yes." 

"And  your  father?" 

"Will  disinherit  me,  but  what  does  it  matter,  Madge?  People 
think  I'm  spoiled, — that  I  live  only  for  money.  It's  a  lie,  deah  girl,  I 
don't;  all  I  want  is  a  wife  who  loves  me." 

Ima  was  outrageous. 

"Silly  idiot!  Reg,  are  you  crazy?  Do  you  suppose  I  can  truly 
appreciate  you  as  a  pauper?  Don't  be  so  conceited!  Why,  how  could 
I  marry  you  now?"  and  the  indignant  Ima  stalked  pompously  away, 
leaving  him  to  Patience  and  confusion. 

"Does  it  really  matter  so  much  to  you,  Reg?"  Patience  was  the 
first  to  break  the  silence. 

Reg  began  to  "come  to".     "Why — ah — " 

"I'm  so  sorry,  Reg.  You  loved  her  so  much.  Why,  she  isn't 
worthy  of  a  husband." 

"Patience,  no.  I  love  you,  but — forgive  me,  dear.  Can  you  ever 
forgive  me?  I  thought  it  was  your  mother  forcing  you  on  me  for  my 
money.     You  were  so  unresponsive." 

"No,  dear  boy.  I  loved  you.  I  couldn't  respond  and  be  kicked 
about  like  an  old  shoe." 

A  half-hour  later,  they  were  interrupted  by  Jim.  "Congratula- 
tions, old  man,  you're  worth  three  million.  We  sold  your  shares  at 
double  their  former  price  this  morning." 

"But  how— why?" 

"Didn't  you  see?     Copper!" 

"But  wheat — " 


La  Soledad  275 

"Wheat  nothing!     I  knew  it  was  doomed,  so  I  put  the  money  on 
copper.     Oh,  it  was  a  sure  thing.     I  knew  it  couldn't  fail." 
Whereupon  Reg  and  Patience  fall  into  each  other's  arms. 

(Curtain.) 

—D.  C.  Clement,  '17. 


Ha  ^olcbatJ* 

La  Soledad  now  sleeps  among  its  ruins; 

Within  its  crumbling  walls  the  owl  and  bat 

Now  mope  in  darkened  corners;  o'er  the  walks 

Once  pressed  by  holy  padres,  swiftly  glide 

The  noiseless  lizard  and  the  glistening  snake; 

Or  motionless  as  shadows,  on  the  walls 

Of  thick  adobe  bask  in  noonday  sun. 

The  sandaled  padres  pace  no  more  the  paths. 

The  gardens,  groves  or  cool,  dim  corridors, 

Nor  chant  the  early  mass;  and  vesper  bells 

That  called  the  dusky  children  of  the  hills 

To  prayer,  are  long  since  silenced.     O'er  the  fields 

Once  tilled  with  care,  a  flock  of  straggling  sheep 

Nibble  at  withered  weeds  on  sunburnt  slopes. 

At  dusk  the  shadowy  coyote  sneaks  along 

The  low  brown  hills,  a  patch  of  gray  against 

The  fading  west,  and  shrills  his  long-drawn  cry. 

The  moon  makes  ghostly  shadows  through  the  ruins, 

A  nd  lends  a  glamour  of  their  golden  days. 

The  warm  wind  stirs  the  gnarled  pepper  tree, 

The  owl  and  bat  begin  their  nightly  flight, 

And  La  Soledad  sleeps  on  in  solitude. 

—Albert  H.  Stone,  '16. 


*An  old  Spanish  mission,  now  in  complete  ruins,  145  miles  south  of   San  Fran, 
cisco,  Cal.,  founded  Oct.  9,  1791,  by  Padre  Lasuen. 


HE  is  dead !  I  can  see  his  distorted  face  as  he  lies  half  under  the 
table.  The  flickering  grate  fire  casts  a  lurid  glow  over  his 
body.  The  room  is  dark  except  for  the  somber  illumination 
of  the  hearth,  and  the  furniture  makes  grotesque  shadows  on  the  wall. 
And  I — ah!  I  am  free  at  last!  Free  from  his  dogging  step  and  hated 
presence!  How  vi^^dly  I  recollect  his  sneering  smile! — even  in  the 
throes  of  death-agony  his  features  were  twisted  in  that  ghastly,  mocking 
grimace.     But  he  will  smile  no  more.     He  is  dead! 

I  remember  how  he  would  come  to  my  room  when  I  was  engrossed 
in  study  and  unfit  for  company.  His  perpetual  good-humor  wore  upon 
me,  distracted  me,  and  at  last  haunted  me  like  a  demon  of  mockery. 
It  became  unbearable.  My  nerves  were  completely  unstrung,  my  en- 
durance goaded  to  the  quick.  I  strove  to  bury  myself  in  work — in  vain ! 
In  despair  I  took  to  long  walks  and  rambles,  and  finally  threw  myself 
unreservedly  into  the  whirl  of  pleasure-seeking.  All  in  vain.  He  was 
always  with  me, — suave,  imperturbable,  inexplicable.  From  this 
frenzy  I  found  no  relief.  The  nervous  tension  at  last  gave  way  to  a 
morbid  hypochondria.  Day  after  day  I  moped,  locked  in  the  seclusion 
of  my  room.  But  then  there  would  come  a  tap  on  the  door,  and  there 
he  stood  smiling  and  wishing  me  health !  Insistently  he  kept  entreating 
me  to  walk  with  him,  until  in  sheer  abandon  I  was  forced  to  comply. 
He  would  lead  me  down  the  broad  highway,  lined  with  leprous  birches, 
and  on  to  the  great  bridge  which  crosses  the  river.  Here  he  would  watch 
the  passing  boats  and  objects  of  interest,  calling  this  or  that  thing  to  my 
attention.  Then  he  would  turn  facing  me  and  smilingly — always  smil- 
ingly— enquire  if  I  did  not  enjoy  it.  Enjoy!  The  antithesis  of  my  feel- 
ings made  me  shudder.  The  azure  sky,  the  green  leaves,  the  songs  of 
the  birds, — alike  were  hollow  mockery  to  my  dazed  senses.  But  he, 
oblivious  to  all  but  happiness,  rejoiced  like  a  child  in  the  commonplaces 
of  nature. 

Revenge! — was  it  revenge?  The  word  sticks  in  my  throat.  He 
had  never  really  harmed  me.  Nay,  in  fact,  he  always  tried  to  be  pleas- 
ant and  to  yield  even  obsequiously  to  my  wishes.  But  his  smile! — his 
dogged,  unwearied,  ever-present  optimism!  They  drove  me  to  the 
deed.  Yes,  I  am  justif — Ah!  do  I  see  a  smile  around  the  corners  of  his 
mouth?  Yes!  There  it  is!  Horrors!  even  in  death!  The  firelight 
reveals  his  face.  His  lips  are  drawn  in  that  ghastly  grin!  He  mocks 
me !     He  defies  my  revenge !     I  am  faint ....  so  faint .... 


Dreams  277 

I  am  on  my  deathbed.  It  is  only  a  matter  of  a  few  hours  now.  I 
feel  as  if  I  had  lain  for  months  in  a  raging  fever.  My  body  is  only  a 
shell.  All  inside — vitals,  heart,  soul — is  burned  and  shriveled  by  my 
malad}'.  Soon  life  itself  will  be  seared  from  its  slight  hold  by  this  dis- 
ease which  defies  medical  aid.  I  try  to  sleep, — but  it  is  only  a  wakeful 
dream.  And  in  that  dream,  as  my  strength  ebbs,  I  see  before  me,  with 
its  lips  distended  in  a  smile,  the  corpse  of  my  pet  collie. 

— Robert  Gibson,  '17. 


Summer  sky,  azure  sky. 
Come  and  smile  sweet  on  me. 
Millions  of  sunbeams  are  dancing  wild, 
And  the  sighing  and  rustling  of  breezes  mild 
Come  from  thy  blue,  blue  sea. 

Murmuring  wind,  sobbing  wind. 
Come  and  blow  cool  on  me. 
Tell  me  of  myst'ries  born  in  the  East; 
Whisper  of  sadness  of  northern  waste; 
Let  me  be  wild  with  thee. 

Spirit  of  beauty,  god  of  light. 

Carry  me  far  away. 

Let  me  live  in  a  sunset  cloud — 

The  golden-tinted  Olympus'  shroud — 

Come  and  pipe  soft  thy  lay. 

— Donald  H.  Painter,  '17. 


WllV  bleeps;  Hate 

{Comedy  Sketch) 

Cast  of  Characters: — 
Billy  Davis 
James  Conrad 
Daisy  Conrad,  his  wife 
Helen  West,  her  younger  sister 

Time:  9A.M. 
Place:  San  Francisco. 

The  ciirtaiyi  rises  on  the  disorderly  bedroom  of  the  Conrad  apartment. 
The  chairs  and  bureau  are  strewn  with  a  profusion  of  male  and  female  gar- 
ments. At  the  back,  curtains  lead  to  the  dining-room.  Somewhere  in  the 
big  brass  bedstead  Billy  Davis  is  yawning  lazily,  luxuriously.  His  sleepy 
eyes  espy  a  letter  on  the  bureau.     He  reaches  over  and  seizes  it. 

Davis.  Strange  letters  always  amuse  me:  just  bits  of  personality, 
lying  round  bare.  {Reading.)  "Dearest  Daisy,  how  are  you  and  how 
is  the  baby?  He  must  be  a  bouncing  angel  boy,  from  what  you  say." 
O,  they're  always  bouncing  angels  to  mothers,  and  little  bawling  devils 
to  strangers.  {He  laughs.)  Suppose  Daisy's  his  wife.  I  didn't  know 
they  had  a  kid. 

{Suddenly  he  hears  the  outside  door  open  with  a  latchkey,  and  quickly 
tosses  the  letter  back  on  the  bureau.) 

Davis.     {Softly.)     In  the  name  of  bouncing  babies,  who's  that? 

{He  hears  light  footsteps  enter,  and  a  gentle  song  reaches  his  ears.) 

Great  Heavens!     He  told  me  no  one  would  be  home! 

{Hearing  someo7ie  in  the  dinijig-room,  he  coughs  discreetly.) 

Feminine  voice.     O,  Jimmie!     I  thought  you'd  gone! 

{Receiving  no  answer,  she  peers  through  the  curtains.  Billy,  being  a 
modest  man,  and  a  trifle  bashful,  ducks  under  the  covers.  She  enters,  a 
charming  little  blonde,  clothed  in  smiles  and  a  filmy  pink  morning  dress.) 

Helen  West.     You  can't  hide  from  me,  Jimmie! 

{She  giggles,  and  sits  at  the  foot  of  the  bed.  Billy's  head  slowly  ap- 
pears, and  she  rises  automatically.) 

O!  {She  stares.)  Goodness!  Where  did  you  come  from,  and  what 
have  you  done  with  Jimmie? 

Davis.  {Crimson  and  infuriated.)  Perhaps  he's  under  the  bed.  I 
haven't  looked! 


Billy  Sleeps  Late  279 

Helen.  {Recovering,  she  sits  on  the  bed  and  shakes  her  fluffy  head.) 
O,  no:  Jimmie's  fat.  He  wouldn't  fit.  (Innocently.)  Have  you  bor- 
rowed our  flat  or  something? 

Davis.  (Angrily.)  Mrs.  Conrad,  I  came  last  night  with  your 
brother  George.     He  said  no  one  would  be  home. 

Helen  O,  I  am — (^Shc  stops  sudde7ily,  and  decides  not  to  tell  him  who 
she  is.)  George  is  a  dear  kid ;  I've  told  him  to  come  any  time  we  weren't 
here.     He  seldom  does  come,  though 

Davis.     He  had  to. 

Helen.     How  was  that? 

Davis.     We  missed  last  train  out  of  town. 

Helen.     And  he  is  gone  this  early! 

Davis.  Yes,  worse  luck!  Left  me  asleep  here!  {He  scowls  at 
her.) 

Helen.  Now,  don't  be  angry!  Because  I  couldn't  help  finding  you. 
I'm  glad  I  did.     {With  a  winning  smile.) 

Davis.  O,  I'm  not  angry:  just  a  little — er — surprising  to  receive 
a  young  lady  caller  like  this.     {He  reddens  at  the  words.) 

Helen.  {Airily.)  O,  but  I'm  married,  you  see!  It  would  have 
been  foolish  of  me  to  run  away  when  I  came  upon  you  here.  Men  in 
bed  are  nothing  to  me.  {He  opens  his  eyes  wider.)  I  used  to  be  a  nurse. 
Er — what  is  your  name? 

Davis.  My  card!  {He  reaches  his  wallet  from  the  bureau  and  hands 
her  a  card,  in  the  manner  of  a  butler  passing  a  plate  of  soup.) 

Helen.  {Deadly  serious.)  O!  The  formality  of  these  "retired" 
gentlemen  of  leisure!  (Reading.)  William  Davis,  Philadelphia.  (Im- 
pulsively.)    O,  Billy!    you're  a  long,  long  ways  from  home! 

Davis.     (Coolly.)     Yes,  Mrs.  Conrad — about  3000  miles. 

Helen.  (Entreatingly.)  You  don't  mind  if  I  call  you  Billy?  I 
hate  last  names! 

Davis.     (In  an  angry  tone.)     Not  at  all!     Help  yourself. 

Helen.     Do  you  know  (she  ponders),  I  like  your  pajamas! 

Davis.     (Exasperated.)     Indeed! 

Helen.  Yes,  I  adore  pink  silk.  It's  so  soft, — so  delicate.  They 
look  just  like  Jimmie's.     (She  blushes.) 

Davis.  (Unsuspecting.)  They  are  his.  I  didn't  bring  any  to  the 
dance.     Suppose  we  change  the  subject! 

Helen.  (Looking  quizzically  at  his  feet,  then  at  his  head.)  My!  but 
you  must  be  tall.  You're  quite  good-looking  too.  Your  cheeks  almost 
match  your  pajamas.     (She  smiles  with  wicked,  laughing  eyes.) 

Davis.     (Tortured.)     Mrs.  Conrad,  I  really  must  get  up! 


280  The  Haverfordian 

Helen.  {Unconcerned.)  Not  at  all!  You  look  so  comfy  there. 
I'll  get  you  some  breakfast.     How  do  you  like  your  eggs? 

Davis.     Never  eat  them.     I've  got  to  get  up. 

Helen.    Why?     Don't  you  like  my  company? 

Davis.  (Quickly.)  O,  charmed!  But  suppose  your  husband 
comes  home? 

Helen.     He  can't. 

Davis.    Why  not? 

Helen.  (Lightly.)  We  won't  let  him  in — besides,  he's  in  the 
country. 

Davis.     (Keenly.)     You  weren't  with  him  last  night? 

Helen.     Me?     No,  indeed! 

Davis.     Have  you  quarreled? 

Helen.     Now,  Billy,  do  you  think  I  could  quarrel  with  anybody? 

Davis.  Husbands  aren't  "anybody."  They're  quite  "somebody" 
in  particular. 

Helen.     (With  feigned  earnestness.)     You  bet  they  are! 

Davis.     (Suspiciously.)     Where  is  the  baby? 

Helen.    What   baby? 

Davis.     Your  baby! 

Helen.  (Fkistered.)  Of  course!  You  said  it  so  suddenly,  Billy. 
Why — er — I  loaned  him. 

Davis.    What ! 

Helen.    Just  temporarily!     O,  he's  a  darling! 

Davis.  (Skeptically.)  He  must  be:  I  suppose  you  charge  rent 
for  him. 

Helen.  (Annoyed.)  Well!  how  did  you  know  I  had  a  baby?  I 
didn't  tell  you. 

Davis.  (Growing  very  red.)  Why — er — (He  flounders — then  smiles.) 
There  are — er — clothes  around  here  which  adults  would  find  it  difficult 
to  use.  (With  conviction.)  I  would  never  have  guessed  it  from  seeing 
you.     I  should  judge  you  were  still  in  school  if  I  didn't  know. 

Helen.  (With  a  w-lse  air .)  He's  lots  of  romfort,  but  he's  an  awful 
nuisance. 

Davis.     (Smiles.)     I  know  he  is. 

Helen.     How  do  you  know?     (Horrified.)     Are  you  married? 

Davis.  (Easily.)  Well — not  that  I  know  of:  but  the  men  who 
know  most  about  babies  are  not  always  fathers — but  the  doctors  and 
neighbors — and  proud  relatives.  You  see  the  novelty  of  bottles  and 
rattles  and  nightly  cries  and  daily  "goo-goo's"  soon  wears  off  for  the 
father,  while  strangers  see  so  little  of  it,  that  it  remains  interesting. 


Billy  Sleeps  Late  281 

Helen.     {Dreamily.)     O!     I  see!     I  hope  mine  won't  be  like  that! 

Davis.     {Puzzled.)     Isn't  he? 

Helen.     {Blushing.)     My  next  one,  I  mean. 

{A  bell  rings.  Helen  registers  perplexed  uncertainty— Davis  abject 
terror.) 

Davis.     {In  a  whisper.)     It's  your  husband! 

Helen.     {Fervently.)     I  hope  it  is! 

Davis.  {He  reaches  over  and  grabs  her  arm  suspiciously.)  Are  you 
crazy?     What  do  you  mean!     I  must  get  out  of  here  somehow. 

Helen.  There's  only  one  door,  and  the  window's  a  long  jump!  Let 
go  of  me ! 

{She  leaves  to  answer  the  bell.  Davis  in  a  mighty  rush  pulls  on  his 
socks,  and  trousers  over  his  pajamas.  He  mutters  yiervously.)  The  little 
fool!     Nice  mess,  this!     Hope  she'll  keep  him  out  till  I  get  dressed! 

Helen.  {Re-entering  as  he  is  buttoning  his  shirt  with  flying  fingers. 
Carelessly.)  Take  your  time,  Billy.  No  hurry!  I've  put  him  in  the 
parlor.     Just  gave  him  his  mail  to  read  and  he's  as  quiet  as  a  baby  kitten. 

Davis.  Er — how  much  mail  did  he  have?  {He  pulls  on  his  shoes 
frantically.) 

Helen.     Lots!     But — but — Billy!     I  hate  to  have  you  go. 

Davis.  {Wildly.)  You  little  fluffy-haired  rascal!  You  want  to  see 
me  get  my  head  punched  in,  don't  you? 

Helen.     I  know  Jimmie  better  than  you  do. 

Davis.  That's  all  right!  You're  his  wife — not  mother,  or  sister, 
or  aunt,  or  great-grandmother-in-law,  but  wife!  Do  you  get  that?  He 
doesn't  know  me  from  a  hole  in  the  ground. 

Helen.  {With  ill-restrained  giggles.)  Can't  help  it!  You're  going 
back  to  Philadelphia.  I'll  never  see  you  again,  Billy.  He's  always 
hangin'  round.  {She  bends  her  head  thoughtfully,  then  suddenly  throws 
her  arms  about  his  neck.)  I  like  you.  Will  you  come  again?  {Ten- 
derly.)    I  shall  miss  you,  Billy!     {She  kisses  him  impulsively.) 

{Frightened,  he  lugs  at  her  strong  little  hands  at  the  back  of  his  neck.) 

Davis.     For  God's  sake,  let  go  of  me! 

{The  curtains  part  and  Mr.  Conrad,  tall,  imposing,  rather  stout,  gazes 
at  them  with  a  puzzled,  half-amused  expression.  As  he  enters  Billy  backs 
up  against  the  wall  like  a  caged  tiger.) 

Helen.     {Blushing  prettily.)     Billy,  this  is  Mr.  Conrad. 

{In  a  stupid  stare,  Billy  gazes  at  the  offered  hand,  then  steps  forward 
and  shakes  it  as  though  it  were  a  bear's  paw  ready  to  bowl  him  over.) 

Conrad.  {Turning  to  Helen.)  You  didn't  tell  me  you  had  com- 
pany, dearie! 


282  The  Haverfordian 

Helen.  George  brought  him  in  last  night — fresh  from  the  East! 
He's  cute,  isn't  he?  (She  smiles  sweetly  up  at  him,  as  he  stands  there, 
collar  half  on,  necktie  in  hand,  looking  like  a  fish  out  of  water.) 

Conrad.  (With  a  grim  smile.)  You  little  terror!  What  will  you 
be  up  to  next?     {He  kisses  her  and  leaves.) 

Helen.     {Triumph-antly.)     That's  the  kind  of  a  husband  to  have! 

Davis.     {Weakly.)     Guess  I  better  be  going. 

Helen.  {With  sympathy.)  Are  you  still  afraid?  He  didn't  hurt 
you,  did  he? 

Davis.  {Glaring  at  her.)  You — >'ou  little  fluffy-haired  skallywag! 
I've  had  enough  of  this  "fun."  You've  had  your  inning!  It's  my  turn 
now! 

{The  outside  door  is  opened  with  a  latchkey  and  slammed  to.) 

Helen.  {Suddenly  terrified.)  O  Lord!  I  guess  it  is!  I  didn't 
think  she'd  be  home.  Billy!  Listen  to  me!  Quick!  I'll  get  in  the 
closet.  Don't  tell  her  I'm  in  here  with  you.  Please!  I've  been  nice 
to  you.  Please!  Please  don't  tell  her  till  I  can  get  out.  Promise! 
Jimmie  won't  tell  her  if  you  don't.  You  won't,  Billy  dear?  {She  dis- 
appears into  the  closet.) 

{The  curtains  part  again,  and  Airs.  Conrad,  stylish  and  young,  ap- 
pears with  baby  in  arms.  She  has  come  straight  in  without  seeing  her 
husband.) 

Mrs.  Conrad.     {In  much  surprise.)     Oh!     Who  are  you? 

Davis.  {In  fearful  uncertainty.)  I — I  came  with  George  West 
last  night. 

Mrs.  Conrad.  {Smiling.)  O,  all  right.  I  beg  your  pardon.  I 
couldn't  think  who  you  were. 

{He  feels  he  must  say  something  or  explode  into  fragments;  and  a 
healthy  sense  of  his  compromising  position  tells  him  that  the  closet  door 
must  be  kepi  shut.) 

Davis.  {Calmly  at  last.)  I  suppose  you  are  the  neighbor  who  was 
taking  care  of  the  baby?  Mrs.  Conrad  said  it  would  be  all  right  to 
leave  it.     The  father  is  here. 

Daisy  Conrad.  {With  a  look  of  hopeless  mystery.)  What  in  good- 
ness' name  are  you  talking  about? 

Davis.     {In  crimson  agony.)     Damned  if  I   know! 

{He  tears  open  the  closet  and  exposes  Helen  huddled  in  one  corner, 
crying.)  Come  out  of  there,  you!  It's  my  bat  now!  What's  all  this 
mean?     Who  is  this  woman  with  your  baby? 

Helen.     {Between  sobs.)     Billy — I^think — you're — horrid! 

Daisy.     {Glaring  at  her  angrily.)     Helen!    What  are  you  doing  in 


Billy  Sleeps  Late  283 

there?  I'll  tell  your  mother  this.  She's  had  enough  of  your  antics. 
It's  high  time  you  went  to  boarding  school  to  learn  some  common  de- 
cency.    You  can't  behave  yourself  anywhere! 

Davis.  (Turning  suspiciously  on  Helen  and  pointing  imperiously 
to  the  infant.)     Is  that  your  baby? 

Helen.  (Crying.)  No-oo-oo!  I — I  haven't  got  any  baby.  I 
hate  the  things. 

Davis.     Who  are  you  anyway? 

Helen.     (Looking  up  with  tearful  eyes.)     I'm  Helen  Travers  West. 

Davis.     (Excitedly.)     Well,  why  in — 

Mrs.  Ccnrad.     (Breaking  in.)     She  is  my  young  sister,  Mr. 

Helen.     (Dejectedly.)     His  name  is  Billy. 

Mrs.  Conrad.     (Disgusted.)     Where  are  your  manners,  Helen?    You 

are  a  disgrace  to  me  positively.     Mr.  Mr.  Billy,  I  hope  you  will 

accept  my  apologies  for  her.     (Billy  stands  mute,  thinking  many  things.) 

Helen.  I  won't  be  apologized  for;  why  won't  you  be  a  sport  like 
your  husband? 

Daisy.     (With  much  concern.)     What  do  you  mean,  Helen? 

Helen.  Go  and  ask  him.  (Daisy  retires.)  (Relieved  and  brush- 
ing away  her  tears.)  Thank  Heavens  she's  gone!  The  old  crab!  Jim- 
mie's  the  only  thing  that  would  pull  her  out  of  here;  just  'cause  she's 
married  and  got  a  baby,  she  thinks  she  can  rock  me  in  the  same  cradle 
with  it. 

Davis.  (Surveying  her  with  a  grim,  incredulous  smile.)  Well, 
"Helen,"  what  have  you  got  to  say  to  me? 

Helen.     (Smiling  iiaively.)     "NufTin."     We're  quits! 

Davis.     That's  like  a  girl! 

Helen.  Well,  what  else  do  you  want?  (She  steps  close  and  looks 
up  into  his  face.)  I'm  not  married  any  more!  (She  puts  her  lips  dan- 
gerously near  his,  hut  he  gazes  into  her  searching  eyes  with  perfect  calmness.) 

Davis.  No,  Helen,  I  won't  kiss  you.  It  wouldn't  help  your  con- 
dition in  the  least;  besides,  sister  might  come  in  and  I'm  afraid  you 
wouldn't  let  go;  but  I'll  give  you  a  bit  of  advice;  the  next  time  you 
change  your  name,  don't  do  it  on  your  own  hook. 

Helen.  (In  feeble  defense.)  Next  time  you  go  visiting  get  up  on 
time  and  you  won't  meet  little  "fluffy-haired  skallywags"  like  me. 

Davis.  I  guess  perhaps  I  can  eat  some  eggs  now,  Helen.  This  has 
been  a  hard  strain  on  a  man  with  an  empty  stomach.  (He  smiles  good- 
naturedly  down  on  her.) 

Helen.     (Stubbornly.)     I   won't  cook  for  a  man  who  won't  kiss  me. 

Davis.     (He  laughs.)     Two  eggs  for  one  kiss. 


284  The  Haverfordian 

Helen.     {Deadly  serious.)     No;    kiss  apiece. 
Davis.    Well,  a  man  must  eat.     {He  kisses  her  twice.) 
Helen.     {She  hesitates.)     Now — I'll    see  if    we've    got    any    eggs. 
{She  skips  out  laughing,  and  Davis  follows.) 

{Curtain.) 

—C.   Van  Dam,   '17. 


tCfjc  ilast  3Rot)in 

Forever?    Ah,  never!    the  breeze  is  at  play 

In  the  rustling  tassels  of  fall's  yellow  corn. 

The  river?    A-quiver,  with  shimmering  ray 

Of  the  sun  as  it  peeps  through  the  willows  that  mourn. 

Can  joy  ever  vanish?    My  carol  is  gay: — 

" Forever  and  ever,  and  ever  and  aye!" 

Comes  stealing  a  feeling  that  brooks  no  delay. 
Unwilling,  my  long  absent  comrades  I  mourn. 
For  cold  grows  the  weather;  I  follow  their  way. 
I  grieve  for  the  summer,  my  dirge  is  forlorn. 
And  gone  is  the  joy  of  my  old  roundelay: — 
"  Forever,  and  ever,  and  ever,  and  aye! " 

—R.  G.,  '17. 


^onsi  of  ^ttila 

IF  you  consult  the  Official  Bulletin  of  the  Servian  Government  you 
will  find  that  on  the  25th  of  August,  1915,  the  French  Government 
sent  a  dozen  French  officers  to  help  the  defensive  of  their  Slavonic 
allies,  and  amongst  the  twelve  you  can  read  two  names:  Captain  Jean- 
Francois- Victor  de  Morlaix  and  Lieutenant  Count  Arnaud  de  Vesigny. 
No  doubt  you  will  also  read  that  a  week  later  the  only  two  casualties 
which  occurred  in  the  entire  Servian  detachment  near  Belgrade  were 
Lieutenants  Radotzki  and  Blankowitz.  Again,  on  the  2nd  of  October, 
the  bulletin  declares  that  there  was  "no  encounter  of  any  sort  with  the 
enemy  on  the  Belgrade  front,"  and  that  "the  two  officers  who  are  on  the 
Casualty  List  died  while  manning  a  small  gun  captured  the  day  before." 

If  you  are  a  man  of  reason  you  will  doubt  this  latter  statement,  for 
two  reasons,  viz:  first,  the  officers  of  the  Servian  army  do  not  handle 
guns  at  all;  and  second,  guns  are  not  manned  when  there  is  "no  encoun- 
ter of  any  sort  with  the  enemy." 

How,  then,  did  Lieuts.  Radotzki  and  Blankowitz  really  meet  their 
death?  One  moment,  gentlemen,  while  I  get  something  in  my  glass  and 
light  a  cigarette.     Now,  I'm  ready  to  tell  you  the  tale 

On  the  night  of  October  2nd,  four  officers  left  camp  at  about  a  half 
after  eight.  Two  wore  French  uniforms,  the  other  couple  were  Ser- 
vians. Their  names,  gentlemen,  were  Captain  Jean-Francois-Victor 
de  Morlaix  and  Lieutenant  Count  Arnaud  de  Vesigny,  of  the  French 
Officers'  Detachment,  and  Lieutenants  Radotzki  and  Blankowitz,  of  the 
Third  Servian  Hussars. 

Riding  fast,  these  four  soldiers  arrived  at  Nogovitz,  at  the  Inn  of 
the  King's  Arms,  at  nine  o'clock,  sat  down  in  the  empty  tavern,  ordered 
several  bottles  of  wine,  two  packs  of  cards,  a  box  of  cigars  and  some 
Russian  Levant  cigarettes.  They  played  quietly  for  an  hour  or  two, 
the  Frenchmen  losing  steadily  and  drinking  with  their  allies  as  the  smoke 
blew  up  to  the  ceiling;    the  coins  jingled  and  the  glasses  clicked. 

A  gay  air  of  camaraderie  seemed  to  reign;  indeed,  Radotzki  had 
been  a  great  deal  in  Western  Europe,  having  even  attended  the  Univer- 
sity of  Oxford  with  Prince  Paul  of  Servia,  whilst  Blankowitz  had  met 
the  Count  de  Vesigny  at  Paris  while  he  was  Servian  attache  of  Legation 
in  the  "Ville  Lumiere." 

" Nom  d'un  nom!"  muttered  Captain  de  Morlaix,  "I  have  almost 
lost  my  patrimony.  One,  three,  seven — why,  I've  lost  seven  thousand 
francs,"  and  he  laughed  carelessly. 

"You  old  miser!"  grinned  de  Vesigny.     "  I've  lost  nine,"  and  neither 


286  The  Haverfordian 

noticed  the  look  of  contempt  exchanged  by  the  two  Servian  officers. 

"One  more  game,"  said  Radotzki,  "at  a  franc  a  point." 

"Waiter,  some  more  wine,  cigarettes  and  cigars." 

And  the  game  went  on. 

Radotzki  dealt  out  the  cards,  Captain  de  Morlaix  keeping  his  eyes 
on  him;  tlie  game  progressed,  tlie  Captain  watching  the  Servian's  every 
movement.  Greater  and  greater  grew  the  winnings  of  the  Servian, 
when,  all  of  a  sudden,  during  the  last  trick  but  one,  Captain  Jean-Fran- 
cois-Victor de  Morlaix  pushed  his  chair  behind  him,  got  up  and  pushed 
his  cards  across  the  table: — 

"M.  le  Lieutenant,"  he  said  to  Radotzki,  "I  have  the  honor  to  in- 
form my  friend,  Count  de  Vesigny,  that  you  have  cheated  him  and  me 
to  the  tune  of  tTventy-five  thousand  francs." 

"  I  thought  so,"  cried  Vesigny. 

Radotzki  was  silent. 

"In  fact,  Monsieur,"  continued  the  Captain,  "I  have  the  honor  to 
call  you  a  scoundrel  and  ask  for  a  duel." 

"You  are  a  liar!     But  I  will  fight." 

"M.  de  Vesigny  will  be  my  second.  I  presume  your  accomplice 
in  cards  will  be  your  second  in  duelling." 

"Very  well,"  they  assented  ungraciously. 

"The  terms  are  to  be  as  follows:  M.  Radotzki  and  I  are  to  stand 
at  opposite  ends  of  the  bar;  at  a  given  signal  from  M.  Blankowitz,  my 
friend.  Count  de  Vesigny,  will  turn  out  the  light.  Each  of  us  fires  six 
shots:  if  at  the  end  one  of  us  is  killed,  then  M.  de  Vesigny  and  M.  Blank- 
owitz may  try  conclusions  whilst  the  survivor  gives  the  signal  to  them. 
After  that,  the  lights  maj'  be  turned  on.     Agreed?" 

He  was  a  master-duellist,  was  Captain  Jean-Francois-Victor  de 
Morlaix,  and  they  all  agreed  rather  breathlessly. 

"All  right,"  muttered  Blankowitz. 

Radotzki  filled  his  glass  and  lit  a  cigarette  nervously,  and  walked 
to  his  end  of  the  bar. 

"Ready,  M.  le  Lieutenant?"  asked  the  Captain. 

"Yes."' 

"And  I  also,"  nodded  de  Morlaix. 

Blankowitz  signalled  to  Count  de  Vesigny,  who  turned  out  the 
light.  The  two  latter  stood  aside  and  watched  what  they  could  of  the 
drama  that  was  being  enacted. 

Six  shots  in  rapid  succession  came  from  the  man  smoking  the  cigar- 
ette, then  the  cigarette  moved  in  the  dark  and  stood  immobile,  its  smoker 
evidently  crouching  behind  the  bar. 

Not  a  noise  from  the  Frenchman's  end,  then,  of  a  sudden,  Captain 


The  City  287 

de  Morlaix  laughed :  "  One  hit  the  third  finger  of  my  left  hand  and  the 
rest  missed.  They're  poor  shots,  these  Servians.  But  I'll  pick  his 
right  ear  off  for  him." 

A  shot,  the  crash  of  a  glass,  the  fall  of  a  cigarette. 

"Oh,  la,  la!"   mused  de  Morlaix,  "  I'm  sorry  for  the  poor  devil." 

As  he  walked  over  to  the  chimney  his  steps  drowned  the  groan  of 
M.  le  Lieutenant  Blankowitz,  of  the  Third  Servian  Hussars.  "We 
Frenchmen  are  sportsmen,"  and  he  shot  five  times  up  the  chimney. 

Blankowitz  walked  nervously  across  the  room  and  turned  on  the  light. 

On  the  bar  a  broken  wine  glass  and  the  ashes  of  a  cigarette. 

In  the  grate,  doubled  up  and  convulsed,  with  five  shots  through  his 
body,  lay  Lieutenant  Radotzki. 

"Good  Lord!"  said  Morlaix,  dumbfounded. 

"Drunk  or  sober,"  muttered  Count  de  Vesigny,  "a  Frenchman  is  a 
gentleman.  But  these  Slavs!  Pouah!  I  would  we  had  as  allies  those 
gallant  Austrians.  They,  at  least,  are  gentlemen,"  and  with  that  the 
two  Frenchmen  turned  on  their  heels. 

But  Blankowitz  heard  not  a  word,  as,  bent  over  the  body  of  his  dead 
friend,  he  wept  bitterly  and  prayed  brokenly,  for  it  was  he  who  had  ad- 
vised him  to  hide  in  the  chimney. 

A  shot! 

And  Blankowitz  had  joined  his  friend. 

— /.  G.  C.  LeCercq,  '18. 


^te  Citp 

Square-cut  against  the  deepest  blue, 
Stands  out  the  'Scraper  with  its  granite-somber  hue. 
Around  its  top  re-echoes  the  muffled  sound 
From  far  below,  of  rumbling  Crowd, 
With  whirr  and  clanging  on  asphalted  ground — 
Now  low,  now  loud. 

The  twilight  bathes  in  softening  gray 

That  Tower  of  Commerce;    one  by  one 

It  opens  square  unmimbered  eyes — Night's  business  is  begun. 

A  brown-black  church  with  piercing  spire 

Broods  on  aside  in  gloomy  ire 

At  heedless  passers-by. 

Whose  lives  are  measured  by  a  day. 

— Douglas  C.  Wendell,  '16. 


^  Summer  of  ^spcfjologp 

THE  orator  at  the  annual  Commencement  exercises  of  a  small  Penn- 
sylvania college  was  Dr.  Edward  Melvin,  Professor  of  Philos- 
ophy at  an  adjacent  institution  of  the  Quaker  City.  Thaddeus 
Christopher  Bothwell,  A.B.,  one  of  the  new  graduates,  seemed  to  take 
little  stock  in  his  talk.  For  the  tenth  time  within  the  five  short  minutes 
that  had  elapsed  since  he  had  received  his  diploma,  "  Christy,"  as  he  was 
familiarly  called,  turned  around  to  gape  at  a  certain  feminine  figure 
seated  on  the  other  side  of  the  hall.  The  object  of  his  gaze  was  an 
expansive  brown  straw  hat  with  cherry  blossom  trimmings.  Little  else 
was  visible,  for  it  was  one  of  those  ill-balanced  headpieces  that  hide  the 
wearer's  face  except  when  she  is  looking  squarely  at  you.  Only  twice 
did  Christy  catch  her  in  the  act.  But  still  he  had  little  grounds  for  com- 
plaint, for  a  full  two  weeks'  acquaintance  with  the  owner  of  this  cherry- 
blossomed  affair  qualified  him  to  enlarge  eloquently  on  the  details  then 
invisible.  His  description  would  have  contained  these  items  (and  more, 
no  doubt) :  tanned  face,  dark  hair  somewhat  bleached  by  exposure, 
broad  shoulders,  and  general  massiveness  belonging  to  the  stroke-oaress 
of  a  co-ed  na\'y,  but,  in  this  case,  indicative  of  constant  indulgence  in 
lawn  tennis,  especially  mixed  doubles,  for  which  Christy  had  found  her 
an  excellent  partner. 

Mr.  Bothwell,  Senior,  lawyer,  and  friend  of  the  speaker,  witnessed 
disapprovingly  his  son's  inattention  and  frowned  at  him.  The  frown 
was  not  wasted,  for  Christy  was  frightened  at  the  blackness  of  it,  and  kept 
his  eyes  front  for  one  whole  minute.  In  that  interval  he  managed  to 
catch  several  fragments  of  wisdom  from  Dr.  Melvin's  address. 

"Beware,  young  gentlemen,  of  the  tangoing,  bridge  party  type  of 
girl,  but  tie  yourselves  to  that  rare  jewel,  a  young  maiden  who  can  make 
edible  pie." 

The  above-quoted  remarks,  and  the  girl  in  the  cherry  blossoms  were 
for  Christy  the  only  bright  features  of  the  day.  He  acted  upon  both. 
Concerning  the  fragments  of  wisdom,  he  wrote  to  the  Professor  for 
more.  To  the  girl,  Miss  Mollie  Parker,  he  wrote  also,  desiring  to  con- 
tinue a  warm  friendship  begun  in  mutual  fondness  for  cherry-blossomed 
hats,  the  fruit  itself,  and  what  is  made  from  the  fruit — cherry-pie.  But 
she  went  to  Bar  Harbor,  and  he  to  his  father's  home  in  sanely  "slow" 
Philadelphia. 

II 

During  the  pleasant  cherry-picking  days  of  late  June,  young  Christy 
Bothwell  sat  down  one  morning  about  9.30  to  a  breakfast  composed  of 
predigested  cereal,  freshly-picked  cherries,  and  two  letters. 


A  Summer  of  Psychology  289 

"A  good  showing,"  he  remarked. 

"Yes,  Mr.  Christy,"  said  the  bald-headed  butler,  his  confidant  since 
childhood,  "I  knew  that  you  liked  cherries." 

"I  meant  the  letters,  of  course,  Henry.  See!  Here's  a  letter  from 
Shorty  Knox.  And,  what  luck! — one  from  Bar  Harbor!  Sugar  and 
cream  on  the  cereal,  please,  Henry,  while  I'm  reading  this." 

There  was  silence  for  two  minutes. 

"You  may  ask  it,  Henry.  She's  well,  thank  you.  Having  a  fine 
time,  and  is  sorry  I  can't  come  up,  but  may  be  in  the  city  herself  before 
long.     It  all  depends  on  her  guardian's  plans  for  her." 

"Mr.  Christy,  pardon  my  liberty,  your  latest,  is  she?" 

"The  latest,  Henry!     My  first  and  only!     Wish  us  luck." 

Ten  minutes  later,  Christy,  leaning  back  in  a  comfortable  arm-chair, 
cigarette  in  mouth,  read  Shorty's  letter. 

"I  have  sold  my  first  story,"  he  read,  "to 's  Magazine  for 

twenty-five  dollars,  not  bad,  is  it,  Christy?  I  feel  encouraged  and  will 
write  more.  Say,  Christy,  can  you  picture  your  old  classmate,  Shorty, 
a  real  author,  the  first  month  out  of  college?  Some  class,  eh ?  But  why 
don't  you  try  the  writing  game  yourself?  Those  college  yarns  of  yours 
used  to  be  quite  clever.     Let's  hear  from  you. 

Sincerely, 

Shorty." 

About  two  o'clock  in  the  afternoon  a  heavy  hand  was  clapped  upon 
Christy's  shoulders,  as  he  lay  back,  lost  in  reverie. 

"Where  are  you,  Christy?  Want  to  play  some  tennis?" 
"Sure,  Tom."  Christy  rose  hurriedly  from  his  Eazy  Chair 
"  But  don't  ever  do  that  again,  for  you  gave  me  such  a  shock  that  I  almost 
choked  over  the  demi-tasse,  and  right  in  front  of  His  Nibs,  the  Editor, 
too.  You  know,  I  was  dining  with  him  by  special  invitation,  to  discuss 
my  promising  revival  of  the  college  yarn." 

Ill 

Christy,  a  trifle  early  for  breakfast,  had  already  digested  the  pre- 
digested  when  the  postman's  customary  step  and  ring  were  heard. 

"The  long-expected  counsel  from  Professor  Melvin,  "said  Christy, 
opening  one  of  the  two  letters.  "But  let's  see  first  what  the  publishers 
say." 

He  opened  the  second  letter.  "Weep  for  a  disconsolate  author, 
Henry.  Another  rejection  slip.  How  many  of  those  did  I  get  yester- 
day?" 


290  The  Haverfordian 

"Two,  Mr.  Christy." 

"And  one  Wednesday,  and  two  Thursday.  It's  getting  pretty 
tiresome,  I  think,  Henry." 

"Don't  be  discouraged,  Mr.  Christy." 

The  latter  turned  to  the  Professor's  communication.  He  waved  it 
excitedly.  "Here's  luck!  He's  got  a  job  for  me,  and  Hsten  to  this, 
Henry!  'For  the  young  man  who  handles  himself  well  in  this  position, 
I  know  of  a  good  opening  for  next  fall  as  a  college  instructor  in  psy- 
chology.'" 

The  taciturn  butler  beamed  at  this. 

"  It  sounds  good  to  me,  Henry,  and  anyway  it  can't  be  worse  than 
waiting  on  the  mailman  every  day  as  I  have  been  doing  lately." 

A  few  minutes  later,  Christy  entered  one  of  those  popular-priced 
restaurants  that  so  bountifully  dot  Market  and  Chestnut  streets.  A 
manager,  or  equally  important  individual,  accosted  him. 

"So  you're  the  young  man  recommended  by  Professor  Melvin,  are 
you?  All  ready  for  work?  Well,  the  Professor  suggested  that  we  sta- 
tion you  in  front  of  the  big  window  there,  cooking  hot  cakes,  'browning 
the  wheat'  for  the  benefit  of  hungry  passers-by  on  the  outside.  How 
does  it  appeal  to  you?" 

"But  the  Professor  wrote  me  something  about  training  for  an  in- 
structorship  in  psychology,"  objected  Christy. 

"He  has  queer  notions,  the  Professor." 

"So  it  seems.  There  may  be  various  and  widely  different  methods 
of  studying  psychology,  but  there's  such  a  thing  as  too  much  publicity 
while  you're  doing  it.  Now,  writing  the  college  yarn  is  quite  different, 
and  don't  offer  any  danger  of  embarrassing  encounters  with  old  friends 
as  standing  before  this  monster  window  all  day  would  probably 
lead  to— " 

"Take  the  case  of  this  young  lady  Professor  Melvin  brought  here 
just  before  you,"  interrupted  the  manager.  "She's  a  good  waitress  cer- 
tainly, but  she  ought  to  be  up  among  the  summer  colony  at  Bar  Harbor 
or  Newport,  instead  of  here." 

"What  young  lady  are  you  talking  about?" 

"Oh,  one  of  the  Professor's  many  experiments.  She's  here  to  learn 
domestic  training,  and  how  to  make  cherry-pie,  as  far  as  I  can  make 
out." 

"Cherry-pie!  What's  this  girl's  name,  Mr.  Manager?"  Christy 
inquired  eagerly. 

"Professor  Melvin's  ward,  Miss  Mollie  Parker,"  replied  the  restau- 
rant manager. 


Nox  Advenit  291 

"I  guess  I'll  stick  around  a  while,"  said  the  delighted  Christy.  "I 
believe  that  the  Professor  was  right,  and  this  is  a  good  place  to  study 
psychology  after  all,  and  the  presence  of  a  certain  husky  young  lady  with 
bleached  hair  and  a  cherry-blossomed  hat,  shouldn't  hinder  me  in  the 
least." 

— George  A.  Dunlap,  '16. 


Mox  ^bbenit 

By  the  stream's  green-hosomed  border. 
Near  the  bridge's  stony  arch, 
Long  we  sat  as  evening's  twilight 

Deeper  grew; 
AH  about  was  pregnant  silence 
Save  for  locusts'  plaintive  calls, 
Or  when  fairies  sxvayed  the  branches 
In  their  shaded  woodland  halls. 

Moist  with  dew. 

In  the  meadow  sprung  the  daisy. 
Sparkling  from  its  bed  of  green. 
Gleaming  whiter  with  the  twilight. 

Like  a  star; 
On  the  water  s  glassy  surface 
Glowed  the  dying  sun's  last  rays, 
Like  some  dryad's  magic  mirror 
In  the  tales  of  fairy  days 

From  lands  afar. 

Overhead  in  heaven's  deep  ether. 

As  from  artist's  adept  touch. 

Stole  a  thrush  on  outspread  pinions, 

Homeward  bent. 
In  the  speckled  clouds  of  whiteness 
We  could  trace  a  castle's  height; 
E'en  we  saw  the  gates  of  heaven 
Circled  with  a  flood  of  light. 

Angel-sent. 


292  The  Haverfordian 


East  to  westward  flows  the  music, 
Tuned  to  stature's  silent  nod, 
Till  it  swells  in  full  ensemble 
Round  the  sapphire  throne  of  God. 

—John  W.  Spaeth,  Jr.,  '17. 


Patrie,  BY  Victorien  Sardou.      Doubleday,  Page  &  Co. 

A  translation  from  the  French  recently  published  by  the  Drama 
League  of  America.  With  the  Flemish  revolt  under  William  of  Orange 
as  a  background,  the  plot  traces  the  mental  struggle  of  a  man  torn  be- 
tween love  of  country  and  human  passion.  A  kindly  side  to  the  Duke 
of  Alva  is  conceived  contrary  to  the  usual  opinion.  Descriptions  are 
vivid  and  the  scenes  flash  forth  with  startling  clearness. 

The  Jewel  City,  by  Ben  Macomber.  John  H.  Williams,  San  Francisco. 

An  illustrated  booklet  that  wonderfully  portrays  the  Panama-Pacific 
Exposition  at  San  Francisco.  Accompanying  the  seventy-five  photo- 
graphs are  chapters  devoted  to  description  and  criticism.  It  is  the 
most  readable  exposition  "Baedeker"  we  have  seen. 

Collected  Diplomatic  Documents  on  the  Outbreak  of  the  European  War. 

Sir  Gilbert  Parker  has  given  to  the  Library  a  copy  of  the  official 
communications  of  the  warring  nations.  Most  interesting  are  those 
documents  issued  by  Belgium  about  August  1st,  1914. 

The  German  Enigma,  by  Georges  Bourdon.    J.  M.  Dent  &  Sons,  Ltd., 

London. 

A  Frenchman's  sincere  attempt  to  understand  the  German  point 
of  view.  Personal  interviews  with  prominent  Germans  before  the  war 
convinced  M.  Bourdon  that  Germany  would  avoid  a  war  with  France — 
that  England  was  their  sole  enemy.  He  strikes  a  severe  blow  at  Pan- 
Germanism. 

—E.   T.   Price,  '17. 


THE  UNEASY  CHAIR 


THE  subject  of  compulsory  church  attendance  has  caused  as  much, 
if  not  more,  comment  about  college  than  any  other  single  issue. 
There  has  been  considerable  agitation  to  open  the  pages  of  the 
college  periodicals  to  a  discussion  of  this  matter.  So  far  the  editors  have 
resisted  this  temptation  and  preserved  a  neutral  silence.  It  is  argued, 
with  some  justice,  that  the  college  magazines,  as  purporting  to  offer  a 
medium  for  the  expression  of  college  topics,  should  comply  with  this  de- 
mand in  the  present  instance,  and  enter  into  the  pros  and  cons  of  compul- 
sory church  attendance.  The  propagandists  of  the  present  condition 
argue  the  method  as  good,  saying  that  we,  under  the  existing  regime, 
are  not  in  a  position  to  judge  the  advisability  of  voluntary  attendance 
at  divine  services.  If,  in  after  years,  we  look  back  upon  the  matter  and 
conclude  that  the  compulsory  attendance  was  inimical  to  our  future 
welfare,  then,  and  then  only,  can  an  adequate  decision  be  rendered.  The 
"antis,"  on  the  other  hand,  say  this  is  an  incomplete  and  mistaken  con- 
ception of  the  principle.  Furthermore,  compulsory  church  attendance 
does  not  accord  with  the  liberal  principles  advocated  by  the  Society  of 
Friends.  That  church  attendance  should  not  be  classed  in  the  category 
of  the  college  curriculum.  That  Sunday,  per  se,  is  a  day  of  cessation  of 
rules.  The  arguments  for  both  sides  are  manifold.  As  regards  the 
correctness  of  either,  it  is  difficult  to  say.  If  we  should  give  an  opinion 
in  either  direction  it  would  be,  like  Banquo's  ghost,  continually  occu- 
pying the  Uneasy  Chair.  It  would  seem  to  be  an  iteration  of  the  spirit 
of  so-called  "freedom"  rising  in  the  mind  of  man  under  any  form  of 
restraint.  But  apart  from  any  feeling  of  restriction,  it  is  a  condition 
which  is  basically  for  the  best,  and  is  best  borne  with  that  Hamletian 
anticipation  of  "something  after." 

~R.  G. 

COMPULSORY  CHURCH  ATTENDANCE 

The  Society  of  Friends  has  alwa\s  taken  great  pride  in  the  fact 
that  its  history  is  entirely  free  from  the  stains  of  religious  intolerance 
which  deface  the  records  of  nearly  every  other  denomination.  The 
liberal  principles  of  Roger  Williams  and  William  Penn  have  now  been 
endorsed  by  the  laws  of  every  ci\ilized  nation  and  by  the  concensus  of 
enlightened  opinion.      One  would   naturally  expect  such  a  progressive 


294  The  Haverfordian 

institution,  as  Haverford  College  to  develop  these  liberal  principles  to 
their  fullest  extent. 

But  the  authorities  of  Haverford  College,  in  the  question  of  en- 
forced attendance  at  religious  services,  seem  to  disagree  both  with  the 
most  eminent  pioneers  of  Friendly  practise  and  with  the  universal  spirit 
of  American  legislation.  It  is  really  rather  difficult  to  understand  the 
grounds  upon  which  the  gentlemen  responsible  for  the  present  condition 
of  forced  religion  at  Haverford  justify  their  attitude.  Do  they  under- 
take to  maintain  that  the  whole  policy  of  the  United  States  government 
is  wrong,  that  we  should  return  to  the  state  of  religious  intolerance 
whose  high  moral  effects  are  so  delightfully  apparent  in  the  history  of 
the  sixteenth  and  seventeenth  centuries?  Or  do  they  contend  that  the 
typical  college  man  is  unworthy  of  the  religious  liberty  which  is  guar- 
anteed, under  the  laws,  to  the  humblest  day  laborer? 

Surely  neither  of  these  reasons  can  have  much  weight  in  the  twen- 
tieth century,  however  strongly  they  might  have  appealed  to  Philip  H. 
and  the  Duke  of  Alva.  Surely  a  fuller  and  more  careful  consideration 
of  the  question  will  lead  the  authorities  of  Haverford  College  to  exchange 
their  present  narrow  and  illiberal  attitude  in  this  matter  for  one  which 
is  more  in  harmony  with  the  broad  and  liberal  conception  of  religious 
libertv  which  Ha\erford  College  ought  to  stand  for. 

—  W.  H.  C. 


JLUMNI 


This  letter  was  written  by  Felix  which  sings  through  a  man'-,  nos- 

Morley,     '15,    now    serving    with  trils    like    the    fresh    unharnessed 

Ambulance  Train  No.  16,  "some-  breezes  of     the   North   Atlantic — 

where  in  France."  lighted    it    with    a    ration    match 

(Bryant  &  May's,  a  make  for  me 

A.  T.  16,  permanently  associated  with  Cran- 

B.  E.  F.,  brook  and  the  happy  summer  days 

France,  of   1904),  and  am  hoping  against 

Octobers,  1915.  hope  that  I  may  be  able  to  inflict 

My  dear  K.  : —  some  sort  of  scrawl  upon  you  in 

I  have  just  filled  my  racine  de  the  brief  intervals  between  sterner 

bruyere  pipe  with  ration  tobacco —  duties.      It    is   just    11:35    P.  M. 


The  Alumm 


295 


I  lia\e  been  working  continuously 
since  four  this  morning  and  have 
an  hour  and  a  half  more  to  go  be- 
fore I  may  snatch  four  hours  to 
resuscitate  me  for  unloading  and 
cleaning  up  to-morrow. 

The  battle  of  Hulluck  has  faded 
into  the  past,  the  three  or  four 
square  miles  of  bloodstained  earth 
has  been  "consolidated"  by  its 
captors;  the  great  American  public, 
so  far  as  it  considers  the  matter  at 
all,  is  probably  licking  its  chops 
in  anticipation  of  another  advance, 
and  here,  a  full  week  after  the 
battle,  we  still  labor  day  and  night 
cleaning  away  the  shattered,  sod- 
den wreckage.  The  rush  started 
on  September  26th — nine  days  ago 
now — and  in  that  time  we  have 
made  six  trips  with  heavy  loads  of 
v/ounded,  four  of  them  all-night 
journeys,  one  of  twenty  hours' 
duration.  Not  only  do  we  carry 
V  ounded  from  the  front  to  the 
base  hospitals,  but  also  from  the 
hospital  towns  to  various  seaports, 
the  technical  term  for  the  latter 
loads  being  "convalescents,"  as 
they  consist  of  men  sufficiently 
free  from  danger  to  be  safely  re- 
moved to  England.  To-night's 
trip — we  loaded  up  about  4  P.  M., 
and  will  get  in  to-morrow  morning 
at  six  o'clock  or  so — is  technicalK' 
a  convalescent  one,  but  they  are 
clearing  the  hospitals  so  rapidly 
in  preparation  for  further  severe 
casualties,  that  the  term  is  a  de- 
cided misnomer.  Usually  when 
the  men  are  certain  that  they  are 


really  going  back  to  Blighty,  as 
the>-  affectionateh'  term  England, 
they  are  a  cheery,  patient  lot,  but 
to-night,  in  my  ward  at  least,  the 
poor  de\ils  are  extremely  queru- 
lous. One  notices  it  the  more 
because  as  a  general  thing  they 
bear  the  most  horrible  wounds 
with  such  surprising  fortitude,  and 
would  rather  endure  discomfort 
than  ask  you  to  relieve  even  trivial 
wants. 

Is  it  a  blessing  or  a  curse  that 
our  powers  of  assimilation  are  so 
inadequate?  I  would  give  some- 
thing to  be  able  to  give  you  an 
adecjuate  idea  of  the  past  week 
with  me,  but  to  do  so  would  over- 
tax the  powers  of  a  Milton.  You 
have  seen  the  ocean  at  a  stormy 
nightfall — gray,  ominous,  oppress- 
ive; and  you  have  looked  on  those 
same  waters  the  next  morning  rip- 
pling and  dancing  in  the  gracious 
sunlight.  It  is  a  surprising  phe- 
nomenon, yet  it  affords  an  appli- 
cable metaphor  in  this  connection. 
I  often  wonder  how  I  can  sleep, 
still  more  how  I  can  eat  and  joke 
and  laugh  amid  the  scenes  one 
witnesses  here.  Yet  these  I  do, 
and  all  of  them — except  perhaps 
the  third — successfully.  Were  we 
otherwise  constituted,  the  very 
nature  of  war  would  negate  its 
possibility,  for  no  brain  could 
stand  such  hellish  scenes  as  have 
been  emphasized  in  this  last  battle. 
From  a  mechanical  standpoint  we 
are  singularly  inefficient,   both  at 


296 


The  Haverfordian 


receiving   and    imparting   our   im- 
pressions. 

My  ward  is  a  "sitting-up" 
coach.  That  is  to  say,  it  is  an 
ordinary  third  class  Great  Western 
corridor  carriage  with  eight  com- 
partments, two  lavatories  (one 
of  them  used  as  a  pantry) ,  painted 
khaki  outside  and  white  within, 
the  seats  upholstered  in  dark  blue 
with  a  maroon  pattern.  Usually 
I  have  patients  who  are  sick  or  so 
wounded  that  they  need  not  neces- 
sarily lie  flat  in  these  compart- 
ments, and  when  we  have  a  full 
quota  of  64  [censored  here|  my 
partner  and  I  consider  we  have 
enough  to  occupy  our  odd  mo- 
ments. At  a  time  like  the  present, 
however,  the  sick  and  slightly 
wounded  must  take  their  chance, 
for  the  Ambulance  Trains,  work- 
ing full  blast,  can  only  accommo- 
date the  worst  cases.  By  placing 
the  two  cushions  of  each  compart- 
ment on  the  floor  between  the 
seats — cloth-covered  springs  are 
not  so  hard  as  you  might  imagine 
— we  can  make  each  compartment 
hold  three  men  unable  to  help 
themselves;  3  X  8  =  24,  five  such 
coaches — 120,  and  four  lying-down 
coaches  with  beds  for  36  each 
gives  a  total  of  264.  The  trip 
before  this,  however,  we  brought 
down  320,  which  is,  I  believe,  a 
record  load  of  stretcher  cases.  I 
should  have  liked  to  walk  the 
length  of  the  train  that  night  with 
any  American  who  thinks  our 
country    should    plunge    into    this 


bloody  maelstrom.  Such  sights 
are  damping  to  the  Jingoistic 
spirit.  About  midnight  my  part- 
ner came  on  duty,  and  before  turn- 
ing in  I  wandered  up  through  the 
dimly  lighted  train.  To  walk 
amid  such  concentration  of 
smashed  humanity  is  something 
unforgettable;  through  crowded 
wards  where  the  Red  Cross  fights 
its  unequal  battle  with  shrapnel 
and  high  explosives;  through 
scenes  indelible  of  imprint,  await- 
ing only  the  pencil  of  another 
Dante  to  seal  the  end  of  war.  White 
faces,  distorted,  huddled  figures, 
swathing  bandages,  and  clumsy, 
binding  splints.  Everywhere 
wounded  men — lying  in  the  crowd- 
ed sitting-up  wards  in  such 
cramped  postures  as  I  have  de- 
scribed to  you,  filling  every  bed  in 
the  lying-downs — on  the  floors,  in 
the  corridors,  in  the  dispensary,  in 
the  store  room,  in  the  brake  van. 
A  weird  and  gruesome  labyrinth 
through  which  to  pick  one's  way. 
You  are  in  a  lying-down  ward  and 
must  crawl  through  the  precarious 
passage  way  left  between  the 
stretchers  in  the  aisles  and  the 
triple  tiers  of  beds.  The  train  is 
rattling  over  miserably  laid  French 
switches,  and  every  jolt  brings 
forth  its  quota  of  groans,  half  sup- 
pressed by  a  brave  effort  of  pallid 
lips.  Here  is  a  bad  face  wound,  a 
bandaged,  ghastly,  inhuman, 
mummy-like  head  dabbled  in  blood 
and  matter,  and  redolent  with  the 
fetid,    noxious    srnell     peculiar    to 


The  Alumni 


297 


such  wounds.     If  it  were  daytime 
and  August  the  flies  would  be  clus- 
tered    black     about     that     septic 
mouth,  but  winter,  while  it  accen- 
tuates most  miseries,  will  at  least 
alleviate   that  one.     In   a   bottom 
bunk  nearby  is  a  man  with  a  bullet 
through   his   head.     He   is   uncon- 
scious, his  face  gray  and  sunken; 
his    eye    sockets    a    livid,    ghastly 
purple.     For  him  at  least  the  war 
drums    beat    no    longer,  and    the 
order  has  gone  out  that  he  is  to  be 
unloaded  at  our  first  stop,  so  that 
he  may  die  in  the  hospital.     Here 
and  there  are  gas  cases — sound  in 
limb   and   body,    but   terribly   pa- 
thetic   to    look    upon    as    they   sit 
propped   up  with  pillows,   panting 
for  air  with   frantic,   rapid   gasps. 
Unconscious    under    merciful    opi- 
ates, here  is  one  who  has  had  an 
explosive      bullet      through    both 
thighs.     [Censored  here.]       Oppo- 
site,  another  has  a   bullet   in   the 
bowels,  so  that  a  ceaseless  agoniz- 
ing stream  of  putrid  matter  passes 
through    the    wound.     There    are 
several  amputations,  mostly  of  the 
feet  and  legs,  and  one  young  Scots- 
man, who    every    now    and    then 
starts  wildly  up  from  his  stretcher 
in   the  aisle,  glares  terror-stricken 
round  with  staring,  sightless  eyes 
and    relapses   limp   and    trembling 
amid  his  blankets  and   hot  water 
bottles.     Finally,    at    the    further 
end    of    the    coach,    a    motionless 
figure    beside    whom    an    orderly 
must    watch    unceasingly.     Shrap- 
nel has  blown  away  his  entire  ab- 


domen, and  Death  is  already  fold- 
ing her  black  wings  around  his 
head. 

The  catalogue  is  far  too  horrible 
for  amplification,  easy  as  were  that 
task.       Nor  would   I   wish  you  to 
think  that  all  my  time  is  spent  in 
such    surroundings,    for   the   past 
week    has    been    unusual,    though 
doubtless  there  will  be  more  such 
pressure  before  winter  sets  in.    Not 
infrequently  when  the  work  is  done 
there    is    leave    for    three   or    four 
hours   at    a    time,    which    alTords 
opportunity  for  wandering  through 
the  towns  where  we  are  stationed, 
and  even  for  brief  excursions  into 
the  neighboring  countryside.  There 
is   good   company   on   the   train — 
several   University   men — and   not 
the  least  agreeable  hours  are  those 
spent  in  relieving  our  monotonous 
rations   round    the   table   of   some 
quaint    estaminet.        The    French 
omelette  exerts  a   potent     call   to 
the  true  believer,  and  the  slimmest 
of  purses  will  always  encompass  a 
glass  or  two  in  this  land  of  vintages. 
On  the  whole,  the  life,  while  exact- 
ing, is  novel  and  by  no  means  dis- 
tasteful.    D.  v.,  I  shall  stick  it  six 
months  either  here  or  possibly  at 
the    Dunkirk   station — after    that, 
Quien  Sabe? 

I  trust  F has  had  a  favorable 

inception  into  Haverford;  the  life 
there  seems  very,  very  dim  and 
precious  viewed  from  present 
surroundings. 

Letter  from  Felix  M.  Morley,  '15. 


298 


The  Haverfordian 


'85 

Haverfordians  will  be  interested 
to  learn  of  the  success  of  Professor 
Theodore  W.  Richards,  '85,  who 
has  received  the  Nobel  Prize  for 
Chemistry',  carrying  with  it  S40,- 
000.  The  article  is  reprinted  from 
the  Philadelphia  Public  Ledger. 

London,  Nov.  12. — The  Nobel 
Prize  for  Physics  for  1914,  says  a 
Reuter  dispatch  from  Stockholm, 
has  been  awarded  to  Prof.  Max 
von  Laue,  of  Frankford-on-Main, 
for  his  discovery  of  the  diffraction 
of  rays  in  crystals.  The  Chemistry 
Prize  for  the  same  year  has  been 
awarded  to  Prof.  Theodore  Wil- 
liam Richards,  of  Harvard  Uni- 
versity, for  fixing  the  atom  weights 
of  chemical  elements.  The  prizes 
for  1915  will  be  awarded  today. 

For  the  first  time  since  their  es- 
tablishment, in  1903,  one  of  the 
Nobel  prizes,  carrying  with  it  more 
than  840,000  in  gold,  has  been 
awarded  to  a  Philadelphian.  Pro- 
fessor Theodore  William  Richards, 
who  was  born  in  Germantown  and 
graduated  from  Haverford  College, 
has  been  awarded  the  Nobel  Prize 
in  Chemistry  for  1914.  Doctor 
Richards  is  now  director  of  the 
Gibbs  Memorial  Laboratory  at 
Harvard  LIniversity. 

According  to  the  dispatch,  the 
award  was  made  for  the  disco\-eries 
of  Doctor  Richards  in  fixing  the 
atomic  weight  of  elements.  With 
his  assistants,  he  revised  the  atomic 
weights  of  oxygen,  copper,  iron, 
nickel,  calcium,  sodium  and  many 


other  elements.  His  investiga- 
tions in  physical  and  organic  chem- 
istry and  his  monographs  on  the 
significance  of  changing  atomic 
volumes  have  given  him  high  pres- 
tige in  the  scientific  world. 

Doctor  Richards  was  born  in 
Germantown  on  January  31,  1868. 
His  parents  were  William  T.  Rich- 
ards, an  artist,  and  Anna  Matlack 
Richards,  an  author.  He  was 
graduated  from  Haverford  in  1885 
with  the  degree  of  bachelor  of 
science.  Harvard  gave  him  an 
arts  degree  in  1886  and  the  de- 
grees of  master  of  arts  and  doctor 
of  philosophy  in  1888.  He  then 
studied  at  the  LTniversities  of  Got- 
tingen  and  Leipsic  and  at  the 
School  of  Technology,  Dresden.  A 
score  of  uni\ersities  in  Europe  and 
America,  including  Yale,  Harvard, 
Oxford  and  Cambridge,  have  given 
him  honorary  degrees.  He  is  a 
member  of  the  International  Com- 
mission on  Atomic  Weights,  and 
was  awarded  the  Davy  medal  by 
the  Royal  Society  in  1910  and  the 
Willard  Gibbs  Memorial  by  the 
American  Chemical  Society  in 
1912. 

November  8,  1915. 
The  Editor  of  The  Haa-erfordian. 
Sir: — 

The  enclosed  letter  from  W. 
W.  Comfort,  '94,  I  cut  from  the 
New  York  Times  of  November  7th. 
It  has  occurred  to  me  that  it 
would  be  within  the  province  of  the 
H.WERFORDiAN  to  Call  upon  a  few 


The  Alumni 


299 


representative  alumni,  whose  opin- 
ions are  worth  printers'  ink,  for 
their  views  on  the  momentous 
issue  of  national  defence. 

I  for  one  am  most  anxious  to 
know  what  the  most  thoughtful  of 
American  Friends  think  about  the 
problem.  Are  we  to  abdicate  our 
old  easy  pacificist  ideals?  Or  are 
we  to  try  to  maintain  them  in  the 
face  of  the  overwhelming  landslide 
toward    "adequate    defence"? 

It  seems  as  though  this  is  a 
question  of  peculiar  interest  to 
Haverfordians.  There  are  a  great 
many  alumni  who  continue  to  look 
to  the  Haverfordian  as  an  organ 
wherein  the  sober  feeling  of  the 
college  expresses  itself.  Why  not 
ask  Dr.  Comfort,  and  someone  of 
equal  ability  who  holds  the  other 
side  of  the  argument,  to  debate 
the  problem? 

Faithfully  yours, 

C.  D.  MORLEV,  '10. 

RESULTS  OF  PREPAREDNESS 

Will  Force  Upon  Us  a  New  Foreign 
Policy  and  Unnecessary  Wars. 

To    the    Editor    of   the    New    York 
Times: 

One  may  assume  that  the  writers 
of  letters  to  the  press  for  and 
against  preparedness  as  a  means  of 
keeping  our  country  at  peace  are 
sincere,  but  their  statements  are 
often  confused  and  their  arguments 
often  easy  to  confute.  It  is  rel- 
atively unimportant  whether  the 
country    can    afford    the    colossal 


expenditures  contemplated,  or 
whether  the  money  will  find  its 
way  into  the  pork  barrel,  or 
whether  internal  improvements 
are  more  urgent,  or  whether 
the  \'essels  built  now  will  be  scrap 
iron  in  fifteen  years,  or  whether 
any  foreign  country  has  designs 
upon  us.  The  country  must  do 
some  straight  thinking  on  a  high 
level.  One  must  not  shrink  from 
taking  an  extreme  stand  when 
moral  truth  is  engaged.  There  is 
no  virtue  in  compromise  when  the 
historic  policy  of  America  is  threat- 
ened. 

Christianity  stands  for  the  su- 
periority of  spiritual  over  physical 
force.  It  is  not  only  an  abstract 
truth,  but  a  practical  truth,  to 
which  all  history  and  progress  bear 
record.  To  compromise  with  a 
principle  for  which  Christianity 
and  our  own  nation  have  stood  is  a 
serious  matter,  and  one  may  well 
tremble  at  the  prospect.  For  a 
century  we  have  kept  out  of  Euro- 
pean broils  without  losing  self- 
respect  or  the  respect  of  others. 
Our  wealth,  our  happiness,  and  our 
place  in  the  sun  have  steadily 
grown,  though  we  have  been  un- 
armed— just  as  the  wealth,  the 
commerce,  and-  the  importance  of 
Germany  have  steadily  grown  dur- 
ing half  a  century  of  peaceful  con- 
quest. It  is  not  a  question  exclu- 
sively of  our  present  peaceable  in- 
tentions. Is  there  on  record  a  case 
of  a  nation  with  a  well-equipped 
fighting  arm  which  has  not  devel- 


300 


The  Haverfordian 


oped  a  class  of  professional  mili- 
tarists, men  who  have  stagnated  in 
peace  and  who  lust  for  war  if  only 
to  display  their  prowess?  These 
blood  lusters  already  exist  among 
us,  and  against  them  we  must  be 
on  our  guard ;  ruin  lies  in  their  way. 
In  their  cry  that  such  a  great  na- 
tion as  ours  must  maintain  its  dig- 
nity, they  will  be  joined  by  all 
those  who  are  now  providing  mu- 
nitions in  return  for  blood  money 
and  who  will  not  wish  to  see  their 
new  plants  lying  idle  after  this  war. 
Further,  with  a  large,  but  not  the 
largest,  navy  we  shall  be  courted 
for  foreign  alliances,  which  we 
shall  not  refuse,  but  which  will 
sooner  or  later  embroil  us,  as  one 
nation  after  another  has  become 
embroiled  in  this  present  war  of 
alliances. 

Not  long  since  Japan  armed  and 
became  a  world  power,  and  now 
she  is  courted  and  distrusted.  We 
know  what  the  Occident  fears 
should  China  follow  suit.  If  we  do 
the  same,  we  cannot  prevent  other 
nations  from  concluding  that  our 
foreign  policy  has  changed,  that  we 
have  seen  a  great  light,  and  have 
gone  on  the  warpath  to  impose  our 
dignity.  Is  there  any  European 
nation  for  whose  dignity  we  would 
exchange  our  own  just  now? 

An  armed  nation  flings  abroad  a 
standing  challenge.  The  chance 
of  peace  decreases  as  preparedness 
for  war  increases.  We  have  been 
caught  in  the  back  wash  of  the 
European  war.     After  our  generos- 


ity and  compassion  with  suffering, 
it  is  proposed  to  follow  in  precisely 
the  methods  which  have  brought 
on  the  war,  and  which  we  have  but 
recently  execrated.  With  the  op- 
portunity in  our  hand  to  lead  the 
greatest  movement  in  human  his- 
tory, a  new  dispensation,  we  are 
asked  to  go  back  to  the  Old  Testa- 
ment standards  from  which  the 
European  nations  and  the  Euro- 
pean church  have  not  yet  emerged. 
We  are  the  only  nation  whose  hands 
were  clean  enough  to  attempt  the 
heroic  task,  the  only  Government 
which  Europe  would  trust. 

Do  our  people  realize  that  in 
every  parallel  case  preparedness 
has  led  to  war?  We  may  be  at  a 
turning  point  in  our  career,  when 
we  are  about  to  sell  out  our  birth- 
right for  the  mess  into  which  pre- 
paredness will  lead  us.  Most  of 
us  want  to  do  the  right  thing  in 
the  wrong  way.  We  are  starting 
on  a  long  road,  for  the  experts  take 
good  care  not  to  say  just  when  they 
will  be  adequately  prepared  to 
maintain  peace.  They  cannot  tell 
us,  because  preparation  for  peace 
by  preparation  for  war  is  a  contra- 
diction of  eternal  law. 

W.  W.  Comfort, 
Cornell  University,  Ithaca,  N.  Y., 

Nov.  1,  1915. 

1910 

The  following  is  of  interest,  as 
indicating  that  even  in  war  there 
are  some  bright  spots. 

The  announcement  has  reached 


The  Alumni 


301 


England  that  Mr.  P.  J.  Baker,  one 
of  the  most  famous  of  sportsmen 
and  scholars,  is  shortly  to  be  mar- 
ried to  a  lady  with  whom  he  has 
been  working  for  some  months  at 
the  front,  Miss  Irene  Noel,  cousin 
of  the  Hon.  Neville  Lytton,  the 
great  tennis  player.  Her  father  is 
at  present  in  Greece,  where  he  has 
a  large  estate. 

Mr.  P.  J.  Baker  is  the  popular 
commanding  officer  of  the  Friends' 
Ambulance  l^nit,  which  has  been 
doing  magnificent  work  at  the 
front.  Miss  Noel  is  attached  to 
the  I'nit,  and  is  said  to  be  a  most 
accomplished  lady.  She  is  full  of 
energy  and  business,  and  has  been 
out  all  the  time,  regardless  of  shell 
fire  and  sundry  spills  from  motor- 
cars. That  Mr.  Baker's  future 
wife  has  already  been  a  great  help 
to  him  is  evident  from  the  following 
extract  from  a  letter  from  a  member 
of  the  Unit: 

"It  is  entirely  due  to  her  and  to 
Mr.  P.  J.  Baker,  with  the  help  of 
efficient  officers,  that  the  Unit  has 
been  able  to  accomplish  such  ex- 
cellent work  as  a  voluntary  unit, 
which  is  always  difficult  out  here 
in  getting  clearing  stations,  the 
armies  occupying  every  nook  and 
corner." 

The  Unit,  financed  by  the  Qua- 
kers' Friends'  Society,  besides 
clearing  the  wounded,  undertakes 
various  other  duties,  such  as  help- 
ing to  cleanse  towns  by  inoculation 
against  typhoid,  supplying  appa- 
ratus to  make  pure  water,  helping 


destitute  civilians  with  food  and 
clothing,  hospitals  for  civilians,  and 
two  or  three  other  kinds  of  hospi- 
tals. 

At  Cambridge  Mr.  Baker  made 
a  great  name  for  himself,  being 
President  of  the  University  Ath- 
letic Club  and  the  Union  Debating 
Society  at  the  same  time.  He  was 
equally  famous  as  a  scholar,  taking 
a  Second  Class  in  the  Historical 
Tripos,  and  then  securing  a  First 
Class  in  the  Economics  Tripos, 
besides  winning  the  Whewell  Uni- 
versity Scholarship  for  Interna- 
tional Law.  Some  little  time  be- 
fore he  went  to  the  front  he  was 
appointed  Vice-Principal  of  Ruskin 
College,  Oxford,  and  has  since  been 
elected  into  a  Fellowship  at  his  old 
Foundation,  King's  College,  Cam- 
bridge. It  was  his  Tripos  work 
which  prevented  him  from  training 
thoroughly  for  the  last  Olympic 
Games. 

The  wedding  will  take  place  at 
Crabbet  Park,  Surrey,  on  June 
12th,  and  will  attract  considerable 
attention. 

Mr.  Baker  is  the  son  of  the 
Member  for  East  Finsbury.  He 
first  went  to  the  Bootham's  School, 
York,  and  besides  his  very  remark- 
able career  at  the  University,  has 
studied  in  America  and  Germany. 

Mr.  Baker's  full  record  on  the 
track  is  as  follows: — 

First  Year 
Won  Freshmen's  Mile  in  4  min. 
35  2-5  sec. 


302  ■  The  Haverfordian 

Won    Freshmen's    Half-Mile    in  Second  in  College  100  Yards  in 

2  min.  0  3-5  sec.  10  3-5  sec. 

Won     Strangers'     1,000     Yards  Won  College  Half-Mile  in  2  min. 

Handicap,   conceded   6  yds.,   in   2  7  1-5  sec. 

min.  20  2-5  sec.  Won  College  Mile  in  4  min.  49 

Won  Strangers'  Half-Mile  Han-  sec. 

dicap  from  scratch  in  1  min.  59  2-5  Won  College  Mile  in  4  min.  38 

sec.  3-5  sec. 

Won  College  Mile  in  4  min.  51  Second  in  College  100  Yards  in 

3-5  sec.  10  3-5  sec. 

Won    Inter-'Varsity    Mile    in    4  Won    College     Half-Mile     in     2 

min.  27  3-5  sec.  min.  10  2-5  sec. 

Won  College  Three  Miles  in  15 

Second  Year  min.  47  2-5  sec. 

Won     Strangers'     1,000     Yards  Won  Inter-Collegiate  Mile  in  4 

Handicap  from  scratch  in   2  min.  min.  31  3-5  sec. 

19  sec.  Won   Inter-Collegiate  Half-Mile 

Won  C.  U.  A.  C— L.  A.  C.  Half-  '"  2  min.  8  sec. 

Mile  (beating  Lieut.  Patterson)  in  Won    'Varsity    Mile    in    4    min. 

I  min.  591/^  sec.  -50  3-5  sec. 

Won  College  Quarter-Mile  in  54  Won  'Varsity  Half-Mile  in  1  min. 

1-5  sec.  58  sec. 

Won  College  Mile  in  5  min.  0  2-5  Won  C.U.A.C— L.A.C.  Mile  in 

sec.  4  min.  30  sec. 

Second  in  College  100  Yards  in  W'on      Inter-'Varsity    Half-Mile 

\l  gQ(.  in  1  min.  58  1-5  sec. 

Won    College     Half-Mile     in    2  Won    Inter-'Varsity    Mile    in    4 

min.  3  sec.  min.  29  2-5  sec. 

Won  'Varsity  Mile  in  4  min.  29  Won  Oxford  and  Cambridge  v. 

sec.  Yale  and  Harvard  Mile  in  4  min. 

Won     Inter-'Varsity     Half-Mile  27  2-5  sec. 

in  1  min.  57  3-5  sec. 

Fourth  Year 

Third  Year  Won  College  Mile  in  4  min.  54 

Won  College  Half-Mile  in  2  min.  ^"5  sec. 

7  1-5  sec.  Won  College  Half-Mile  in  2  min. 

Second  in  College  100  Yards  in  6  3-5  sec. 

II  sec.  Won     C.U.A.C— A.A.A.     Half- 
Won  College  Mile  in  4  min.  43  Mile  in  1  min.  59  2-5  sec. 

sec.  Won      Strangers'      Two      Miles 


The  Alumni 


303 


Handicap   from  scratch   in  9  min. 
55  sec. 

Won  College  Mile  in  4  niin.  42 
1-5  sec. 

Won  College  100  Yards  in  11  sec. 

Won  College  Half-Mile  in  2  min. 
5  sec. 

Won    College    Quarter-Mile    in 
52  1-5  sec. 

Second    College    100    Yards    in 
10  4-5  sec. 

Won  College  Half-Mile  in  1  min. 
59  1-5  sec. 

Won  'Varsity  Mile  in  4  min.  24 
4-5  sec. 

Won  "Varsity  Half-Mile  in  1  min. 
57  3-5  sec. 

Won   C.U.A.C— L.A.C.    Half- 
Mile  in  1  min.  50  4-5  sec. 

Won  Inter- Varsity  Half-Mile  in 
1  min.  56  3-5  sec. 


Howell  S.  England  has  removed 
his  law  offices  from  Wilmington, 
Del.,  to  633  Dime  Savings  Bank 
Building,  Detroit. 

'95 

Samuel  H.  Brown  spent  the 
year  1914-1915  studying  history 
in  the  Graduate  School  of  Harvard 
University,  taking  his  A.  M.  de- 
gree in  June,  1915.  While  there 
he  refereed  quite  a  number  of 
soccer  and  other  games,  notably 
the  Harvard-Columbia  Intercol- 
legiate match. 

Mr.  Brown  has  returned  to  his 
position  as  teacher  of  history  at 
Westtown. 


'96 

L.     HoUingsworth     Wood     was 

married   to   Miss  Helen  Underbill, 

of  Jericho,  L.  I.,  on  October  28th. 

They  will  live  at  Mt.  Kisco,  N.  Y. 

'98 
Dr.  Wm.  W.  Cadbury  has  gone 
to  the  Peter  Bent  Brigham  Hos- 
pital at  Boston,  where  he  will  do 
special  research  work  in  Oriental 
diseases  for  several  months. 

1900 
John    Pim    Carter's    address    is 
now    3113    Blakiston    St.,    Holme- 
burg,  Philadelphia. 

'03 
The  l^niversity  of  Chicago  Press 
has  published  the  Ph.D.  disserta- 
tion of  J.  E.  HoUingsworth  under 
the  title  "Antithesis  in  the  Attic 
Orators  from  Antiphon  to  Isaeus.'' 

'08 
Thos.    M.    Longstreth    has   pub- 
lished   a    book    with    the    Outing 
Publishing  Co.,  entitled  "Reading 
the  Weather." 

J.  Carey  Thomas,  2nd,  is  at 
present  teaching  French  and  Eng- 
lish in  the  Riverview  Academy  at 
Poughkeepsie,  N.  Y. 

'09 

Gerald  H.  Deacon's  address  is 
at  present  McKean  Ave.,  Ger- 
mantown.  Pa. 


304 


The  Haverfordian 


'11 
Henry  Ferris,  Jr.,  was  married 
on  November  9th  to  Miss  Mary 
Keeney  Harris,  of  1623  Master  St., 
Philadelphia.  Mr.  Ferris  is  em- 
ployed on  the  Public  Ledger  Dis- 
play Advertising  Staff. 

J.  Jarden  Guenther  was  married 
to  Miss  Dorothy  Erwin  Henderson 
at  Paoli  on  October  30th.  Walter 
Whitson,  '08,  and  John  Bradway, 
'11,  were  ushers. 

'13 
The  Class  of  1913  held  a  class 
supper     at     Lauber's     Restaurant 
October  22nd  at  6  P.  M.,  pre\-ious 


to  attending  the  Freshman  Cake- 
walk at  the  college.  The  follow- 
ing were  present: — 

Crowder,  Diament,  Hare,  Hires, 
Howson,  Longstreth,  Maule,  Offer- 
man,  Tatnall,  Thomas. 

Chas.  O.  Young,  employed  in 
the  U.  S.  Bureau  of  Chemistry, 
has  been  moved  from  Washington 
to  Los  Angeles,  Cal.  His  address 
is  142  S.  Anderson  St.  Mr. 
Young's  residence  there  will  prob- 
ably be  temporary,  as  he  may  be 
moved  again  next  spring. 

Lloyd  H.  Mendenhall  is  now 
located    in    Puerto    Padre,    Cuba, 


Bell  Phone  868 
Rates,  $2.25  to  $3.00  Per  Day 

LINCOLN 
HIGHWAY 


Rooms  with 
Private  Bath 


INN 


MODERN    APPOINTMENTS 

Every  Room  with  Outside  Light  and  Air 

No  Bar.         SALESMEN'S  DISPLAY  ROOM 

Especial  Attention  to  Automobile  Parties 

349   MAIN   STREET,    COATESVILLE,   PA. 

38  miles  west  of  Philadelphia,  on  the 
Lincoln  National  Highway. 

WM.  H.  MILLER,  Mgr. 


BELMONT 
IRON 
WORKS 


Main  Office  and  Works: 
PHILADELPHIA,    PA. 


New  York  Office: 
32  BROADWAY 


Bridge  Shops: 
EDDYSTONE,  PA. 


The  Alumni 


305 


engaged  in  Friends'  missionary 
work.  His  wife  and  son  are  with 
him. 


'14 
Samuel  E.  Stokes    is  captain  of 
the  Moorestown  Soccer  Team. 


Edward  Rice,  Jr.,  who  grad- 
uated from  Ha\erford  College  in 
1913,  has  been  serving  with  the 
Friends'  ambulance  unit  in  France 
for  the  last  fi\'e  months,  and  has 
been  sent  by  that  organization  to 
t'lis  country  to  tell  Philadelphians 
of  the  progress  of  the  work  of  the 
unit  and  outline  its  financial 
needs.  Mr.  Rice  has  been  spend- 
ing a  few  days  in  each  department 
of  the  ambulance  in  order  to  more 
clearly  explain  its  work. 

— Ledger,  Nov.  12. 


Jos.  C.  Ferguson,  3rd,  Stewart 
P.  Clarke,  and  Roy  MacFarlan 
are  attending  the  night  school  of 
the  Uni\ersity  of  PennsyKania. 

Walter  G.  Bowerman  on  Novem- 
ber 1st  assumed  a  position  in  the 
Actuarial  Dept.  of  the  Equitable 
Life  Assurance  Society  of  New 
York. 

'15 
Ernest  N.  Votaw  is  a  candidate 
for    the    University    of    Pennsyl- 
vania gym.  team. 


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OPEN  EVENINGS 


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your  hand  by  a  ' 

S  P  E  C  I  .M.  I  S  T 
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rVour 
Fountain  Pen 

Allowance  on  old  pens  exchanged  for  new 
Reclaimed  pens  at  reduced  prices 

-^     Agent  for  Waterman's    Pens      - 

^NICHOL,    1016  CHESTNUT    STREETX 

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Dry  Goods.  Notions.  Clothing  and  Shoes.  Ladies' 
Millinery  and  Trimmings 

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Good  Hair  Cutting  is  an  art.    Our  men  all  know 

how,  and  will  give  you  the  best  work  at  standard 

prices.       \o  tipping  or  other  annoyances. 


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The  Haverfordian 


INSURANCE 

Fire  or  Burglary  Insurance  on  Students'  per- 
sonal effects  while  at  College  or  elsewhere. 

Tourists'  Floating  Insurance  on  personal  ef- 
fects against  all  risks  in  transit,  in  hotels, 
etc.,  both  in  this  country  and  abroad. 

Automobile  Insurance  covering  damage  to  car 
and  liability  for  damage  to  property  or  for 
injuries  to  persons. 

Longacre  &  Ewing 

Bullitt  Building       HIS.   Fourth  St. 
Philadelphia 

Repairing   of   Hall,    Chimes  and  French 
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Send  us  Your  Suitings  to  be 

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Undertakers 
ARDMORE,  PA. 

Successors  to 
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Phone,    Ardmore    9 

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ARDMORE,  PA. 

Will  Collect  Shoes  Monday  Evening  and  Deliver 
Thursday  Morning 
T.   B.  Whitson,   College   Agent 


Attractive  Wall  Paper 

At  Popular  Prices 

A.  L.   Diament  &  Co. 

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YARNALL 

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Haverfopd  Couc 

MAVERFOftD,  ^J 


Contents 


Keats,  Verse. Albert  H.  Stone,  '16  308 

The  Question  of  Advertising John  K.  Garringes,  '14  309 

Rainbow,   Story C.    Van   Dam, '17  312 

The  Question  ,Ver8e Donald  H.  Painter,  '17  318 

"  The  Devil  is  Among  Us  " W.  H.  Ghamberlin,  '17  319 

Lalun,    Verse D.    Oliver, '19  321 

Adventure,    Story Walter   S.    Nevin, '18  322 

Memory,  Youth,  and  Age,  Verse .  Charles  Hartshorne,  '19  323 

A   Sentimental   Disinterment Robert   Gibson, '17  324 

Nanon,  A  Character  Slietch Albert  H.  Stone,  '16  327 

To  Taj  Mahal,  Verse D.  C.  Wendell,  '16  328 

The    Message    of    Poland 1917  329 

Compulsory     Church     Attendance     Not     Compulsory 

Religion J.  W.  Spaeth,  '17  331 

The  Statue  of  Truth,  Verse Robert  Gibson,  '17  333 

The  Last  of  the  Hohenstauf  en.  Story 

W.  H.  Chamberlin,  '17  334 

The  Uneasy  Chair 339 

Off  Probation,  Verse DeWitt  C.  Clement,  '17  342 

Alumni Donald   H.   Painter,  '17  343 


Januatp 

1916 


Marceau 

Photographer 


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Philadelphia 

Special  rates  to  students 
Phone,  Spruce  5606 


Logan  Trust  Company 
of  Philadelphia 

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IVe  Invite  Correspondence  or  an  Jnlerciew  Relatioe 
to  Opening  Accounts. 

We  beg  to  call  attention  to  the  fa- 
cilities offered  by  our  Trust  Depart- 
ment for  the  conduct  of  all  business 
relating  to  Trusts,  Wills,  Elstates 
and  Investments. 

Officer* 

ROWLAND  COMLY,  President. 
HUGH  McILVAIN,  Ist  Vice-President. 
WILLIAM  BRADWAY,  2nd  Vice-President, 

Trust  Officer  and  Treasurer, 
ALFRED  G.  WHITE,  Assistant  Trust  Officer. 
S.  HARVEY  THOMAS,  JR..  Assistant  Treasurer. 
JOHN  H.  WOOD.  Secretary. 


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The  Haverfordian 


EDITORS 
Robert  Gibson,  1917  Editor-in-Chief 
D.  C.  Wendell,  1916  W.  H.  Chamberlin,  1917 

G.  A.  DuNLAP,  1916  C.  D.  Van  Dam,  1917 

Donald  Painter,  1917  J.  G.  C.  LeClerc(^,  1918 

BUSINESS  MANAGERS 
Edward  R.  Moon,  1916  (Mgr.)        Arthur  E.  Spellissy,  1917  (Asst.  Mgr.) 
J.  Stewart  Huston,  1919  (Asst.  Mgr.) 


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The  Haverfordian  is  published  on  the  tenth  of  each  month  during  college 
year.  Its  purpose  is  to  foster  the  literary  spirit  among  the  undergraduates  and 
to  provide  an  organ  for  the  discussion  of  questions  relative  to  college  life  and 
policy.  To  these  ends  contributions  are  invited,  and  will  be  considered  solely 
on  their  merits.  Matter  intended  for  insertion  should  reach  the  Editor  not  later 
than  the  fifteenth  of  the  month  preceding  the  date  of  issue. 

Entered  at  the  Haverford  Poat-Office,  for  transmission  through  the  mails  as  second-class  matter 


Vol.  XXXVII  HAVERFORD,  PA.,  JANUARY,  1916. 


No.  8 


lleat£f 

Idolater  of  Beauty,  Child  of  Truth, 

What  wordless  ecstasies  within  thee  hum. 

As,  lost  to  time  and  place,  thy  pale  hands  turn 
The  sculptured  tale  of  maid  pursued  by  youth? 

Art  thou  a  statue  silting  thus  so  still? 

Dost  catch  the  glorious  sweep  of  Homer's  strings? 
Or  notest  thou  the  nightingale  that  wings 

To  wooded  dale  beneath  Ionian  hill? 

In  fancy  do  thy  slender  fingers  press 

The  stops  of  oaten  reed  of  piping  Pan? 
Or  stretched  in  cedarn  shadows  dost  thou  plan 

To  win  some  artless  Dryad's  shy  caress? 

—Albert  H.  Stone,  '16. 


THE    HAVERFORDIAN 


Vol.  XXXVII.  HAVERFORD.  PA..  JANUARY.  1916  No.  8 


(E^flt  <2^ues;tion  of  !3bberti£(ins 

THERE  seem  to  be  two  general  headings  for  activity  in  advertising 
a  college — advertising  what  we  have,  and  getting  what  we  want 
to  advertise. 

In  regard  to  the  first  question,  I  find  that  in  most  colleges  both 
undergraduates  and  alumni  share  in  the  work.  Undergraduates  know 
the  college  as  it  is,  and  are  in  a  good  position  to  disseminate  this  knowl- 
edge. Princeton,  for  instance,  has  a  School  Club,  which,  on  a  neatly 
crested  paper,  keeps  the  various  school  periodicals  informed  on  the  activ- 
ities of  school  representatives  in  college.  I  have  seen  more  than  one 
school  paper  somewhat  monopolized  with  Princeton  news.  The  effect 
of  this  is  that  the  members  of  the  school  begin  to  draw  closer  to  Prince- 
ton and  to  feel  a  stronger  attachment  there.  Union  College  of  Sche- 
nectady has  an  organization  much  on  the  same  lines,  called  the  Press 
Club,  membership  in  which  is  considered  one  of  the  greatest  honors. 
This  club,  besides  keeping  in  touch  with  school  papers,  sends  to  the  papers 
in  the  home  towns  of  various  students  glowing  accounts  of  their  achieve- 
ments and  successes.  Thus  many  communities  are  not  allowed  to  forget 
that  Union  "is  on  the  map." 

There  is  another  service  which  is  also  effected  by  these  clubs.  They 
take  charge  of  getting  schoolboys  to  college  to  see  the  place  and  enjoy 
a  touch  of  college  life.  So  again  the  boys  draw  closer  to  the  college  and 
acquire  an  interested  attachment.  There  is  a  great  possibility,  however, 
of  overdoing  this  entertaining  method,  whereupon  the  "victim"  is  sent 
off  gasping  for  breath.  There  are  many  seniors  in  school  who  are  easily 
dazzled  by  the  adulation  process;  but  the  strongest  minded  and  those 
most  worth  having  generally  approach  a  college  with  a  far  more  critical 
mind.  Therefore,  it  seems  to  me,  no  matter  what  club  Haverford  may 
choose  for  the  promotion  of  its  good  name,  the  motto  should  be,  "Let's 
show  them  what  we've  got." 

Unfortunately,  it  is  not  always  possible  to  have  the  majority  of 
"possibilities"  out  to  College.     Then  another  factor  comes  into  play. 


310  The  Haverfordian 

that  of  delicate  and  convincing  fluency.  The  Alumni  can  help  in  this 
even  more  than  the  undergraduates.  College  news,  like  our  subtle  Vir- 
gilian  friend  "Fama,"  can  speed  on  and  rise  with  incredible  swiftness. 
This  desirable  fluency  can  be  worthily  backed  up  with  the  heavy  artil- 
lery of  college  publications,  and  if  one  is  only  willing  to  talk  loud  enough 
and  often  enough  the  deepest  entrenchments  may  receive  the  happy  word. 

The  organization  of  the  alumni  under  some  secretarial  head  is  a 
method  adopted  by  the  large  universities,  and  it  seems  to  deserve  the 
time  given  to  it.  A  co-operative  alumni  is  a  most  powerful  body. 
Through  the  services  of  a  special  agent  (who,  by  the  way,  must  be  a  man 
of  unusual  tact  and  personality)  even  the  method  of  direct  talks  in 
schools  may  be  adopted.  It  is,  as  a  rule,  the  work  of  this  secretary,  or 
whatsoever  he  may  be  called,  to  distribute  college  publications  and 
catalogs.  I  know  of  one  institution  which  has  in  pamphlet  form  some 
extremely  interesting  articles  by  professors  on  salient  questions  in  regard 
to  college  life.  Class  records  of  many  colleges  can  also  be  found  on  li- 
brary tables  in  schools.  Many  a  schoolboy  has  taken  pride  in  opening 
such  a  book  and  pointing  out  John  Doe,  "who  went  to  school  while  I 
was  here,"  or,  "who  lives  right  next  to  me,"  and  such  things  ad  infinitum. 
So  much  for  making  more  obvious  "what  we've  got." 

Now  for  getting  what  we  want  to  advertise.  Scientific  schools 
make  their  names  by  aiming  directly  towards  efficiency.  Haverford, 
as  a  place  of  general  education,  has  no  aspirations  that  way  and  has  a 
more  difficult  problem  to  face.  I  have  heard  more  than  one  Haverfor- 
dian admit,  with  mingled  emotion,  that  when  he  got  out  of  College  he  was 
completely  bewildered  as  to  what  business  should  claim  his  attention. 
Although  Haverford  wants,  I  believe,  to  avoid  specialization,  is  there, 
by  any  chance,  some  greater  application  of  potentiality  possible,  which 
will  give  more  satisfaction  to  the  student  body?  This  means,  of  course, 
a  fuller  use  of  academic  possibilities  after  special  training  is  tabooed  as 
undesirable  for  such  a  place. 

In  reference  to  this  matter  it  seems  to  me  that  the  accusation  of  a 
certain  Yale  professor  that  Haverford  is  "somewhat  provincial"  should 
be  seriously  pondered  upon.  It  is  a  strange  paradox  for  an  institution 
of  such  broad  training  to  be  provincial.  However,  let  us  make  sure  that 
this  critical  statement  strikes  no  soft  spot.  Washington  and  Jefferson 
felt  in  regard  to  this  matter  that  more  business  courses  would  help  to 
solve  the  problem.  Therefore,  in  that  college  one  may  place  on  his 
schedule  courses  in  business  statistics  et  al.  More  than  one  small  col- 
lege has  given  civil  engineering  a  greater  place.  Union  College  gives 
some  time  to  applied  mechanics,  as  does  also  Williams.     Spanish  is  now 


The  Question  of  Advertising  311 

a  language  of  rapidly  increasing  importance.  Would  it  be  detrimental 
to  a  broad  education  to  give  more  courses  in  that  language?  Perhaps 
it  is  the  duty  of  college  authorities  to  decide  on  this  matter,  yet  we  all 
have  an  influence  in  the  college  management,  which  we  may  assume  if 
we  so  will.  It  seems  to  me  that  chemistry,  for  example,  might  receive 
greater  stress  in  Haverford.  A  course  of  commercial  chemistry  might 
help  to  lessen  the  number  of  fellows  who  uncertainly  wander  out  of 
Roberts  Hall  in  June  with  a  degree  which  points  nowhere  in  particular. 
Although  business  schools  assume  the  responsibility  of  supplying  busi- 
ness knowledge,  perhaps  a  course  or  so  of  vital  bearing  in  this  direction 
might  help.  It  is  a  hard  thing  to  draw  the  line,  but  the  more  we  think  of 
it,  the  more  competent  we  shall  be  to  do  so.  It  is  obvious  that  to  grow 
as  so  many  wish  Haverford  to  grow,  there  must  be  a  great  increase  of 
interest  and  activity  in  behalf  of  these  important  advertising  questions. 

The  matter  of  exploiting  athletics  is  an  easier  matter  to  handle. 
Our  big  games  and  meets  more  easily  reach  the  papers  and  the  public 
eye  thereby.  The  athletic  organization  of  the  College  is  undoubtedly 
very  good.  We,  however,  may  aid  the  finished  product  by  guiding 
more  athletes  to  the  College  by  showing  them  just  what  the  College 
organization  is.  Complimentary  tickets  should  never  be  wanting  and, 
in  fact,  never  are  wanting  for  schoolboys.  A  point  worthy  of  notice  is 
that  Haverford  supplies  athletics  for  the  majority  and  not  the  chosen 
few. 

To  sum  up  the  purport  of  this  article,  there  is  a  big  call  for  an  addi- 
tional effort  of  alumni  and  undergraduates  towards  the  advertising  of 
Haverford.  We  have  to  be  everlastingly  fluent  and  eternally  zealous, 
one  and  all  of  us,  if  our  ideal  is  to  be  realized.  The  problem  of  readjust- 
ment and  expansion  is  one  which  cannot  too  diligently  be  considered.  I 
have  taken  the  liberty  of  expressing  my  views  on  this  new  and  vital  issue, 
trusting  that  perchance  I  may  aid  somewhat  in  an  increase  of  interest, 
or  at  least  stimulate  some  somnolent  pen  to  further  expression  on  the 
same  subject. 

— John  K.  Garrigues,  '14. 


"  'Twas  no  woman  that  you  gazed  at, 
'Twas  no  maiden  that  you  sighed  for." 

— Longfellow's  Hiawatha. 

In  Two  Parts 

IT  was  a  still,  starlit  evening  at  the  Canon — the  hour  when  the  Hopi 
Indians  danced  for  the  amusement  of  the  hotel  guests,  and  ex- 
tracted from  their  plentiful  pockets  the  largest  sums  of  money  for 
the  least  possible  values.  The  Hopi  House,  placed  a  short  distance  from 
the  hotel,  was  well-nigh  bulging  with  a  cosmopolitan  crowd  of  tourists, 
happy  and  laughing  in  the  quickly  made  friendships  of  the  traveler, 
for  which  propinquity  alone  is  responsible.  Some  were  buying  Indian 
trinkets  at  a  double  price  for  the  rush  season,  others  craning  their  necks 
at  the  skins  and  pictures  which  covered  the  walls,  and  all  were  chattering 
in  the  care-free  manner  of  sight-seers  who  have  nothing  to  do  but  spend 
a  definite  sum  of  money  in  a  specified  time.  In  one  corner  of  the  room 
the  Indians,  feathered  and  beaded  within  an  inch  of  their  lives,  were 
lolling  idly,  awaiting  word  from  the  fat  little  manager  to  begin.  There 
were  chiefs  and  squaws,  young  men  with  heavy  muscles  and  piercing 
eyes,  maidens,  children  and  papooses,  all  displayed  to  view,  like  adver- 
tisements of  a  circus. 

Presently  the  manager  elbowed  his  way  to  the  center  of  the  room, 
and  the  crowd  drew  back.  He  made  a  flowery  and  highly  exaggerated 
speech  about  the  "only  genuine  living  members  of  the  once  powerful 
and  influential  Hopi  tribe,"  then  withdrew  with  profuse  bowings,  to 
usher  in  the  entertainers.  At  his  last  words,  a  number  of  them  had 
risen  lazily  and  formed  a  ragged  line.  Their  dance,  which  was  devoid 
of  every  artistic  sense  save  rhythm,  would  not  have  done  credit  to  a 
party  of  children  playing  Indian  with  sticks  in  some  back  yard.  The 
faces  of  the  crowd  expressed  at  first  eager  interest  for  the  novelty,  then 
changed  to  mild  tolerance,  and  at  last  broke  into  derisive  laughter  which 
the  Indians  acknowledged,  either  with  a  bow  or  a  good-natured  smile. 
They  showed  little  interest  in  the  opinion  of  the  crowd;  for  there  were 
no  more  Indians  to  be  had,  even  if  they  did  nothing  but  stand  around 
and  look  fierce. 

Again  the  manager  appeared  and  addressed  his  amused  audience 
in  oft-repeated  words.  "  Our  next  number  will  be  a  love  dance  by  the 
Indian  maiden.  Rainbow,  famed  from  coast  to  coast  for  her  beauty  and 


Rainbow  313 

grace.  The  dance  will  represent  the  spirit  of  the  Indian  girl  who  re- 
joices in  the  first  sweet  pangs  of  Cupid's  arrows." 

Faces  again  showed  real  interest ;  all  eyes  turned  towards  her  as  she 
left  her  corner  and  came  slowly  forward  into  the  opening.  Clad  in  a 
simple  coat  and  skirt  of  skins, — with  a  band  of  wampum  about  her  head 
and  sandals  on  her  feet, — she  seemed  more  civilized  and  human  than 
the  others  of  her  tribe.  Her  face,  framed  in  braids  of  glistening  black 
hair,  recalled  the  wild,  natural  beauty  of  the  woods — the  light  in  her  dark 
eyes  was  the  shimmering  sparkle  of  the  sun  behind  a  waterfall.  Her 
dance  was  a  series  of  slow  and  measured  poses,  shifting  gracefully  into 
one  another,  and  plainly  telling  a  tale  of  love  and  disappointment.  Old 
ladies  were  murmuring  "Isn't  she  pretty.''"  "Sweet  face,"  and  one 
young  fellow  expressed  his  more  prosaic  opinion  in  the  epigram,  "Some 
kid!"  While  the  girl  collected  the  reward  for  her  dance,  an  incident 
happened  which  made  the  audience  gaze  again  in  curiosity.  They  saw 
a  young  man,  richly  dressed,  and  rather  handsome,  thrust  a  hand  into 
his  pocket  and  carelessly  drop  a  fifty-cent  piece  to  the  floor.  It  rolled 
to  the  other  side  of  the  room,  but  not  before  the  girl,  on  her  knees,  had 
seen  the  motion  of  his  arm.  She  picked  it  up  and  cast  a  swift  glance 
towards  the  manager,  whose  back  was  turned.  Then,  crossing  the  room, 
she  stepped  up  to  the  donor  and  pressed  the  coin  back  into  his  hand. 

"No  take  from  you,"  she  whispered. 

There  was  a  puzzled  look  on  the  face  of  Dean  Mathew,  New  York 
banker,  as  he  slowly  replaced  the  coin  in  his  pocket,  and  watched  those 
two  black  braids  and  that  erect  figure  disappearing  in  the  crowd. 

"Wonder  why  she  did  that,"  he  said  to  the  man  next  him. 

"Liked  yer  looks.  Can't  never  tell  what  them  Injuns'll  do,"  the 
other  answered  decidedly. 

With  an  amused  smile  Mathew  turned  away  and  wandered  back  to 
the  hotel,  where  he  found  his  pretty  young  wife  and  little  girl  sitting  on 
the  porch. 

"Where  have  you  been.  Dean?"  she  inquired. 

"Watching  the  Indians  dance.  There  is  a  beautiful  Indian  girl 
there.     You  must  see  her  before  we  leave." 

"Why  didn't  you  tell  me,  Dean?  I  would  love  to  have  gone,"  she 
said  disappointedly. 

"You  were  talking:  I  didn't  want  to  interrupt  you,"  he  replied 
quietly. 

She  turned  away,  visibly  annoyed.  Dean  had  found  her  hard  to 
understand  of  late.  Her  temper  had  flared  up  on  several  occasions. 
She  had  been  full  of  arguments,  suspicions,  and  complaints.      Mathew 


314  The  Haverfordian 

believed  himself  a  normally  easy  man  to  live  with,  and  at  times  had  felt 
keen  disappointment  in  her.  He  had  taken  the  Western  trip  to  please 
her  whim,  and  even  now  she  did  not  seem  content.  Once  or  twice  Dean 
had  caught  himself  looking  into  the  future  with  a  forecast  that  was  far 
from  bright. 

After  it  was  all  over,  it  seemed  to  him  a  strange  combination  of 
chance  and  calculation  that,  on  the  following  morning,  he  should  miss 
the  daily  party  into  the  canon,  that  his  wife  should  not  care  to  go,  and 
that  Rainbow  should  be  out  at  the  corral  just  as  he  came  to  look  for  a 
burro. 

"You  want  guide?"  she  queried,  with  restrained  eagerness. 

Dean  smiled  and  answered  in  the  affirmative.  The  smile  melted 
momentarily  as  he  looked  up  and  saw  the  figure  of  a  powerful  Indian 
youth  standing  in  the  doorway  of  the  Hopi  House.  His  brute  features 
were  distorted  in  a  scowl,  his  eyes  glued  on  the  man  and  the  girl.  Then 
the  pleasing  thought  of  having  a  pretty  Indian  to  lead  him  into  that 
vast,  silent  canon,  stopped  the  question  on  his  Hps,  and  he  thought  no 
more  of  the  matter. 

When,  suddenly,  the  canon  lay  below  him.  Dean  felt  about  as  large 
as  a  grain  of  sand  on  the  shores  of  the  Pacific.  Just  to  the  left  a 
smooth  wall  of  rock  dropped  a  sheer  thousand  feet.  Dean's  eye  followed 
on  down  over  the  steep  brown  banks,  scantily  clad  with  stunted  shrub- 
bery, to  a  rolling  plain  with  a  barely  visible  white  line  running  through  it. 

"What  is  that  line?"  he  asked,  pointing  it  out. 

"Trail,  half-way,"  his  guide  answered  simply. 

For  two  hours  they  held  their  jolting,  jerking  pace  down  into  the 
jaws  of  the  canon.  The  narrow  trail  was  ankle-deep  in  dust,  and  a 
cloud  arose  at  every  step.  Back  and  forth  it  wound  like  the  path  of  a 
snake,  now  on  the  edge  of  a  hideous  cliff, — now  through  a  mighty  ra- 
vine. As  Dean  gazed  off  through  miles  and  miles  of  thin  blue  atmos 
phere  without  a  trace  of  any  life — out  over  a  dozen  smaller  canons,  any 
of  them  large  enough  to  swallow  up  New  York  City  without  an  effort, 
he  began  in  a  small  way  to  realize  the  distances  which  at  first  sight  mock 
the  eye  and  deceive  the  reason. 

When  the  maze  of  trail  straightened  for  half  a  mile  into  the  fly  path 
on  the  plain.  Dean,  hot  and  thirsty,  was  glad  for  the  shelter  and  the 
cool  spring  at  the  half-way  house.  He  stretched  himself  lazily  on  a  tiny 
patch  of  grass  and  addressed  his  companion. 

"Rainbow,  are  you  one  of  the  regular  guides?" 

"No."     She  shook  her  black  braids  in  denial. 


Rainbow  315 

"Then  why  are  you  taking  me?  I  understood  at  the  office  that  one 
of  the  boys  was  to  go  with  me." 

"Me  gude  guide;  me  hate 'em;  take  all  business  and  all  the  money." 

"You  no  want  me?"  she  asked,  her  glance  keenly  questioning. 

"Far  from  it:  I'd  lots  rather  have  you  Rainbow.  Tell  me,  why 
you  gave  me  back  that  fifty  cents  last  night." 

"Me  not  get  it  anyway,"  she  evaded  after  a  moment  of  confusion. 

"No;  that's  not  it!  Tell  me  why,"  Mathew  asked  gently.  He  did 
not  understand  this  girl,  so  sudden  in  her  ways,  so  primitive — and  yet 
altogether  as  charming  a  little  being  as  ever  looked  into  his  eyes.  Mathew 
was  a  steady  man,  cold  by  nature,  and  careless  of  a  pretty  face  or  femi- 
nine attraction;  but  his  time  was  free,  his  thoughts  idle:  the  canon  held 
him  in  its  grip  bodily  and  mentally;  he  had  stepped  so  suddenly  from 
a  crowded  city  into  this  boundless  space  that  he  felt  like  a  prehistoric 
man  in  a  prehistoric  world.  This  girl  beside  him  who  knew  every  rock 
and  crevice  for  miles,  fitted  her  surroundings  as  completely  as  the  sea- 
gulls fit  the  sea.  Just  as  their  white  soaring-wings  cut  the  salt  air, — 
incarnate  spirits  of  the  ocean, — so  this  girl  seemed  to  hold  in  her  proud, 
fearless  breast,  the  spirit  of  the  canon. 

He  watched  her  sitting  by  his  feet,  breathing  deeply,  eyes  in  the 
distance. 

"Tell  me,"  he  repeated. 

"I  like  you:  I  dance  for  you  for  nothing,"  she  replied,  for  the  first 
time  using  the  correct  pronoun. 

"Are  you  not  going  to  marry  one  of  your  tribe?"  asked  Dean  curi- 
ously; it  seemed  strange  that  she  was  not  already  married. 

She  flashed  a  stormy  look  upon  him. 

"Black  Cloud  want  me  for  his  squaw  now!  Me  hate  him;  lazy, 
stupeed,  cruel;   Indians  no  good  no  more,"  she  answered  scornfully. 

"It  would  be  a  shame  for  a  girl  like  you  not  to  marry,  Rainbow. 
Don't  you  love  any  one?"  he  inquired  with  a  smile. 

She  started  at  the  question  and  hesitated. 

"I  love  this."  She  stretched  aher  arms  out  towards  the  depths  be- 
low, and  their  silence  answered  her  back. 

"You're  a  wild  little  thing,  aren't  you?"  he  mused  with  twinkling 
eyes. 

She  laughed. 

"Yes.  By  golly!    we  must  go  or  we  not  get  back." 

The  English  slang  sounded  strange  from  her  untaught  lips. 

"There's  lots  of  time.  Rainbow,"  he  assured  her. 

"We  go  to  ze  river?"  she  queried  uncertainly. 


316  The  Haverfordian 

"Surely!    By  all  means!    I  want  to  see  it." 

Then  a  thought  flashed  through  her  quick  brain  which  was  destined 
to  turn  three  lives  upside  down,  and  follow  through  the  years,  as  history 
of  the  canon. 

An  hour  had  slipped  by  before  they  unhitched  their  burros.  An- 
other hour  of  blistering  heat  brought  them  to  the  head  of  the  gorge  which 
cradles  the  river  within  its  vaulted  depths.  The  trail  branched  suddenly, — 
they  turned  to  the  right  and  continued  over  stony  ground  on  a  path, 
apparently  less  used  than  the  one  that  they  had  left. 

"Where's  this  go?"  inquired  Dean. 

"Quicker,"  was  her  brief  retort. 

Dean  marveled  at  the  trail  clinging  like  a  vine  to  the  sheer  wall.  The 
noise  of  rushing  water  echoed  from  the  caverns  underneath.  Slowly 
they  descended  until  at  last,  after  endless  winding,  they  reached  the 
banks.  The  burros  drank  at  the  water's  edge  and  their  riders  sank 
down  on  the  sand. 

"This  is  good  place,"  remarked  Rainbow. 

"For  what?" 

"To  rest:   for  the  night." 

"What!    We're  going  back.      It's — it's  only  4  o'clock." 

"We  no  can  get  back  tonight,"  she  laughed  softly.  "It  take  four 
hours  to  go  up.     We  fall  off  and  kill  ourselves  in  darkness." 

"But  the  others  do  it  in  a  day,"  he  exploded. 

"Not  this  trail.      This  is  long,"  she  argued  appealingly. 

He  stood  angrily  over  her,  and  she  turned  her  large  eyes  up  at  him 
with  shy  guiltiness. 

"Why  did  you  bring  me  this  way?"  he  demanded  tersely.  His 
reservations  were  made  for  the  following  morning  and  he  foresaw  no 
little  inconvenience  by  the  delay.  At  first  he  was  thoroughly  aroused., 
then,  as  he  contemplated  the  wild  little  creature  before  him,  the  sim- 
plicity and  daring  of  her  unique  proposal,  twisted  his  pursed  lips  into  a 
reluctant  smile.  He  enjoyed  novelty  like  any  other  normal  business 
man.  His  previous  recreations  had  been  refereed  by  a  jealous  little 
wife  who  kept  all  stray  women  from  the  side-lines  with  never-failing 
constancy  of  purpose.  Dean  had  been  diplomatically  usurped,  in  other 
words;  though  his  three  years  of  married  life  had  slid  by  in  a  whirl  of 
business  and  society,  nevertheless  the  lingering  shadow  of  a  wife  hung 
over  him  and  earned  him  the  epithet  "Dutiful  Dean"  among  his  gayer 
feminine  friends. 

Rainbow  dug  one  little  sandaled  foot  into  the  earth  and  furiously 


Rainbow  317 

tried  to  formulate  a  few  words  which  would  say  a  whole  lot.     She  spoke 
with  a  tenderness  utterly  foreign  to  her  normal  manner  of  speech. 

"I  no  can  call  you  by  name,  but  we  are  all  alone,  so  I  no  have  to. 
I  loved  you  when  I  danced  for  you.  I  could  not  take  money  for  it.  I  say 
you  shan't  get  away  and  me  never  see  you  again,  like  the  others.  They 
come,  they  speak  kindly  to  me  and  they  go  away  and  never  think  of  me 
afterwards.  You  say  I  am  Indian:  but  I  am  human  too.  I  can  love 
like  the  white  girl,  and  better,  O  much  better!  Me  not  need  a  city  to 
be  happy — not  clothes,  money  or  fine  house,  but  just  space  and  stillness, 
and  the  canon — and  you.  Now  you  will  go  away  and  then  it  is  good- 
bye. Then  I  shall  think  and  think  for  a  long  time  of  this  night,  and  pray 
to  the  Great  Spirit  that  I  see  you  again  sometime — somewhere — " 

She  raised  her  eyes  to  his  face,  and  smiled — a  rather  hopeless  little 
smile.  Dean  turned  away.  The  man  who  had  braved  the  glances 
and  tears  and  loves  of  New  York's  fairest,  quailed  under  the  grip  of  her 
simple,  artless  confession.  He  knew  his  wife  could  never  make  a  speech 
like  that,  love  how  she  might,  and  wondered  if  the  polishing  process  of 
civilized  custom  had  not  utterly  defeated  its  aim — whether  it  were  not 
better  to  be  reared  alone,  in  the  presence  of  the  Spirit  "whose  dwelling 
is  the  light  of  setting  suns,  the  round  ocean,  the  living  air,  and  in  the  mind 
of  man."  For  a  brief  moment  the  toiling  city  seemed  an  evil  dream  of 
some  distant  world.  The  beauty  and  grandeur  of  the  sunset  shadows 
aslant  across  the  canon  sides, — the  inspiration  of  the  evening  hour, — 
the  raw  and  weird  interior  of  earth  and  rock, — the  little  spirit  beside  him, 

embodying  it  all, these  mental  breezes  blew  at  once  on  the  dead 

leaves  of  Dean's  conventional  soul  and  aroused  within  him  feelings 
which  kindled  and  disturbed. 

She  watched  him  standing  lost  in  thought. 

"You  are  angry?"  she  ventured. 

"Me?  Angry?  No.  But  you  mustn't  love  me,  Rainbow.  I'm — 
I'm  too  old,  for  one  thing,  and — " 

"Tell  the  river  to  stop  flowing,"  she  replied  simply. 

"Don't  you  see  that  it's  foolish.  Rainbow!"  he  tried  to  explain. 
"You  will  only  make  yourself  unhappy,  and  if  you  knew  what  an  old 
bum  I  really  am,  you'd  be  disgusted  with  me." 

"Love  that  is  unhappy  is  sometimes  the  sweetest.  If  you  are  a 
bum,  whatever  it  is,  I'll  look  a  long  time  for  another  one,  but  I  never  find 
a  bum  like  you  again." 

She  wondered  why  he  smiled. 

"  I  hope  you  won't;  a  little  Indian  goddess  like  you  would  be  wretch- 


318  The  Haverfordian 

ed,  with  a  white  bum  for  a  soul-mate.  You're  too  free  and  wild  to  love 
a  mere  man,  Rainbow." 

Her  eyes  looked  bitter  reproach.  She  answered  in  her  abrupt, 
prophetic  way: 

"Some  men  have  souls  to  love." 

"Perhaps  so,"  he  conceded  with  a  grim  smile. 

The  shadows  were  settling  in  black  masses  behind  the  crags  and 
ridges.  The  red  after-glow  was  quickly  dying  in  the  narrow  strip  of  sky 
above,  and  the  swift-dropping  night  had  soon  shut  them  relentlessly  in 
blackness.  They  took  blankets  from  the  burros,  and  there  they  lay 
down  on  the  soft  sand, — two  tiny  things  between  high  walls,  that  seemed 
to  brush  the  stars.  They  slept  to  the  splash  of  the  river,  and  the  eternal 
silence  of  the  canon.  After  hours  had  passed  Rainbow  awoke,  her  hair 
wet  with  mist.  She  leaned  over  and  gazed  at  Dean's  face  in  the  faint 
starlight. 

"Me  wish  you  no  had  squaw,"  she  murmured  longingly. 

But  her  prayer  was  already  answered. 


(To  be  concluded) 


-C.  Van  Dam,   '17. 


tEije  (0ue£itton 

Thin  crescent  wanes  in  western  sky, 
A  mocker  of  man's  hopeless  cry, 
"Ah,  whence  is  all  this  world,  and  why? 
Why,  oh  why?" 

The  crescent  sinks;  the  clouds  roll  by. 
Chill  shrouds  for  all,  for  all  must  die. 
"Oh,  shall  we  know,"  the  sufferers  sigh, 
"Bye  and  bye?" 

— Donald  H.  Painter,  '17. 


"(Ifje  ©ebil  ii  iamong  Wii" 

FROM  the  earliest  times  men  have  had  a  vague  belief  in  the  existence 
of  some  supernatural  being  that  is  potent  for  evil.  This  belief 
has  waxed  and  waned  in  proportion  as  reason  and  science,  or 
ignorance  and  superstition,  have  dominated  human  thought. 

Morbid  conceptions  of  a  tormenting  devil  found  little  place  in  the 
clear  minds  of  the  Greeks.  We  find  no  trace,  in  their  poetry  and  philos- 
ophy, of  the  pleasant  idea  of  a  malevolent  deity  with  no  better  object  in 
life  than  a  constant  chase  after  the  souls  of  poor  harassed  mortals.  Their 
Hades  was  a  creation  of  poetic  fancy,  not  a  grim  theological  dogma.  And 
their  belief  in  the  Furies  had,  at  least,  the  excuse  of  reason  and  justice 
to  support  it. 

In  Persia  we  find  an  early  belief  in  the  perpetual  strife  between  the 
Power  of  Good  (Ormuzd)  and  the  Power  of  Evil  (Ahriman).  At  the 
end  of  the  world  the  Persian  imagined  a  stupendous  Armageddon,  in 
which  the  power  of  Ormuzd  would  save  his  worshippers  from  the  igno- 
minious defeat  which  was  prophesied  for  the  rest  of  the  world.  Here  we 
have  the  idea  of  eternal,  irreconcilable  conflict  between  Good  and  Evil, 
which  is  the  philosophic  foundation  of  Wagner's  "Tannhauser." 

But  his  Satanic  Majesty  is  really  ushered  into  power  by  the  intro- 
duction of  Christianity.  The  early  saints  record  many  struggles,  both 
physical  and  spiritual,  with  the  insidious  adversary  who  is  continually 
striving  to  lure  their  footsteps  from  the  straight  and  narrow  path.  Monks 
and  hermits,  who  wasted  the  greater  portion  of  their  lives  in  idle  medita- 
tion and  unhealthy  penances,  found  relief  from  ennui  and  salve  for  vanity 
by  ascribing  the  disordered  fancies  which  were  a  natural  result  of  mental 
emptiness  and  physical  debility  to  the  malevolent  influence  of  Satan 
and  his  attendant  fiends.  Asceticism  was  probably  the  most  impor- 
tant factor  in  creating  a  belief  in  a  real,  personal  devil. 

The  power  of  his  Satanic  Majesty  reached  its  zenith  in  the  Middle 
Ages,  that  period  of  implicit  religious  faith,  moral  laxity  and  mental 
stagnation.  Physical  combats  with  the  Evil  One  were  frequent,  and 
His  Majesty  sometimes  received  very  rough  handling.  So  Dunstan, 
one  of  the  most  disreputable  figures  in  the  overcrowded  calendar  of  me- 
dieval saints,  put  the  Evil  One  to  rout  by  seizing  his  nose  with  a  pair  of 
pincers.  Everyone  knows  how  Martin  Luther,  even  in  a  more  enlight- 
ened age,  was  forced  to  ward  off  the  assaults  of  the  Tempter  by  using 
his  inkstand  as  an  offensive  weapon.  And  in  the  darker  ages  we  often 
find  records  of  prolonged  battles  between  the  powers  of  evil  and  the 
bones,  genuine  or  otherwise,  of  local  saints.      The  fear  of  the  devil  was 


320  The  Haverfordian 

strong  in  the  hearts  of  men  in  the  Middle  Ages:  anyone  who  has  the 
slightest  knowledge  of  medieval  history  must  see  how  patently  absurd 
is  the  contention  that  superstitious  fear  is  a  powerful  factor  in  man's 
moral  betterment.  Needless  to  say,  that  great  medieval  ruler,  whose 
genius  nearly  broke  the  immense  power  of  the  medieval  Church,  the 
Emperor  Frederick  II,  was  branded  as  a  veritable  Antichrist.  A  curious 
illustration  of  the  naive  faith  of  the  Middle  Ages  is  found  in  the  declara- 
tion of  war  sent  by  Charles  of  Anjou  to  Manfred  whom  he  was  trying  to 
rob  of  his  throne.  "Tell  King  Manfred,"  said  the  pious  robber,  "that 
I  will  either  send  him  to  hell  or  he  will  send  me  to  heaven." 

With  the  dawning  light  of  the  Renaissance  implicit  faith  in  his  Sa- 
tanic Majesty  commenced  to  wane  very  decidedly.  Men  began  to  con- 
ceive the  possibility  that  the  figure  of  a  malevolent  Evil  Power  was  a 
subjective  figment  of  their  own  diseased  minds;  not  a  stern  objective 
reality.  In  Milton's  noble  epic  Satan's  character  assumes  the  dignity 
and  grandeur  of  a  tragic  hero,  unshaken  and  resolute,  even  in  his  struggle 
against  an  invincible  power.  Goethe  takes  the  legend  of  the  devil  much 
less  seriously.  In  Mephistopheles  we  have  a  semi-comical  figure,  shrewd, 
witty,  utterly  innocent  of  the  very  conception  of  morality.  In  fact 
Goethe,  throughout  his  "Faust,"  treats  the  powers  of  the  upper  and 
lower  worlds  as  freely  as  if  they  were  the  fabled  deities  of  antiquity. 

The  downfall  of  his  Satanic  Majesty,  which  was  initiated  by  the 
Renaissance,  was  brought  to  completion  by  the  more  recent  wave  of 
scientific  thought  and  progress.  Shorn  of  his  once  dread  power,  the  devil 
sank  into  a  mere  myth,  a  figment,  a  rather  emphatic  figure  of  speech  in 
the  mouths  of  gentlemen  of  hasty  temper  and  limited  vocabulary. 

But  such  a  popular  and  powerful  monarch  as  his  Satanic  Majesty 
could  not  be  buried  in  eternal  oblivion.  Nearly  every  revivalist  of  note 
has  made  more  or  less  successful  attempts  at  resuscitation.  The  devil 
had  a  considerable  vogue  in  the  revival  which  was  carried  on  in  Philadel- 
phia last  winter.  Mr.  Sunday  expressed  himself  very  emphatically  as 
believing  in  a  real  heaven,  paved  with  golden  streets,  and  a  personal 
devil,  with  all  the  paraphernalia  of  horns,  tail  and  cloven  hoofs.  The 
very  efficient  financial  methods  of  the  evangelist  make  his  first  belief 
quite  intelligible;  while  he  probably  considered  the  existence  of  a  gen- 
uine, old-fashioned  devil  as  a  necessary  rebuke  to  presumptuous  advo- 
cates of  higher  criticism  and  evolution. 

Yes,  the  devil  is  among  us,  notwithstanding  the  conscientious 
efforts  of  reason  and  culture  to  drive  him  out.  In  revivals,  in  camp- 
meetings,  in  all  places  where  ignorant  and  unthinking  conservatism  re- 
ceives the  impetus  of  fanaticism,  we  find  his  sinister  figure  stalking 


Lalun  321 

about  with  an  aspect  of  truly  medieval  horror.  And  it  is  not  likely  that 
he  will  ever  depart  from  our  midst.  To  certain  minds  it  is  an  ineffable 
pleasure  to  stigmatize  the  arguments  which  they  cannot  refute,  as  inspi- 
rations of  Satan,  to  regard  all  with  whom  they  differ  as  agents  of  the 
Evil  One.  And  the  prejudiced  and  ignorant  multitude,  who  form  the 
public  opinion  of  every  age,  could  not  forego  the  charitable  satisfaction 
of  condemning  the  men  whom  they  cannot  understand  to  the  future  pangs 
of  hell-fire  and  the  society  of  Satan  and  his  demons.  Julian  the  Apos- 
tate, Frederick  II.,  Robert  Ingersoll,  Friedrich  Nietzsche — but  why  go 
on  with  the  list?  It  is  safe  to  predict  that  the  devil  will  remain  among 
us  and  that  every  man  who  does  not  agree  with  the  prevailing  convic- 
tions about  religion  and  morals  will  be  ranked  among  his  satellites. 

—W.  H.  Chamberlin,  '17, 


Halun 

(It  is  an  Eastern  custom  that  any  married  woman  caught  in  intrigue 
with  a  man  must  lose  her  eyesight,  and  the  man  generally  his  life.) 

The  moon  has  risen  behind  the  mosque, 
And  glimmers  pale  in  the  garden  pool 
Where  cypress  shadows  long  and  dark 
Cast  bars  across  dim  waters  cool. 

"The  garden  is  still,  the  air  is  sweet. 
Frail  musk-rose  petals  droop  and  fall. 
I  wait  your  pattering  sandall'd  feet. 
Heart  of  my  heart,  O,  hear  my  call!" 


A  circle  of  light,  a  gurgling  groan, 

A  shadow  stealing  over  the  wall: 

And  Lalun' s  dumb  eyes  begging  sight, — 

'Tis  the  East's  revenge — the  blood  lust  call. 

—D.  Oliver,  '19. 


iSlibenture 

INSIDE  their  oaken  ribs  remain  undisturbed  the  costly  presents  to 
a  dead  king,  the  treasures  of  grandees  of  old  Spain,  tons  upon  tons 
of  gold  and  silver.  Shaded  by  growths  of  pink  and  white  coral, 
pillowed  amid  beds  of  sponge,  rests  this  treasure  of  bygone  days  until — " 

The  harsh  clang  of  a  bell  brought  a  young  man,  reading  on  a  truck 
of  waste,  to  his  feet  with  a  jump,  and  he  sprang  up  the  steps  of  the  huge 
Hoe  press.  With  every  muscle  taut  he  raced  against  time,  oiling  rollers, 
smoothing  ink,  adjusting  plates,  for  in  this  scientific  printing  plant  every 
second  counted. 

His  press,  usually  the  first  to  start,  was  delayed  by  one  thing  after 
another  until  his  pressman,  fearing  the  boss,  profanely  urged  him  to 
greater  efforts.  After  several  false  starts  the  rollers  began  to  turn,  then 
grinding,  roaring,  chewing  up  paper,  belching  out  the  finished  product, 
the  press  started  its  monotonous  song. 

His  work  now  was  to  see  that  the  press  did  not  run  out  of  paper  and 
ink,  and  seating  himself  back  of  the  press  he  prepared  for  the  deadening 
grind  of  the  night.  His  face,  revealed  in  glimpses  of  a  swaying 
electric  light  gave  evidence  of  power,  but  it  was  his  eyes,  touched  with 
the  brooding  fire  of  imagination,  that  attracted. 

Tonight  they  were  lit  with  resentment,  for  everything  was  con- 
spiring against  him.  It  had  been  too  warm  to  sleep  for  the  last  few 
mornings,  and  now  his  appetite  was  gone.  Tpo  familiar  with  night 
work  not  to  know  that  this  was  the  beginning  of  the  end,  he  faced  a 
future  that  spelled  death. 

Did  life  hold  anything  for  him?  Was  he  to  keep  in  the  treadmill 
until  death  relieved  him  of  his  harness?  Mechanically  he  performed 
his  routine  duties,  his  mind  obsessed  with  this  thought. 

Little  things,  long  ago  forgotten,  swam  before  his  vision  self-born. 
That  song  about  the  open  sky  and  stars, — what  was  it?  Yes,  he  re- 
membered, "under  the  wide  and  starry  sky,"  and  the  same  longing  that 
swept  him  when  he  first  heard  it  returned  and  shook  his  troubled  mind 
with  its  pent-up  force.  Then  that  Sunday  afternoon  he  walked  in  the 
park  with  his  "steady,"  and  the  thrush  sang  in  the  pine  tree.  How 
cheap  her  red  hat  and  powdered  cheeks  had  seemed!  The  story  he  had 
been  reading  just  before  the  bell  rang,  supplied  the  match  to  his  in- 
flamed mind.  Had  he  not  the  right  to  live,  to  find  the  adventure  dear 
to  his  heart? 

"  I  will !  I  will ! "  he  cried,  his  voice  grating  against  the  press's  clank, 
"I  will  find  my  adventure." 


Memory,  Youth,  and  Age  323 

A  grip  of  steel  on  his  arm  and  a  hoarse  voice  in  his  ear  brought  him 
to  action.  Dodging  the  wrench  in  the  hand  of  his  pressman,  white  with 
anger,  he  plunged  up  the  steps  and  hurriedly  began  to  ink  the  forgotten 
rollers.  His  left  foot,  in  his  haste,  projected  a  couple  of  inches  over  the 
narrow  foot-board,  and,  thrown  off  his  balance,  striving  too  late  to  catch 
the  hand-rail,  he  fell  shrieking  into  the  insatiable  maw  of  the  press.  He 
had  gone  on  his  adventure. 

—Walter  S.  Nevin,  '18. 


iHemorp,  goutfj,  anb  jage 

The  memory  is  a  magic  forest  glade 

Of  time — mysterious,  zephyr-timed  trees, — 

From  whence,  regarding  not  the  soothing  shade, 

The  soul  of  youth,  enticed  by  phantasies, 

Strains  longing  to  the  sky,  where  luring  float 

Ambition-tinted,  visionary  clouds; 

But  Age  with  lowered  eye  alone  doth  note 

The  withered  leaves,  like  swiftly  falling  shrouds. 

In  youth  the  streams  of  life  flow  onward  fast 

From  labyrinthine  vales  of  memoried  past 

Into  the  future's  endless,  fateful  sea; 

In  age  the  backing  waves  the  rivers  climb. 

Till  turns  in  death  the  surging  tide  of  time: — 

Then  roll  they  down,  of  time  forever  free. 

— Charles  Hartshorne,  '19. 


!3  Sentimental  JBisiinterment 

^1 TRANGE,"  drawled  the  Kindly  Critic,  through  a  cloud  of  nico" 
^^  tinous  ether,  "what  peculiar  emotions  one  undergoes  upon  a  retro- 
spection of  the  literary  attempts  of  his  past  execution.  I  was 
occupied  in  that  delightful  pursuit  this  morning,  and  had  just  succeeded 
in  rising  to  Parnassian  heights  of  imaginative  greatness,  when  the  tra- 
ditional '  man  from  somewhere '  entered  my  room,  and  my  fancy  suffered 
the  untimely  fate  of  Christabel.  By  the  way,  I  often  wonder  just  what 
Coleridge  said  when  he  returned  to  his  desk  to  find  his  mind  as  recalci- 
trant as  a  balky  horse : — probably  a  very  classic  remark,  worthy  to  be 
catalogued  among  the  '  great  unfound '  in  Literature.  I  often  compare 
myself  to  Coleridge,  in  that  respect." 

Here  the  Kindly  Critic  luxuriously  stretched  himself,  and  emitted 
a  very  egotistical  yawn. 

"Yes,  when  I  think  of  the  times  my  Muse  has  soared  on  Pegasean 
wing  only  to  find  myself  unable  to  give  vent  to  my  feelings!  Oh,  that 
most  annoying  sensation,  which  I  have  named  '  The  Quest  of  the  Elusive 
Word'!  To  sit  back  in  one's  chair,  with  eyeballs  rolled  upward,  in  a 
state  of  ecstatic  receptivity  and  allow  the  little  elfin  to  set  your  type  for 
a  wonderful  production.  But  when  you  get  to  the  very  culmination  of 
beauty,  a  sly  young  devil  flies  up  the  chimney  with  your  longed-for  word, 
chuckling  in  impish  glee  at  your  plight.  Such  must  have  been  the  case 
when  Keats  was  writing  Hyperion.  I  try  to  conjecture  what  he  would 
have  added  to: — 

"  'Apollo  shriek' d;  and  lo!  from  all  his  Umbs 
Celestial .' 

"Mayhap,  there  was  to  have  been  an  emanation  of  the  'divine  fire' 
frequently  used  by  certain  itinerant  revivalists.  Or  perhaps,  like  La- 
ocoon,  he  was  to  have  been  bound  by  serpents,  in  revenge  for  his  mother 
Latona's  insult  to  the  reptile  kingdom  by  turning  the  rustics  into  frogs." 

At  this  juncture,  the  Kindly  Critic,  noticing  my  discreet,  but  not- 
too-hidden  yawn,  smiled  cj'nically. 

"You,  I  perceive,  are  typical  of  the  twentieth  century: — an  ex- 
ample of  the  force  of  Science  over  Literature.  The  classics  are  abso- 
lutely neglected.  The  white  samite  of  chivalry  is  crushed  in  the  dust 
by  the  ruthless  heel  of  Pragmatism.  Poetry  is — Oh!  why  bore  you 
further? — But  speaking  of  poetry  reminds  me  of  a  friend  of  mine  who 
claims  there  are  only  two  perfect  examples  of  poetry  in  the  English  lan- 
guage. Listen!" — He  struck  a  pose  expressive  of  mysterious  awe  and 
whispered : — • 


A  Sentimental  Disinterment  325 

"'A  savage  place!  as  holy  and  enchanted, 
As  ever  beneath  waning  moon  was  haunted 
By  woman  wailing  for  her  demon  lover.'" 

Then  a  tear  stood  in  his  eye  as  he  murmured : — 

" '  Full  on  this  casement  shone  the  wintry  moon, 

And  threw  warm  gules  on  Madeline's  fair  breast. . . .'" 
His  voice  trailed  off  into  a  whisper. 

"Before  ever  I  heard  those  lines,  I  had  given  inner  expression  to 
them.  But  never,  never  could  the  vehicle  of  speech  give  vent  to  the 
song  of  the  'tongueless  nightingale'  within  me.  How  often  you  hear 
people — and  dear,  good,  kindly  souls  they  are — say  'Oh,  why  couldn't 
I  have  expressed  that  idea!  I  have  had  it  so  often,  but  could  never  quite 
clothe  it  in  words.'  Ah!  the  poor  'Voiceless!' — the  hungering,  aspiring 
beating  of  wings  against  the  portals  of  dumbness — the  many  who  would 
cry  out  and  can  not — those  who  'die  with  all  their  music  in  them!'  It 
is  unfortunate  that  there  are  so  few  valves  on  the  great  boiler  of  hu- 
manity. Everybody  has  a  period  when  they  feel  that  if  theirs  were  the 
golden  word,  'such  harmonious  madness  from  their  lips  would  flow,' 
that  the  world,  indeed,  would  stop  in  wonderment  to  listen." 

The  Kindly  Critic  paused  and  impressively  knocked  the  cold  ashes 
from  his  pipe.  I  handed  him  a  pouch  and  he  refilled  the  calked  bowl, 
at  the  same  time  resuming  his  conversation. 

"Those  commonplace  ideas — I  mean  not  common  in  its  vulgarian 
sense,  but  those  ideas  which  occur  to  many  people — remind  me  of  the 
great  analogies  of  Life.  We  are  doing  the  same,  thinking  the  same  as 
our  fathers  and  mothers  before  us.  Perhaps  we  are  somewhat  original  ^ 
perhaps  we  do  make  innovations; — but  they  are  paltry  in  comparison 
with  the  mighty  currents,  which  like  classic  Menander,  wind  in  and 
about  and  through  our  lives,  ramifying  and  binding  them,  until  we  are 
all  united  by  indissoluble  bonds. — Bound,  as  it  were,  to  the  adamantine 
foot  of  God's  throne  with  chains  more  slender  and  unbreakable  than 
ever  subdued  the  horrid  limbs  of  Fenris,  the  Wolf.  Man  is  like  one  of 
these  mechanical  pens, — I  misrecollect  their  name, — which  are  fastened 
to  a  wooden  pin,  and  can  trace  all  sorts  of  peculiar  patterns.  Yes,  the 
pen  may  execute  a  design  more  beautiful  and  more  exquisite  than  any 
of  its  brother  pens,  but  it  must  work  in  its  little  circle,  beyond  which  it 
can  not  go.  Faust  realized  this  when  he  reflected  on  the  'Macrocosm' 
or  greater  world.  But  Faust  tried  to  go  beyond  and  Faust  was  destroyed ; 
for  beyond  is  death. 

"'Nature  to  all  things  fixed  the  limits  fit 
And  wisely  curbed  proud  man's  pretending  wit." 


326  The  Haverfordian 

"But  wasn't  I  speaking  of  analogies?  Oh,  yes!  Well,  have  you 
ever  traced  an 'analogy' through  Literature,  for  instance?  Try  it.  The 
experiment  is  most  interesting,  and  will  empirically  show  you  just  how 
little  human  minds  differ.  They  only  differ  in  expression.  'Yea,' 
saith  the  Preacher,  'the  sill  on  the  threshold  of  speech  is  a  very  high 
one.'  Getting  back  to  our  'analogy,'  let's  take  the  idea  of  the  poignant 
sorrow  which  results  from  the  contemplation  of  past  joy.  I  shall  cite  only 
poetic  examples: — 

"Dante's  Francesca  exclaims: 

"'There  is  no  greater  pain  than  to  recall  a  happy  time  in  wretched- 
ness." 

"Tennyson's  version  is: 

"'A  sorrow's  crown  of  sorrow  is  remembering  happier  things.' 
"Byron,  in  his  'Marino  Faliero'  says: 
"'Joy's  recollection  is  no  longer  joy 
But  sorrow's  memory  is  sorrow  still.' 
"And  in  the  'Giaour': 

" '  My  memory  now  is  but  a  tomb 
Of  joys  long  past.' 
"Goldsmith's  plaint  is: 

"'Remembrance  wakes  with  all  her  busy  train, — 
Swells  at  my  heart,  and  turns  the  past  to  pain.' 
"Denham  cried: 

""Twas  man's  chief  punishment  to  keep  in  store 
The  sad  remembrance  what  he  was  before.' 
"Isaac  Clawson  preaches: 

""Tis  vain  and  worse  than  vain  to  think  on  joys. 
Which,  like  the  hour  that's  gone,  return  no  more,' 
"And  so  on,  ad  infinitum.      Was  not  that  what  Job  meant  when 

he Really,  my  dear  friend  I  regret  that  my  discourse  is  so  Lethean. 

I  really  believe  you  are  dozing.  La !  La !  These  modern  fellows  are  a 
strange  set.  They  vary  from  the  simplicity  of  '  Lo,  the  poor  Indian '  to 
the  imperial  pretensions  of  'Me-und-Gott';  but,  each  and  all,  they 
languish  in  ennui  at  the  mention  of  a  Homeric  simile  or  of  the  'mare 

rubrum'  of  Vergil.      'The  great  god  Pan  is  dead'! Hark!    friend, 

wasn't  that  the  dinner  bell?  By  Jove!  it's  six  o'clock.  By  the  way, 
this  is  ice-cream  night,  isn't  it? 

• — Robert  Gibson,  '17. 


"iSanon" 

A   Character  Sketch   from   Balzac's   "Eugene   Grandet" 

OF  the  several  animals  that  man  has  domesticated  and  made  to 
serve  his  ends  in  performing  various  kinds  of  heavy  work,  the 
ox  deserves  honorable  mention  for  unfailing  reliability,  long- 
suffering  and  enduring  patience.  Slow  in  its  movements,  to  be  sure, 
but  patient,  gentle,  and  obedient,  large  of  body  and  strong  of  muscle,  it 
bends  to  the  task  in  hand  without  questioning  the  will  or  wisdom  of  its 
master.  Slow  to  learn  but  sure  to  perform,  the  ox,  despite  its  many 
shortcomings,  has  filled  its  place  in  the  world  in  a  very  creditable  and 
satisfactory  manner. 

Of  such  a  character  and  disposition  is  "Nanon."  Large  of  body, 
strong  of  muscle,  slow  of  mind,  patient  as  eternity,  and  devoid  of  per- 
sonal initiative,  she,  notwithstanding  her  humble  position,  is  one  of  the 
greatest  and  most  lovable  characters  in  Balzac's  "Eugene  Grandet." 

It  is  perhaps  difficult  at  first  to  regard  her  in  the  light  of  a  human 
being  as  we  see  her  performing  her  daily  tasks  with  a  slow,  machine-like 
monotony,  seldom  speaking,  preparing  the  frugal  meals  from  the  scanty 
portions  which  her  miserly  master  measures  out;  scrubbing  the  floors, 
lifting  heavy  burdens,  and  in  the  evening  when  all  the  tasks  of  the  day 
have  been  carefully  performed,  spinning  or  knitting  by  the  light  of  a 
solitary  candle  shared  with  the  other  members  of  the  household.  This 
feeling  is  still  further  emphasized  when  we  see  that  she  alone  is  able  to 
go  near  or  manage  the  fierce  watchdog  which  old  Grandet  keeps  chained 
in  the  house.  One  feels  a  desire  to  attribute  this  influence  to  the  mutual 
friendship  which  seems  to  exist  between  some  of  the  lower  animals.  And 
yet  when  we  see  her  devotion  to  Eugene  and  her  mother,  her  little  in- 
trigues to  secure  for  them  the  small  pleasures  and  comforts  which  old 
Grandet  stingily  withholds,  and  her  human  interest  in  the  love  affair  of 
Eugene  and  Charles,  there  is  shed  upon  her  character  a  side  light  that 
reveals  a  warm  and  loving  nature,  which  asks  little  or  nothing  in  return, 
but  gives  freely  and  unselfishly  from  a  large  heart. 

—Albert  H.  Stone,  '16. 


^0  ^aj  ina^al 

Thou  bodied  soul  of  Beauty's  purest  heights, 

Well  sentineled  at  corners  four 

By  minarets:  a  white  quatrain 
Of  Purity  to  Love  and  Death. 

To  India,  thou,  a  diamond  white 
Set  in  a  veined  emerald  quartz 

Reflecting  tropic  sun  with  such  a  flashing  ray 
The  shadows  in  thy  fretwork  seem  the  blacker. 

A  sepulcher; — and  yet  within. 

As  white  as  gleaming  outer  dome, 
A  soul  more  bright  than  sun  of  Ind 
Makes  glow  with  ceaseless  light 

The  Robes  of  Death  and  tropic's  moist  decay. 

Invisible  it  is,  yet  permeates  the  spot 
Because  of  her  who  died 

And  him  who  builded  first  for  her, 
And  followed  soon  thereafter. 
They  say  his  love  was  pure, 
And  deeper  far  than  Death; 

This  tomb  he  built, 

This  Taj  Mahal — 
A  monument  to  Love, 

To  Life,  to  God  and  her. 

—D.  C.  Wendell,  '16, 


Wf^t  Mtiin^t  of  $oIanli:  Sj^ait,  Ij^vtitnt  anb  :f  uture 

AGAIN  and  again  we  return  to  the  thought:  how  symbolical  this 
Poland  is.  For  in  this  period  what  other  lot  than  that  of  the 
Pole  has  every  one  had,  who  has  loved  freedom  and  wished  it 
well?  What  else  has  he  experienced  but  defeat?  When  has  he  seen  a 
gleam  of  sunlight?  When  has  he  heard  a  signal  of  advance?  Every- 
where, everywhere,  the  fanfare  of  the  violent,  or  the  organ  peal  of  the 
bold-faced  hypocrite.  And  everywhere  stupidity  as  the  bodyguard  of 
the  lie,  and  everywhere  veneration  for  that  which  is  paltry,  and  every- 
where the  same  vulgar  disdain  for  the  only  thing  which  is  holy. 

"Yes,  Poland,  thou  art  the  great  symbol.  The  symbol  of  pinioned 
freedom,  whose  neck  is  trodden  upon;  the  symbol  of  those  who  lack 
any  outlook,  yet  hope  against  all  probability,  in  spite  of  all." — George 

Brandes. 

******** 

An  expectant  hush  settled  over  the  crowded  Academy  of  Music  as 
Ignace  Paderewski,  world-famous  virtuoso,  commenced  his  plea  for  aid 
for  the  suffering  millions  of  his  Polish  countrymen. 

"  I  have  to  speak  about  a  country  which  is  not  yours,  in  a  language 
which  is  not  mine."  The  first  sentence,  spoken  in  a  rich,  softly  mod- 
ulated tone,  dispelled  all  doubt  as  to  Mr.  Paderewski's  ability  as  an 
orator.  Through  the  entire  forty  minutes  of  his  speech  the  audience 
listened  with  the  closest  attention,  occasionally  interrupting  him  with 
bursts  of  spontaneous  and  enthusiastic  applause.  And  in  the  whole 
address  there  was  not  one  phrase,  not  one  word  that  was  unworthy  of 
a  great  artist  pleading  for  a  great  and  most  unhappy  country.  Com- 
mencing with  a  brief  review  of  Polish  history,  Paderewski  received  a 
storm  of  applause  when,  with  just  pride,  he  asserted:  "There  has  never 
been  a  race,  a  creed,  or  a  language  persecuted  under  our  Polish  rule."  A 
still  more  enthusiastic  outburst  of  applause  took  place,  when,  his  voice 
ringing  with  just  indignation,  he  cried  out,  in  reference  to  the  partition 
of  Poland:  "But  Poland  did  not  fall  alone.  With  her  fell  the  honor  of 
three  empires,  with  her  fell  the  apathetic  conscience  of  the  civilized 
world ;  and  they  will  not  cleanse  themselves  until  our  freedom  is  restored 
again." 

With  love  and  tenderness  he  touched  on  the  genius  of  Poland's 
romantic  poets,  Mickiewicz,  Krasinski,  Slowacki.  He  paid  a  still  more 
eloquent  tribute  to  Frederic  Chopin,  the  composer  whose  masterpieces 
have  endeared  Poland  to  the  whole  musical  world. 

His  description  of  the  appalling  misery  of  Poland  at  the  present 


330  The  Haverfoedian 

moment  was  simple,  impressive,  utterly  free  from  any  trace  of  rancor  or 
sensationalism.  A  groan  of  horror  swept  over  the  audience  as  he  as- 
serted, "on  the  most  reliable  authority,"  that  there  were  no  children 
under  eight  years  old  alive  in  Poland  to-day.  The  closing  sentences 
of  his  speech  were  touching  and  effective  in  the  extreme. 

The  strain  of  delivering  such  a  long  and  intense  speech  in  an  unfa- 
miliar language  might  well  have  exhausted  a  more  robust  man  than 
Paderewski.  And  yet,  after  a  very  short  interval,  the  Polish  pianist 
returned  and  gave  what  is  probably  the  most  remarkable  Chopin  recital 
ever  given  in  the  Academy. 

The  first  number,  the  A  Flat  Ballade,  is  peculiarly  interesting  be- 
cause it  was  inspired  by  a  poem  of  Mickiewicz,  one  of  the  leading  figures 
in  the  school  of  Polish  romantic  poetry.  Paderewski  played  it  with 
peculiar  delicacy  and  fire.  The  first  two  movements  of  the  B  Flat  Minor 
Sonata  were  played  with  the  titanic  power  of  a  Rubinstein;  the  Fu- 
neral March  tolled  forth  a  veritable  "Dies  Irae";  while  the  ghosts  of 
Europe's  myriad  slain  seemed  to  flit  about  in  the  wild,  weird  measures 
of  the  Finale.  The  fragrant  beauty  of  the  G  Major  Nocturne,  the  plain- 
tive lament  of  the  A  Minor  Mazurka  led  up  to  the  heroic  phrases  of  the 
Polonaise  in  A  Flat,  one  of  the  most  thrilling  battle  hymns  in  pianoforte 
literature.  Under  Paderewski's  inspired  playing  the  departed  glory  of 
Poland  seemed  to  rise  again.  Amid  the  thunder  of  the  giant  bass  octaves 
one  saw  again  those  invincible  Polish  warriors  of  old :  the  warriors  who 
crushed  the  mighty  Teutonic  Order  at  Grunwald,  who  ground  the  Cos- 
sacks to  pieces  at  Berestechko,  who  bore  the  main  part  in  the  successful 
defense  of  Vienna  against  the  invading  hordes  of  Turkey. 

With  his  usual  generosity  Paderewski  played  two  encores,  another 
Mazurka  and  the  popular  Military  Polonaise.  It  seemed  as  if  the  whole 
message  of  the  artist  had  been  delivered.  The  glory  of  the  past,  the 
misery  of  the  present  had  been  expressed,  eloquently  in  his  words,  still 
more  eloquently  in  his  music.  But  Paderewski  evidently  felt  that  Po- 
land had  still  another  message  to  give.  He  sat  down  at  the  piano  again — 
and  the  Academy  resounded  with  the  noble  strains  of  the  Polish  national 
anthem.  And  the  audience  that  rose  as  one  man  to  do  honor  to  the 
noble  hymn  could  not  but  feel  a  new  inspiration,  a  new  hope  that  the 
day  will  come  when  Poland  will  be  restored  and  the  universe  will  behold 
the  triumph  of  Justice,  Freedom  and  Humanity  over  Injustice,  Despot- 
ism and  Barbarism. 

—1917. 


Compulgorp  Ctiurc!)  ^ttenbancc  l^ot  Compuliorp 

^elision 

{After  the  speech  delivered  by  President  Sharpless  in  a  recent  Tuesday 
morning  Collection,  a  renewal  of  the  subject  of  compulsory  church  attendance 
may  appear  overbold.  However,  in  justice  to  those  who  did  not  profit  by 
the  President's  talk,  we  are  printing  the  following  article  written  by  an  under- 
graduate.— Ed.) 

In  the  last  edition  of  the  Haverfordian,  Mr.  Chamberlin  presented 
an  editorial  which  bore  the  title  "Compulsory  Church  Attendance"; 
after  even  a  cursory  reading,  however,  during  which  the  reader  meets 
such  recurring  phrases  as  "religious  intolerance"  and  "forced  religion," 
it  is  very  apparent  that  the  article  is  not  a  protest  against  the  institu- 
tion of  required  attendance  at  some  church  on  Sundays,  as  we  might 
expect  it  to  be,  but  a  polemic  against  a  state  of  enforced  religion  which 
seems  to  exist  only  as  a  bugbear  in  the  writer's  mind  and  certainly  not 
as  a  reality  at  Haverford.  For  however  distasteful  to  us  individually 
the  existing  required  attendance  may  be,  however  much  we  may  regard 
it  as  an  infringement  of  our  personal  liberty  of  action,  I  utterly  fail  to 
see  how  it  could  be  justly  called  religiously  intolerant. 

Let  us  see  what  the  rule  of  compulsory  church  attendance  on  Sun- 
days demands.  It  requires  that  each  student  remaining  at  the  College 
over  Sunday  shall  attend  divine  service  at  some  church  or  meeting- 
house, either  morning  or  evening,  two  absences  per  quarter  being  al- 
lowed ;  over  the  student  who  returns  home  at  the  week-end  the  College 
exercises  no  jurisdiction  in  this  matter.  We  note  first  of  all  that  there 
is  absolute  freedom  in  the  selection  of  the  place  of  worship;  the  College, 
while  its  founders  were  and  its  administrators  are  of  the  Society  of 
Friends,  makes  no  effort  to  force  belief  into  the  channels  of  Friendly 
practice.  And  right  here,  it  seems  to  me,  the  conviction  that  the  motives 
of  those  who  have  the  religious  interests  of  Haverford  at  heart  "might 
have  appealed  to  Philip  II  and  the  Duke  of  Alva"  is  strikingly  inapt; 
for  it  was  for  one  set  of  religious  believers  against  all  others  that  these 
two  warred  and  perpetrated  their  infamous  atrocities.  And  surely 
Haverford  College  can  never  be  accused  of  narrow  sectarianism  or 
denominationalism. 

Moreover,  we  observe  that  the  requirement  has  no  force  for  those 
who  have  returned  to  their  homes  to  spend  the  Sabbath.     The  College 


332  The  Haverfordian 

supposes  that  there  the  parents  have  reassumed  their  jurisdiction;  she 
has  temporarily,  from  the  nature  of  the  case,  relinquished  all  claim  to 
authority,  only  to  re-establish  this  claim  upon  the  student's  return. 
But  the  case  of  the  student  who  remains  at  College  over  Sundays  is  differ- 
ent; here  the  duties  of  the  college  as  a  parent  are  practically  unbroken 
and  more  exacting.  And  here  it  is  that  a  college  differs  from  a  univer- 
sity ;  the  latter  teaches,  the  former  both  teaches  and  guides.  The  uni- 
versity is  concerned  with  learning,  the  college's  chief  concern  is  the 
student  himself.  The  college,  therefore,  in  assuming  this  wardship 
from  the  real  parent,  like  a  true  guardian  looks  to  the  spiritual  side  as 
well  as  to  the  intellectual  and  the  physical.  Thus  it  is  that  attendance 
at  church  service  on  Sundays  is  required,  for  the  college  feels  that  with- 
out some  spiritual  suggestion, — spiritual  in  the  true  sense  of  coming 
from  the  "still,  small  voice  within," — of  whatever  kind  it  may  be,  the 
very  purpose  of  the  day  might  be  defeated.  Gladly  would  she  consent 
to  have  substituted  for  the  attendance  at  church  some  good  book  of 
thought, — ethical,  philosophical,  truthful,  nay  even  Nietzsche's  " Zara- 
thustra"if  it  satisfies.  But  only  too  well  she  realizes  "the  ills  that  flesh 
is  heir  to";  only  too  well,  through  years  of  experience  with  humanity 
and,  in  the  case  of  Haverford  College,  through  trial  has  she  found  that 
the  average  individual  committed  to  her  charge  requires  all  the  guid- 
ance that  she  can  bestow.  For,  left  to  themselves,  too  many  students 
would  do  what  is  easiest  but  not  therefore  always  best;  we  would  live 
for  the  present  to  the  detriment  of  the  future.  Surely  religion  is  not 
easily  appreciated  and  understood;  neither  is  Greek  to  many,  but  its 
difficulty  does  not  justify  its  being  eliminated  from  the  curriculum.  The 
student  is  required  neither  to  believe  nor  to  disbelieve  what  he  hears, 
for  forced  belief  is  neither  possible  nor  desirable ;  he  is  asked  merely  to 
listen  and  to  learn  as  his  nature  bids.  Spontaneity  is  truly  the  basis  of 
all  virile  spiritual  life;  but  spontaneity,  if  not  acquired,  is  certainly 
developed  by  training  and  practice. 

The  college,  then,  would  be  neglecting  her  real  duty  if  she  were  not 
conducive  to  a  student's  spiritual  development.  Haverford  College, 
founded  by  Friends  and  maintained  largely  by  Friends,  should  naturally 
be  expected  to  uphold  the  Christian  religion  as  a  means  to  spiritual 
health  and  vigor,  for  it  is  largely  a  Christian  community  which  she  is  to 
serve.  But  even  an  unchristian  person  could  not  very  well  claim  relig- 
ious intolerance  in  this  forced  attendance  on  Sundays  any  more  than  he 
might  protest  against  required  courses  in  the  life  and  teachings  of  Jesus 
or  in  Christian  ethics ;  if  confirmed  in  his  belief  or  lack  of  belief,  he  could 
do  less  harm  to  it  by  the  Sunday  requirement  than  might  come  from  the 


The  Statue  of  Truth  333 

courses  mentioned.  And  since  most  of  us  are  far  from  confirmed  in  our 
beliefs,  but  only  moulding  them,  surely  the  guidance  and  assistance  of 
more  level  heads  than  ours  should  be  not  spurned  but  welcomed. 

—J.  W.  Spaeth,  '17. 


lE^fje  i^tatue  of  tlTruti) 

In  a  lost  Egyptian  city,  by  the  jungle  overgrown, 

Stands  a  poet's  dream  of  beauty  that  is  frozen  into  stone; 

And  a  voice  from  out  tliat  monument  of  a  departed  race, 

Cries,  "  Come,  0  Man,  and  draw  my  veil,  and  look  upon  my  face; 

One  glance  into  my  living  orbs  shall  animate  thy  soul 

To  a  state  of  perfect  knowledge  like  to  that  thy  father  stole." 

But  a  louder  voice  with  clarion  tone  from  out  the  universe, 

Cries,  "Stay,  0  Truth!    Virgin  art  thou,  canst  thou  the  fates  reverse? 

No  man  born  of  woman  may  draw  thy  veil  and  live. 

By  death  alone  can  it  be  drawn;    and  death  is  Mine  to  give!" 

And  Truth  stretched  out  her  arms  and  wept,  because  of  her  disgrace: — 

Her  wooers  could  not  win  her,  nor  look  upon  her  face. 

— Robert  Gibson,  '17. 


Zht  Hasit  of  tfie  il|of)en£ltaufen 

ON  a  mild  afternoon  in  the  summer  of  the  year  1267,  two  boys 
were  reclining  on  the  summit  of  a  high  hill  near  the  ruins  of 
an  old  castle,  in  southern  Germany.  Both  were  silent  and 
motionless,  as  if  captivated  by  the  beauty  of  the  surrounding  landscape. 
And  well  they  might  be,  for  it  would  be  hard  to  conceive  a  more  charm- 
ing and  varied  view  than  that  which  was  presented  to  their  contempla- 
tion. Far  to  the  south  the  foothills  of  the  Alps,  covered  with  forests 
of  pine,  rose  in  grandeur.  Turning  to  the  west,  the  eye  encountered 
a  dark  and  misty  line,  indicating  the  outermost  fringe  of  the  Black  Forest. 
And  in  every  direction  one's  view  was  rewarded  by  the  picture  of  an 
undulating  region,  with  nodding  cornfields  and  wide  pasture  lands, 
dotted  here  and  there  by  smiling  villages.  The  day  matched  the  beauty 
of  the  scene.  Feathery  white  clouds  moved  slowly  over  the  surface  of 
the  deep  blue  sky.  A  gentle  breeze  was  flowing  from  the  south.  The 
rays  of  the  sun  shed  a  genial  warmth  that  was  free  from  oppressive 
heat.  Nothing  seemed  to  mar  the  perfect  harmony  of  earth  and  heaven — 
an  eagle  suddenly  shot  across  the  blue  vault  above,  and,  flying  with  re- 
markable swiftness,  disappeared  in  the  direction  of  Italy. 

"A  happy  omen,  Konrad,"  cried  the  older  of  the  two  boys,  rousing 
himself  from  his  reverie.  "Your  ancestral  eagle  hastens  to  announce 
our  coming  to  our  southern  friends." 

His  companions  did  not  immediately  reply;  and  we  may  take  this 
opportunity  of  describing  the  outward  appearance  of  the  two  youths. 
Frederick's  open  features  were  expressive  of  boldness,  sincerity  and  reso- 
lution. His  hair  and  eyes  were  dark,  his  limbs  well  formed;  and  his 
whole  carriage  gave  the  impression  of  daring  and  confidence  far  beyond 
his  years,  which  scarcely  exceeded  eighteen.  In  the  frame  and  coun- 
tenance of  Konrad  we  saw  an  abundant  reflection  of  the  more  virile 
qualities  of  his  friend;  but  his  dark  blue  eyes  seemed  to  indicate  a 
spiritual  depth  which  was  wanting  in  his  gayer  and  more  carefree  com- 
panion. Now  lost  in  deep  meditation,  now  lighted  by  sudden  emotion, 
they  revealed  the  hidden  fires  of  the  hero,  the  poet  and  the  dreamer. 
Let  us  return  to  the  conversation,  which  had  recently  been  opened. 

"You  seem  troubled  to-day,  my  friend,"  said  Frederick  after  a 
short  pause. 

"How  can  I  be  otherwise,  Frederick,"  replied  Konrad,  "when  I 
think  of  the  fearful  odds  against  us.  Is  it  possible  for  me,  a  simple, 
unskilled  boy,  to  withstand  the  power  of  that  Church,  which  has  crushed 
the  aspiring  genius  of  my  imperial  ancestors?     And  how  can  I  frustrate 


The  Last  of  the  Hohenstaufen  335 

who  this  morning,  so  smoothly  offered  me  the  kingdom  of  Naples  and 
Sicily,  would  they  not  betray  me  to  the  Pope,  or  to  the  French  tyrant, 
whom  he  has  set  over  my  ancestral  kingdom?" 

"Ah,  my  prince,"  cried  Frederick,  "is  this  the  spirit  of  those  im- 
perial ancestors  whose  deeds  of  glory  you  love  to  recall?  Think  of  your 
grandsire  Frederick,  who  conquered  the  German  Empire  when  he  was 
but  a  year  older  than  you  are!  The  guile  and  treachery  of  which  you 
complain  will  vanish  before  the  truth  and  justice  of  our  cause  like  mist 
before  the  rising  sun.  Not  even  the  papal  benedictions  can  longer  dis- 
guise from  the  Italians  the  cruelty  and  greed  of  the  French  adventurer, 
who  sits  on  the  Sicilian  throne,  that  is  rightfully  yours.  Your  triumph 
in  this  expedition  will  be  only  the  prelude  to  a  glorious  career  which  will 
finally  seat  you  on  the  imperial  throne." 

"Your  hopes  run  high,  dear  Frederick,"  said  Konrad,  with  a  quiet 
smile;  but  you  are  right  in  reproving  my  weakness.  Pride  and  honor 
alike  summon  me  to  vindicate  my  own  rights  and  to  liberate  my  Italian 
subjects  from  the  oppression  under  which  they  are  now  laboring.  The 
Hohenstaufen  have  never  lacked  daring  and  resolution.     Let  us  go." 

The  two  youths  rose  and  departed  for  their  neighboring  country- 
seat.  The  shades  of  evening  were  falling  rapidly.  The  hazy  line  of  the 
Black  Forest  became  more  and  more  indistinct.  The  old  castle  stood 
out  in  the  twilight  like  the  creation  of  a  ghostly  fancy.  Far  in  the 
distance  the  eagle's  shriek  resounded  from  his  eerie. 


A  full  year  has  passed.  Konrad  a  victor  beyond  his  wildest  dreams, 
stood  on  the  border  of  the  Neapolitan  kingdom,  at  the  head  of  a  large 
and  triumphant  army.  It  seemed  that  the  evil  fate  which  had  so  long 
pursued  his  house  had  finally  expended  itself.  His  progress  through 
northern  Italy  had  been  rapid  and  successful;  the  Pope,  driven  from 
Rome  by  a  popular  uprising,  had  been  forced  to  launch  his  excommuni- 
cations from  the  safe  distance  of  Anagni ;  a  brilliant  coronation  within 
the  Eternal  City  itself,  the  substantial  assistance  of  Don  Henry  of 
Castile,  one  of  the  most  noted  soldiers  of  fortune  of  the  time,  a  vig- 
orous insurrection  in  Sicily  againt  the  French  tyranny,  all  seemed  to 
point  to  a  speedy  and  complete  victory  for  the  lawful  claimant  of  the 
crown.  But  one  could  detect  little  exultation  in  the  features  of  Konrad, 
as  he  sat  in  front  of  his  tent  on  the  eve  of  the  battle,  which  was  to  decide 
his  future  fate.  His  glance  swept  his  own  camp  and  that  of  his  rival, 
which  was  pitched  on  the  opposite  side  of  a  little  stream,  with  calm 
thoughtf ulness ;  then  rested,  with  the  ardent  gaze  of  a  poet  and  an  ar- 


336  The  Haverfordian 

tist,  upon  the  melting  loveliness  of  the  Italian  sunset.  As  he  was  thus 
engaged  the  tent  door  opened  and  Frederick  stepped  out. 

"Well,  my  friend"  he  said,  "to-morrow  night  will  see  you  the  un- 
disputed King  of  Naples  and  Sicily." 

"We  will  have  some  hard  fighting  first,"  replied  Konrad,  pointing 
to  the  opposite  camp,  "those  French  are  good  warriors." 

"You  don't  think  that  there  can  be  any  doubt  of  the  result." 

"One  never  knows;  the  evil  fate  of  our  house." 

"That  evil  fate  has  now  expended  itself.  With  to-morrow's  battle 
a  brighter  era  is  destined  to  begin." 

"God  grant  it  may!  But  it  is  growing  late,  Frederick;  and  we  will 
need  all  our  strength  for  to-morrow." 

The  two  young  princes  withdrew  into  their  tent.  The  two  hostile 
camps  were  wrapped  in  profound  silence.  The  moon  shone  high  in  the 
heavens.  Myriads  of  stars  looked  down  with  compassion  on  the  erring 
mortals  who  were  to  clash  so  soon,  in  deadly  combat.  The  night  was 
still,  breathless,  oppressive.  Only  the  persistent  hooting  of  an  owl  broke 
the  deathlike  silence. 


The  morning  dawned  with  the  clear  heat  of  August.  The  two 
armies  were  quickly  drawn  up  on  opposite  sides  of  the  stream.  After 
a  little  preliminary  skirmishing.  Prince  Henry  of  Castile,  at  the  head 
of  his  mercenaries,  attacked  one  wing  of  the  opposing  army.  Every- 
thing went  down  before  the  furious  impetuosity  of  the  charge;  and  the 
fiery  Spaniard  dashed  wildly  in  pursuit  without  regard  for  the  second 
division  of  the  enemy,  which  now  advanced  against  the  German  knights 
under  the  leadership  of  Konrad  and  Frederick.  Now,  at  last,  the  young 
Hohenstaufen  had  an  opportunity  to  experience,  in  grim  reality,  the 
warlike  deeds  he  had  so  loved  to  read  of  in  the  chronicles  of  his  ances- 
tors. And  the  warrior  blood  within  him  thrilled  to  the  challenge  of  the 
fierce  conflict,  the  hoarse  shouts  of  the  combatants,  the  shrill  neighing 
of  the  horses,  the  harsh  grinding  of  steel  on  steel.  Ever  accompanied 
by  his  faithful  friend,  he  plunged  into  the  midst  of  the  fighting,  dealing 
and  warding  off  blows,  cheering  on  his  followers,  surprising  himself 
by  the  fierce  ardor  of  his  onset. 

But  the  conflict  was  not  unduly  prolonged.  Discouraged,  alike 
by  the  defeat  of  their  other  division  and  by  the  unaccountable  absence 
of  their  King,  the  French  knights  finally  yielded  to  the  continued  attacks 
of  their  antagonists  and  retired,  leaving  Konrad  master  of  the  field. 
Seeing  no  other  enemy,  the  Germans  withdrew  to  the  French  camp, 


The  Last  of  the  Hhhenstaufen  337 

seeking  rest  and  refreshment  after  their  exertions.  Soon  the  whole 
force   was   dissolved    in    careless    relaxation. 

"What  band  is  that?"  said  Konrad,  as  he  observed  a  troop  of  horse- 
men on  the  crest  of  a  neighboring  hill. 

"They  must  be  some  of  our  own  men,  returning  from  the  pursuit," 
replied  Frederick. 

"No,  those  are  not  our  standards,"  cried  Konrad,  after  a  keener 
observation.      "To  arms!     To  arms!     The  French  are  upon  us!" 

The  warning  call  came  too  late.  Before  the  Germans  could  be 
roused  from  their  lethargy,  the  picked  band,  which  the  wily  French 
monarch  had  concealed  in  ambush,  was  dealing  death  and  destruction 
in  the  midst  of  the  camp.  Taken  completely  by  surprise,  the  unarmed 
and  unorganized  Germans  could  make  but  little  resistance.  Konrad 
himself,  vainly  striving  to  rally  his  shattered  troops,  was  borne  along  in 
the  headlong  rout.  A  similar  fate  befell  Don  Henry  of  Castile  and  his 
mercenaries.  Returning  from  their  too  hasty  pursuit,  they  were  sur- 
rounded and  soon  overwhelmed  by  the  superior  numbers  of  the  French. 
And  so  the  evening  of  August  1268,  fell  on  the  ruin  of  the  last  hopes  of 
the  Hohenstaufen. 


Two  months  have  passed.  By  a  hideous  mockery  of  law  and  hu- 
manity, which  shocked  even  the  callous  spirit  of  the  thirteenth  cen- 
tury, Charles  of  Anjou,  the  Papal  King  of  Naples,  had  sentenced  Konrad, 
whose  only  crime  had  been  an  attempt  to  recover  his  rightful  kindgom 
by  fair  and  open  warfare,  to  a  malefactor's  death.  And  early  on  a  bleak 
October  morning,  set  for  the  execution  of  the  sentence,  Konrad  sat 
alone  in  his  prison,  struggling  to  control  and  collect  his  wandering 
thoughts.  Everything  since  his  fatal  defeat  seemed  a  confused  blur: 
the  defection  of  his  partisans,  his  own  betrayal  into  the  hands  of  his 
cruel  enemy  by  a  nobleman,  who  owed  his  fortune  to  the  Hohenstaufen 
rulers,  the  mock-trial,  the  sentence,  and  now — the  execution.  A  deadly 
fear  came  over  him,  not  of  his  impending  death,  but  of  weakness  to  which 
he  might  yield  before  death.  He  could  imagine  himself  dying,  as  his 
uncle  Manfred  had  died,  gloriously,  on  the  field  of  battle;  but  death, 
on  the  scaffold,  before  an  ignoble  mob — he  shut  his  eyes  to  drive  away 
the  monstrous,  horrible  thought.  Desperately  he  strove  to  fix  his 
attention  on  something  trivial,  irrelevant.  The  vision  of  his  mother 
rose  before  him  with  overpowering  force;  momentarily  crushing  him, 
it  suddenly  inspired  him  with  new  courage  and  new  hope.  "I  have 
made  my  mother  weep;  I  shall  never  make  her  blush,"  he  said  to  him- 


338  The  Haverfordian 

'self,  and  his  new  found  resolution  received  fresh  strength  as  he  reviewed 
the  departed  glories  of  his  mighty  ancestors.  Picture  after  picture  of 
devoted  heroism  rose  in  his  mind;  Barbarossa  leading  the  victorious 
hosts  of  Christendom  against  the  Mohammedans:  his  grandfather, 
Frederick  II,  broken  in  body,  but  fighting  the  overwhelming  power  of 
the  Pope  to  the  last  with  unflinching  courage;  his  uncle  Manfred,  beaten 
by  the  cowardice  and  treachery  of  his  own  followers,  rushing  into  the 
thick  of  the  opposing  army  to  find  there  a  hero's  death.  And  it  was 
with  a  firm  and  resolute  step  that  he  followed  the  ofhcer,  who  had  come 
to  fetch  him  to  the  place  of  execution. 

The  scaft'old  had  been  erected  just  outside  the  city  wall.  By  a 
melancholy  irony  it  commanded  one  of  the  fairest  views  even  of  that 
beautiful  country.  The  glorious  expanse  of  the  Bay  of  Naples,  now 
touched  by  the  rays  of  the  sun,  appeared  to  the  west.  The  coast  both 
to  the  north  and  to  the  south  presented  an  unrivaled  view  of  lofty  clifTs, 
broken  by  inlets.  Vesuvius  towered  ominously  in  the  distance.  Hav- 
ing contemplated  this  marvellous  scene  with  unshaken  composure, 
Konrad  turned  to  the  officer  in  charge  of  the  execution,  who  asked  him 
whether  he  had  any  requests  to  make.  The  young  prince  replied  that 
he  had  two;  the  first,  that  he  might  be  allowed  to  address  the  assembled 
crowd;  the  second,  that  he  might  perish  before  his  beloved  Frederick, 
so  that  he  might  be  spared  the  anguish  of  witnessing  his  friends'  death. 
Both  requests  were  granted.  Thereupon,  Konrad,  turning  to  the  crowd, 
pointed  out,  in  calm  but  forcible  language,  the  injustice  and  cruelty 
of  his  own  execution,  reminded  his  auditors  of  the  peace  and  happiness 
they  had  experienced  under  the  rule  of  his  grandfather  and  uncle,  and 
finally  closed  his  address  by  hurling  his  glove  into  the  midst  of  the  crowd 
with  the  request  that  it  might  be  taken  to  one  who  would  a\'enge  him. 
The  heroism,  beauty  and  misfortune  of  the  young  prince  might  have 
moved  a  heart  of  stone  to  pity  and  revenge;  but  the  Neapolitans  were  so 
thoroughly  enslaved  that  they  only  expressed  their  sympathy  by  tears 
and  groans.  The  French  soldiery  repressed  any  more  active  demon- 
stration. Konrad,  seeing  the  uselessness  of  his  appeal,  turned  quietly 
aside,  crying;  "Jesus  Christ,  King  of  all  Kings,  Lord  of  Honor,  if  this 
cup  may  not  pass  from  me,  into  thy  hands  I  commit  my  spirit." 
Then,  as  he  knelt  to  receive  the  fatal  blow,  he  suddenly  exclaimed; 
"O  mother  what  tidings  will  they  bring  to  thee  of  this  day!"  After 
this  last  expression  of  filial  devotion  he  quietly  laid  his  head  on  the 
block;  and  a  moment  later  the  cruel  axe  extinguished  the  dreams,  the 
ideals  and  the  aspirations  of  the  Last  of  the  Hohenstaufen. 

— W.  H.  Chamberlin,  '17. 


THE  UNEASY  CHAIR 


ARE  SUNDAY  CONCERTS  SACRILEGIOUS? 

THIS  very  interesting  question  has  been  raised  by  the  recently  ex- 
pressed opposition  of  the  Presbyterian  ministers  of  Philadelphia 
to  the  projected  free  Sunday  concerts  of  the  Philadelphia  Orches- 
tra. The  reverend  gentlemen  appear  to  base  their  objection  on  two  main 
arguments:  first,  that  secular  music  in  general  on  the  Sabbath  day  is  an 
abomination  in  the  sight  of  the  Lord;  second,  that  the  proposed  free 
concerts  are  a  subtle  design  on  the  part  of  the  Orchestra  to  pa\e  the  way 
for  future  moneymaking  entertainments  on  the  Lord's  day. 

The  first  objection  must  seem  to  indicate  a  most  lamentable  igno- 
rance of  the  true  significance  of  music,  even  to  one  who  has  the  most 
imperfect  knowledge  of  the  works  of  the  great  composers.  In  Schubert's 
Lfnfinishcd  Symphony  one  may  well  find  more  genuine  religion  than  in 
the  whole  creed  of  the  Presbyterian  Church,  or  of  any  other  church.  It 
would  be  an  eloquent  preacher,  indeed,  who  could  duplicate  the  glorious 
spiritual  message  of  Beethoven's  Fifth  Symphony.  And  it  is  safe  to  say 
that,  if  our  nation  would  pay  more  attention  to  the  masterpieces  of 
music  and  less  attention  to  Billy  Sunday  and  "The  Menace,"  we  would 
be,  as  a  people,  more  civilized,  more  humane,  more  cultured,  even,  per- 
haps, more  Christian.  The  attitude  of  the  ministers  in  belittling  every 
form  of  spiritual  inspiration  which  does  not  proceed  from  their  own 
pulpits  is  indicative  of  a  regrettable  spirit  of  narrow,  jealous  bigotry. 
But,  perhaps,  the  reverend  gentlemen  are  to  be  pitied  rather  than  blamed. 
Certainly  anyone  who  has  had  to  endure  the  typical  Protestant  Church 
•music  ev'ery  Sunday  of  his  career  might  be  pardoned  for  cherishing  an 
inveterate  grudge  against  the  whole  art  of  music. 

The  objection  on  the  ground  that  the  motives  of  the  Orchestra  are 
purely  mercenary  is  equally  unworthy.  If  the  reverend  gentlemen  had 
taken  the  trouble  to  investigate  the  facts  of  the  case,  they  would  have 
discovered  that  the  Orchestra,  far  from  being  a  moneymaking  institu- 
tion, is  only  maintained  by  heavy  guarantee  contributions  from  a  num- 
ber of  public-spirited  citizens.  And  if  the  mere  receiving  of  money  on 
the  Sabbath  is  a  heinous  sin,  then  no  church,  and,  certainly,  no  ev-an- 
gelist  in  our  country  can  be  called  free  from  blame. 


340  The  Haverfordian 

But  the  time  has  passed  when  the  Church  could  effectively  block 
the  progress  of  culture  and  reason.  Every  citizen  of  our  Commonwealth 
who  believes  in  progress  should  take  the  ill-advised  medieval  action  of 
the  Presbyterian  ministers  as  a  direct  challenge  to  his  principles  and  an 
incitement  to  work  all  the  harder  for  the  complete  eradication  of  the 
ridiculous  "blue  laws"  from  our  statute  books. 


VICARIOUS  Thinking  was  the  subject  of  an  article  in  The 
Nation  for  November  11th,  written  by  a  college  president. 
This  article  deplores  the  present  state  of  intellectual  torpor 
among  the  college  students  of  America.  "Too  much  thinking,"  says 
the  writer,  "is  done  for  college  students  by  tutors  and  lecturers  and 
writers  of  textbooks.  As  long  as  boys  and  girls  are  satisfied  with  such 
predigested  food,  we  can  hardly  expect  them  to  have  moral  or  religious 
convictions.  The  first  need  among  college  students  is  a  quickening  of 
intellectual  enthusiasm."  Is  the  writer  entirely  justified  in  issuing  this 
tearful  statement?  If  so,  the  situation  is  lamentable.  Is  thinking  one 
of  the  lost  arts  among  modern  students?  7^  brain-work  by  proxy  more 
popular  than  honest  labor?  Is  a  movement  in  the  grey-matter  of  the 
modern  young  man  or  woman  attended  by  volcanic  upheavals  of  the 
will?  Surely,  the  educational  system  of  today  is  not  an  edifice  which 
has  been  built  slowly  and  laboriously  only  to  find  too  late  that  its  foun- 
dations are  of  sand.  The  writer  seems  determined  to  ignore  the  better 
side  of  modern  education,  and  dwells  insistently  upon  the  lachrymose 
statements  of  a  few  disgruntled  undergraduates.  "Almost  any  course 
is  easier  for  the  young  people  of  our  time  than  staying  with  their  diffi- 
culties, and  hearing  the  birth-pains  of  new  ideas,  until  they  have  builded 
their  own  durable  bases  of  faith.".  .  .  .They  must  come  to    feel  the  zest 

of  the  struggle — the  keen  joy  of  studying  their  way  through "  What 

application  do  these  statements  have  to  the  normal  college  student? 
The  writer  probably  forgets  thgt  college  is,  at  best,  a  training  for  the 
"struggle."  The  "struggle"  itself  is  not  college — it  is  life.  The  boy 
goes  to  college  to  learn — original  theories  and  practical  achievements 
come  later.  If  education  were  cumulative — if  one  could  inherit  the 
knowledge  of  the  past — then  a  definite  starting  point  would  be  had  from 
which  the  student  could  advance.  But  we  have  to  re-learn  and  un-learn. 
Undoubtedly  the  colleges  of  America  contain  many  drones  and 
"vicarious"  thinkers.  But  one  grows  weary  of  the  "O,  how  fallen! 
how  changed!"  " Not-like-it-used-to-be-at-good-old-Hawvad "  plaints. 
If  the  status  of  modern  education  is  deficient,  and  if  the  world  is  in  danger 


The  Uneasy  Chair  341 

of  the  "modern  young  man's  neglect  of  its  problems,"  the  solution  must 
come  from  the  arraigned  undergraduate  himself,  and  not  from  the  stric- 
ture of  the  authorities. 


SOCIAL  LIFE  AT  HAVERFORD 

If  one  glances  over  the  list  of  colleges,  it  is  seen  that  Haverford  is 
one  of  the  very  few  where  dancing  is  not  permitted.  Naturally  the  very 
force  of  custom  makes  any  radical  changes  seem  greater  than  they  are 
in  reality.  Haverford  as  representing  the  ideals  of  the  Society  of  Friends 
has  lived  up  to  the  principles  and  observed  the  requirements  of  that 
body.  But  the  very  Society  of  Friends  itself  has  been  undergoing  a 
change.  Its  outlook  has  of  necessity  been  broadened  to  accommodate 
the  usages  of  a  very  practical,  and  mayhap  ultra-modern  world.  Would 
it  not  be  in  accordance  with  that  change  to  enlarge  the  possibilities  for 
social  life  at  Haverford?  Outside  of  Junior  day,  and  the  class  teas, 
there  are  very  few  occasions  and  opportunities  to  mingle  with  the  gentler 
sex.  Of  course,  one  can  go  outside  of  the  college  and  "socialize"  to  his 
heart's  content.  But  would  it  not  be  a  good  thing  to  enlarge  such 
opportunities  at  college? 

A  gymnasium  meet,  followed  by  a  dance,  would  be  infinitely  su- 
perior to  the  former  alone,  and  would  appreciably  increase  the  specta- 
tors. A  full-dress  suit  at  a  gym.  meet  seems  such  an  inane  affair,  with- 
out something  to  look  forward  to. 

Can  there  be  any  harm  pointed  out  which  would  result  from  the 
adoption  of  dancing  at  Haverford?  Would  it  not  lessen  the  percentage 
of  fellows  who  wonder  what  to  do  with  their  hands  when  they  are  in 
company,  and  give  an  ease  of  comportment  which  is  so  essential,  and 
will  at  an>'  rate,  have  to  come  later? 

Why  do  the  Board  of  Governors  keep  saying  "Some  day  perhaps," 
when  it  is  the  present  that  is  of  consequence?  Why  not  yield  a  point  in 
this  case  and   be 

"Not  the  first  by  whom  the  new  are  tried 
Nor  yet  the  last  to  lay  the  old  aside"? 


0tt  probation 


Blow,  tempestuous  winds!    Also 
Blast,  ye  thunder!    Lightning,  crack! 
Come,  ye  torrents,  hail  and  snow! 
I  care  not,  my  cuts  are  back! 

Lost  for  many  moons  and  more. 
Doleful  hours,  moments  slack. 
Freedom  seemed  a  bolted  door. 
I  care  not,  my  cuts  are  back! 

Fall,  ye  mountains!    Crumble,  walls! 
Suffer,  world,  in  ruin,  and  wrack! 
Free  at  last  from  studious  halls. 
Thank  the  Lord!    my  cuts  are  back! 

—DeWitt  C.  Clement,  '17. 


^  J^onbeau 

Through  with  her!   the  hazel  bush. 
Which  lightly  we  aside  did  brush, 
Is  shaking  still.     The  golden  thyme. 
Which  foot  profane  with  muddy  grime 
Dared,  heedless,  in  a  pulp  to  crush, 
Half  rises,  as  its  vitals  gush, 
And  speaks  of  blossoms,  sweet  and  lush,- 
In  verbal  bouquets  I  ofttime 

Threw  with  her. 
But  no  more  on  cushion  plush 
Her  pillowed  cheek  will  ever  blush: — 
For  now  she  spends  her  wasted  time, 
On  suffragistic  stands  sublime; 
And  Fm — while  she  hands  out  the  mush- 

Throush  with  her! 


JLUMNI 


DECEASED 


"00 
James  S.  Hiatt  died  at  his  home 
in  Harrisbiirg  on  November  20th. 
After  graduating  at  Haverford  he 
was  for  several  years  connected 
with  the  public  and  private  schools 
of  Philadelphia.  More  recently 
he  held  the  position  of  private 
secretary  to  Governor  Brumbaugh. 

We  are  pleased  to  print  the  fol- 
lowing communication : 

November  24,  1915. 
The  H.werfordian, 

Haverford,  Penna. 
Gentlemen: — 

On  my  return  from  my  wedding  trip  I 
have  your  issue  of  November,  1915,  in 
which  you  say: 

"Mr.  Wood  recently  sent  pamphlets  to 
the  students  at  Haverford  in  an  endeavor 
to  eliminate  the  smokers  of  cigarettes." 

I  am  sorry  that  just  that  wording  was 
used,  as  1  ha\c  no  desire  to  force  my  opin- 
ion down  the  throat  of  any  man,  but  I  did 
want  the  student  body  of  Haverford  to 
read  the  opinion  which  some  successful 
men  have  developed  in  regard  to  the 
smoking  of  cigarettes,  and  to  realize  that 
an  increasing  number  of  employers  are 
discriminating  against  the  smokers  of 
cigarettes. 

It  seems  to  me  that  a  great  deal  of 
cigarette  smoking  is  quite  a  thoughtless 
entertainment  which  is  part  of  the  care- 
free attitude  we  so  much  appreciate  in 
College  life,  .'\lthough  not  a  smoker  my- 
self, I  realize  that  it  is  probably  only  the 
result  of  circumstances  and  not  of  any 
exalted  moral  standard,  and  I  would  not 
have  the  fellows  at  Haverford  get  the  idea 
that  I  wanted  "to  eUminate  the  smokers 
o:  cigarettes,"  for  I  would  eliminate  many 
of  my  best  friends  if  that  were  my  aim. 


I  would  appreciate  your  giving  this 
letter  space  in  your  magazine,  which  it  is 
needless  to  say  I  read  every  month  with 
great  interest. 

Very  truly  yours, 

L.  HOLLINGSWORTH    WoOD. 

We  beg  to  call  to  the  attention 
of  your  readers  the  following  com- 
munication from  J.  D.  Kender- 
dine: 

De.\r  Mr.  Gibson: — 

I  intend  to  sail  for  Paris  on  December 
4th,  for  a  few  months'  hospital  service 
with  the  .'\merican  Red  Cross.  I  sail  on 
the  S.  S.  "  Rochambeau,"  December  4th. 
I  shall  be  one  of  a  party  of  four.  We  plan 
to  work  in  a  ward  of  a  small  hospital  in 
Paris,  although  our  plans  are,  of  course, 
subject  to  the  instructions  of  the  Red 
Cross.  My  individual  work  will  be  that 
of  chaufTeur — transferring  wounded  sol- 
diers among  the  various  hospitals.  We 
expect  to  be  gone  about  three  months.  I 
have  obtained  a  leave  of  absence  from 
my  business — circulation  manager  of 
McClure's  Magazine  and  The  Ladies' 
World.  I  will  be  in  a  position  to  take  with 
me  a  large  quantity  of  supplies  for 
wounded  soldiers.  I  am  told  that  the 
need  for  clothing  and  personal  necessities 
is  appaihng.  The  hospitals  are  over- 
crowded and  thousands  of  convalescent 
soldiers  face  a  bitterly  cold  winter  in 
awful  need  of  assistance. 

.\n\  contribution  you  care  to  make 
should  be  governed  primarily  by  quan- 
tity. .'Ml  dehveries  should  be  made  to 
me  care  McClure's,  137  E.  25th  St.,  New 
York  City.,  to  reach  me  at  the  latest 
Thursday  noon,  Dec.  2nd.  If  you  care 
to  enclose  with  your  contribution  a  per- 
sonal letter  for  the  recipient,  I  shall  try  to 
see  that  your  letter  is  delivered  with  your 
contribution. 

Almost  anything  will  be  of  value  in  the 
way  of  clothing  and  personal  necessities. 
Here  are  a  few  suggestions: 
Heavy  underwear        Heavy  socks 
Shoes  and  slippers       Soft  hats  and  caps 
Whole  or  part  suits 

of  clothing  Overcoats 


344 


The  HaveRFOrdian 


Scarfs  (Mufflers)  Heavy  gloves  (pref- 

erably woolen) 
Soft  shirts  and  Flan- 
nel shirts  Large  handkerchiefs 
Cigarettes                     Tobacco 
Cigarette  papers  Pipes 
Soap  Blankets 
Sheets                            Coverlets,  etc. 

J.  D.  Kenderdine,  '10. 


At  the  session  of  the  Friends' 
Educational  Association  held  at 
Fourth  and  Arch  Streets,  Phila- 
delphia, addresses  were  given  by 
J.  Henry  Bartlett,  '94,  on  "The 
General  Need  for  Private  Schools" ; 
by  Stanley  R.  Yarnall,  '92,  on  "The 
Methods  of  Financing  these  Pri- 
vate Schools " ;  by  President 
Sharpless  on  "The  Need  for  a  More 
Cosmopolitan  Quakerism";  and  by 
Miss  M.  Carey  Thomas,  President 
of  Bryn  Mavvr  College,  on  "The 
Part  which  Bryn  Mawr  has  played 
in  Quaker  Affairs."  Morris  E. 
Leeds,   '88,  presided. 

We  quote  from  the  Haverford 
News: 

The  first  luncheon  of  the  New 
England  Haverford  alumni  was 
held  recently  and  declared  a  great 
success,  since  it  shows  the  result  of 
the  newly-stimulated  "Get  To- 
gether Spirit."  Among  those 
present  were  R.  Colton,  '76,  C.  K. 
Cottrel,  '90,  Wilmot  R.  Jones,  '90, 
W.  W.  Cadbury,  '98,  W.  S.  Hinch- 
man,  '00,  F.  M.  Eshleman,  '00,  E. 
J.  Cadbury,  '10,  C.  Wadsworth, 
'11,  J.  Van  Sickle,  '13,  J.  Beatty, 
'13,  N.  F.  Hall,  '13,  Howson,  '15, 
W.  E.  Vail,  '15,  G.  H.  Hallett,  '15, 


Y.  Nitobe,  '15,  D.  B.  Van  HoUen, 

'15. 

Among  Haverford  men  who  at- 
tended the  meeting  at  Garden 
City,  L.  I.,  called  "The  Fellow- 
ship of  Reconciliation,"  were  Pres. 
Sharpless,  Dr.  Rufus  M.  Jones,  '85, 
Dr.  H.  J.  Cadbury,  '03;  L.  Hol- 
lingsworth  Wood,  '96  Secretary  of 
the  League  for  Disarmament;  Ed- 
ward Evans,  '02 ;  Harold  Evans, 
'07,  and  Jos.  Stokes,  Jr.,  '16,  Pres- 
ident of  the  College  Y.  M.  C.  A. 

President  Sharpless  has  been 
appointed  president  of  the  Friends' 
Historical  Society  of  London,  Eng- 
land. 

'72 
Dr.  F.  B.  Gummere  attended 
the  annual  meeting  of  the  Ameri- 
can Institute  of  Arts  and  Letters 
held  in  Boston  from  November 
17th  to  20th. 

'77 
Frederick  L.  Baily    was  chosen 
as    one    of    the    governors    of    the 
Merion    Cricket    Club,    to    serve 
until  1918. 

'78 
Francis     K.     Carey    and     Mrs. 
Carey   are   among   the   leaders   in 
Baltimore  of  the  League  Opposed 
to  Military  Expansion. 

'79 
John    B.    Newkirk  was   married 


The  Alumni 


345 


on  December  1st  to  Miss  Mary  C. 
Borton  of  Moorestown,  N.  J. 

'86 
Jonathan  Dickinson  is  teaching 
at    the    Kemper    Military    School, 
Bloomville,  Mo. 

Ex-86 
Samuel  P.  Lippincott  has  given 
to  the  college  library  a  model  of  a 
Japanese  warrior  dressed  in  hard 
wood  and  leather  armor  and 
equipped  with  two  swords;  also  a 
stuffed  alligator  about  five  feet 
long;  and  150  books  from  his  col- 
lection, comprising  works  on  travel, 
biography,  fiction,  and  the  navy. 

'89 
A  son  was  born  to  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Gilbert  Congdon  Wood  on  Novem- 
ber 14th.       The  boy  is  named  Gil- 
bert Congdon  Wood,  Jr. 

'90 
After  the  Haverford-Swarth- 
more  game  a  number  of  the  mem- 
bers of  the  class  of  1890  motored 
to  Wynnewood  where  they  were 
entertained  at  dinner  by  Mrs.  Wm. 
Simpson. 

'92 
A  class  reunion  was  held  at  the 
University  Club,  Phila.,  on  the 
evening  of  November  20th,  and 
was  thoroughly  enjoyed  by  all 
who  were  able  to  attend.  Those 
present  were  A.  W.  Blair,  B.  Cad- 
bury,    E.    S.    Gary,    H.    L.    Davis, 


J.  W.  Muir,  W.  H.  Nicholson,  Dr. 
G.  J.  Palen,  W.  E.  Shipley,  W.  N. 
L.  West,  and  S.  R.  Yarnall.  Let- 
ters also  were  received  from  C.  G. 
Cook,  M.  P.  Collins,  I.  H.  Brum- 
baugh and  A.  Hoopes. 

Stanley  R.  Yarnall  was  elected 
president  of  the  Philadelphia  Clas- 
sical Club  at  its  first  meeting    this 


'93 
John  M.  Okie  has  been  appoint- 
ed   Assistant    Real    Estate   Officer 
of  the  Girard  Trust  Co.  of  Phil- 
adelphia. 

'94 
David   S.    Taber   has   presented 
the  college  library  with  a  copy  of 
the    first    edition    of    John    Fox's 
Journal  bearing  the  date   1694. 

Henry  S.  Conard  of  Grinnell 
College  will  be  the  Visiting  Lecturer 
in  Botany  from  that  institution  to 
Harvard  University  during  the 
second  half-year,  1916. 

'96 
Milton  Clauser,  who  is  Super- 
visor of  Manual  Training  in  Salt 
Lake  City,  Utah,  has  written  a 
pamphlet  entitled  Manual  Train- 
ing Outlines. 

L.  Hollingsworth  Wood,  Secre- 
tary of  the  League  for  Limiting 
Armaments,  spoke  within  the  last 


346 


The  Haverfordian 


month  before  the  Baltimore  League 
Opposed  to  Military  Expansion. 

'97 
A.  M.  Collins  has  during  the 
past  year  accomplished  work  of 
considerable  value  in  geographical 
research  by  his  journeys  in  South 
America.  He  has  been  elected 
president  of  the  Main  Line  Citi- 
zens' Association. 

The  Class  of  '97  held  its  annual 
reunion  at  the  college  on  the  eve 
of  the  Swarthmore  game,  and  after 
dinner  attended  the  college  "smo- 
ker" in  a  body.  At  a  previous 
business  meeting  Elliot  Field,  who 
has  done  so  much  to  foster  music 
at  the  college,  was  re-elected  pres- 
ident. 

Rev.  Elliot  Field  is  giving  a 
series  of  recitals  this  winter  in  New 
York  and  Philadelphia,  among 
them  being  Poe's  "Raven,"  Eu- 
gene Field's  "Lullaby  Land,"  and 
Riley's   "Land   of  Childhood." 

'98 
Walter  C.  Janney  is  the  father 
of  twins,  born  on  October  2nd. 

Ex-'99 
Gilbert  L.  Bishop,  Jr.,  is  serving 
in  the  capacity  of  Assistant  Trust 
Officer  of  the  Girard  Trust  Co.  of 
Philadelphia. 

'01 
E.  M.  Scull  addressed  the  Phila- 


delphia Society  for  the  Promotion 
of  Liberal  Studies  on  the  29th  of 
October.  The  subject  for  the 
evenihg  was  "The  Value  of  Lib- 
eral Studies  to  the  Business  Man." 


'02 

C.  Wharton  Stork,  who  is  con- 
nected with  the  Department  of 
English  at  the  LIniversity  of  Penn- 
sylvania, on  December  16th  lec- 
tured at  the  college  on  "The 
Younger  American  Poets."  He 
brought  forth  the  fact  that  there 
has  been  a  great  deal  of  good  po- 
etry written  lately,  and  by  men 
who  are  under  forty  years  of  age. 

To  illustrate  his  talk  Dr.  Stork 
read  selections  from  several  of  these 
modern  poets — some  from  Mr. 
Hagedorn's  works,  and  several 
passages  from  "The  Cage,"  by 
the  anarchist  Giovanniti.  He 
took  several  mildly  ironical  thrusts 
at  the  "Imagists,"  who  constitute 
a  new  and  revolutionary  school  of 
poetry. 

Edw.  W.  Evans  has  written  a 
powerful  poem  which  appeared  in 
the  Haverford  News  in  a  November 
issue.  The  poem  is  a  plea  for 
peace  entitled,  "The  Belliger- 
ents." Mr.  Evans  is  connected 
with  the  legal  department  of  the 
Bell  Telephone  Co.  of  Philadel- 
phia, and  is  quite  prominent  in  the 
Boys'  Club  and  philanthropic 
work. 


The  Alumni 


347 


At  one  of  the  sessions  of  the 
Association  of  Colleges  and  Pre- 
paratory Schools  of  the  Middle 
States  and  Maryland,  when  the 
Association  split  up  for  separate 
meetings  according  to  subject- 
grouping,  Dr.  Richard  M.  Gum- 
mere  spoke  on  "Correlating  the 
Classics  with  Modern  Professions" 
and  Dr.  A.  G.  H.  Spiers  on  the  "Re- 
vision of  College  Entrance  Re- 
quirements in  French." 

'04 
D.  Lawrence  Burgess  is  author 
of  an  article  in  the  November  issue 
of  the  Westonia7i  entitled,  "The 
German  Summer  School  at  Mid- 
dlebury,  1915." 

'05 
Dr.  Maurice  J.  Babb  has  been 
chosen  \\'orshipful  Master  of  Cas- 
sia Lodge,  F.  and  A.  M.,  of  Ard- 
more.  The  lodge,  with  a  mem- 
bership of  486,  is  one  of  the  largest 
in  the  suburbs  of  Philadelphia. 

'07 
J.  P.  Magill,  Pres.  of  the  Foun- 
der's Club,  headed  about  a  dozen 
alumni  who  joined  with  the  under- 
graduate members  of  the  Founder's 
Club  at  dinner  at  the  college  on 
the  evening  of  November  12th. 

C.  Clayton  Terrell  was  married 
September  29th  to  Miss  Helen  E. 
Coffin,  of  New  Vienna,  Ohio.  They 
will  live  at  New  Vienna. 


'08 
Dr.  Wm.  Haviland  Morriss, 
after  having  spent  the  summer 
doing  relief  work  in  Belgium,  is 
now  located  at  the  New  Haven 
Hospital,  New  Haven,  Conn. 

Walter  W.  Whitson  is  General 
Secretary  of  Associated  Charities 
at  Peoria,  111. 

Ex-'08 
W.  Wesley  Kurtz  served  as  man- 
ager of  the  Fourth  Street  Club 
baseball  team  during  the  past  sea- 
son. This  was  Mr.  Kurtz's  second 
year  in  that  position.  The  team 
won  the  Club  Championship  of 
Philadelphia. 

Wm.  C.  Stribling  was  married 
October  20th  to  Miss  Fanny  S. 
Hall,  of  Lynchburg,  Va. 

'09 
A  daughter  has  been  born  to  Mr. 
and  Mrs.  F.  Raymond  Taylor. 
The  little  girl,  who  was  born  on 
December  11th,  has  been  named 
Martha  Rebecca.  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Taylor  are  now  li\ing  in  their  new- 
Iv-built  bungalow  at  High  Point, 
N.  C. 

'11 
LeRoy  Jones  had  an  article  in 
the  November  issue  of  the  Westo- 
nian  entitled  "The  Mission  of  the 
Country  Church."  This  article 
was  originally  read  in  the  form  of 
a   paper   by    Mr.    Jones   at   South 


348 


The  Haverfordian 


China,  Me.,  at  a  meeting  held  to  Mr.   Patteson  is  in  the  lumber 

discuss  the  state  of  society.  business  at  Penn  Yan,  N.  Y. 


Henry  T.  Ferris,  Jr.,  was  mar- 
ried to  Miss  Mary  K.  Harris  on 
November  9th. 

'13 
Wm.  S.  Crowder  is  employed  in 
the  Trust  Department  of  the  Gi- 
rard  Trust  Co.  of  Philadelphia. 

'14 

Benj.  J.  Lewis  is  engaged  in 
farming  near  West  Chester,  Pa. 

B.  K.  Richardson  is  with  J.  P. 
Pfeiffer  &  Co.,  of  Baltimore. 

Robt.  G.  Rogers  is  studying  for 
the  ministry  at  Cambridge. 

During  the  summer  the  engage- 
ment of  Wm.  S.  Patteson  to  Miss 
Beulah  Allen,  of  Rochester,  N.  Y., 
was  announced. 


Edward  Rice,  Jr.,  who  has  re- 
turned temporarily  from  the  war 
front  in  France  where  he  has  been 
engaged  in  the  service  of  the 
Friends'  Ambulance  Unit,  spoke 
before  the  college  body  early  in 
December.  Mr.  Rice  is  receiving 
contributions  for  the  maintenance 
of  the  hospital  work  in  France  and 
Belgium. 

Hadley  H.  Kelsey  was  married 
on  September  4th  at  Amboy,  In- 
diana, to  Miss  Estella  G.  Culver, 
of  Wabash,  Ind.  Mr.  Kelsey  is 
now  principal  of  the  Friends' 
Academy  at  Bloomingdale. 

'15 

Donald    B.    Van    HoUen,    in   an 

article  in  the  November  Weslonian, 

discussed    the    "Young    Friends" 

work  in  which  he  was  engaged  the 


Philadelphia 

New  York 

Chicago 

FACTORY  AND  TANNERY 
WILMINGTON,    DEL. 


The  Alumni 


349 


past  summer.  He  described  the 
visitations  which  he,  together  with 
a  number  of  other  young  Friends, 
made  in  Pennsylvania,  Virginia 
and  Marvland. 


The  engagement  of  Percival  R. 
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Knapp,  of  Auburndale,  has  been 
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Haverf ord's  Athletic  Opportunity .  Kenneth  W.  Webb,  '18  353 

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The  Haverfordian  is  published  on  tlie  tenth  of  each  month  during  college 
year.  Its  purpose  is  to  foster  the  literary  spirit  among  the  undergraduates  and 
to  provide  an  organ  for  the  discussion  of  questions  relative  to  college  life  and 
policy.  To  these  ends  contributions  are  invited,  and  will  be  considered  solely 
on  their  merits.  Matter  intended  for  insertion  should  reach  the  Editor  not  later 
than  the  fifteenth  of  the  month  preceding  the  date  of  issue. 

Entered  at  the  Haverford  Po3t-Office,  for  transmission  through  the  mails  as  second-class  matter 


Vol.  XXXVII  HAVERFORD,  PA.,  FEBRUARY,  1916. 


No.  9 


^n  i^baptation  from  tlje  £g|>pttan 

[The  author  of  this  poem  wishes  to  correct  the  impression  that  the 
philosophy  is  original.  The  views  are  not  his;  he  has  merely  adapted 
a  chant,  discovered  on  the  tomb  of  an  early  Egyptian  monarch  of  the 
first  dynasty,  to  the  following  meter.] 

They  told  me  she  was  Love: — /  clung  to  Her 
As  one  in  blind  despair  clings  to  a  friend; — 
Seeking  in  her  beauty  to  transcend 
The  sordid  elements  of  earthly  care. 
She,  in  her  queenly  attributes,  did  blend 
The  fairest  graces  that  are  mortals'  share. 
But  if  my  joy  of  loving  has  to  end, 
The  sable  stole  of  sorrow  need  I  wear? 

They  told  me  it  was  Sin: — I  only  know 

My  passion  built  a  mystic  bridge  for  me 

To  span  convention' s  unforgiving  sea, 

Which,  as  I  crossed,  hissed  hungrily  below. 

But  there  the  grape  was  ripest  on  the  tree. 

And  sweetest.      What  if  I  did  throw 

My  soul  away?      Would  I  have  been  more  free? 

My  sin-scarred  craters  now  are  healed  with  snow. 

They  told  me  it  was  Death:- — /  only  fear 
That  life  may  prove  recurrent,  as  they  say, 
Who  boast  a  knowledge  of  the  passing  day. 
A  slumber,  free  from  all,  or  dark  or  clear. 
May  lock  my  bones,  and  I  will  pass  away, 
Content  to  die.      The  negligible  seer 
May  vaunt  his  empty  warnings. — My  decay 
Is  mine!     0,  Death,  draw  near,  draw  near! 

— Robert  Gibson,  '17. 


THE    HAVERFORDIAN 


Vol.  XXXVII.  HAVERFORD,  PA.,  FEBRUARY,   1916  No.  9. 


i^aberforb'si  ^tfjletic  (©pportunitp 

AN  Indictment  of  Intercollegiate  Athletics"  by  William  T.  Foster 
in  the  November  number  of  the  Atlantic  Monthly  is  a  powerful 
article  which  has  aroused  considerable  discussion  as  to  whether 
there  is  not  open  to  Haverford  an  opportunity  to  improve  her  athletic 
standards.  Before,  however,  we  can  reach  conclusions  as  to  any  such 
opportunity,  it  would  be  well  first  to  observe  such  warnings  as  other 
colleges  may  be  able  to  offer.  From  them  we  can  perhaps  learn  a  lesson 
which  otherwise  might  be  experienced  ail  too  late  in  our  own  case.  Mr. 
Foster  sums  up  the  evils  of  intercollegiate  athletics  in  the  statement  that 
"athletics  to-day  are  being  carried  out  on  a  business  rather  than  on  an 
educational  basis";  and  gives  the  following  three  purposes  of  athletics 
run  uppn  a  business  basis :  first,  to  win  contests ;  second,  to  make  money; 
and  third,  to  attain  individual  or  group  fame  or  notoriety.  Stated  in  such 
cold  terms  these  are  at  the  best  unsavory  ideals  along  which  to  develop 
college  sports,  but  even  a  superficial  examination  of  the  proofs  of  these 
declarations  shows  that  there  is  much  more  truth  than  fiction  in  them. 
To  win  is  the  great  desire  in  all  American  sports.  Defeat  is  borne 
so  badly,  especially  among  our  American  colleges,  that  it  seems  as  if 
universal  satisfaction  will  only  be  found  in  the  discovery  of  a  system  by 
which  nobody  will  have  to  lose.  This  evil  has  reached  such  a  point  that 
a  college's  success  for  the  year  is  marked  largely  by  the  result  of  her  big 
football  games.  Examples  of  this  are  plentiful.  Every  Haverfordian 
during  the  past  winter  has  probably  had  one  or  more  outside  acquaint- 
ance arouse  him  to  wrath  with  the  remark,  "Had  a  bad  season  out  at 
College  this  year,  didn't  you?"  Without  his  even  suggesting  the  reason, 
you  knew  it  to  be  the  Swarthmore  defeat,  and  you  also  knew  that  your 
friend  had  formed  this  snap  judgment  perceiving  that  Haverford  had 
one  of  the  strongest  teams  she  has  ever  had  and  one  which  played  won- 
derful football  in  the  Swarthmore  and  every  other  game.  But  though 
you  gritted  your  teeth  in  rebellion  and  muttered  something  about  luck 
being  against  you,  you  and  he  both  knew  that  the  stigma  of  defeat  had 


354  The  Haverfordian 

in  the  public  eye  branded  Haverford's  1915  season  as  more  or  less  of  a 
failure. 

After  observing  how  all-important  victory  or  defeat  is  for  a  team, 
we  can  almost  understand  the  lengths  to  which  many  colleges  are  willing 
to  go  in  order  to  obtain  the  former.  Under  the  pressure  of  a  demand 
for  a  winning  team,  school  athletes  are  made  love  to  for  several  years 
before  they  even  know  whether  they  want  to  go  to  college  or  not.  Be- 
neath the  same  pressure  there  has  also  caved  in  the  former  distinction 
between  amateur  and  professional  athletes,  since  all  regulations  have 
been  unable  to  prevent  such  favors  being  granted  as  "friendly  gifts" 
or  "merit  scholarships"  either  through  private  or  official  agency.  This 
is  well  illustrated  in  the  recent  recognition  by  the  big  New  England  uni- 
versities of  "summer  baseball"  as  an  occupation  which  should  not  injure 
amateur  standing. 

Is  not  the  paid  coach  himself  an  example  of  the  way  in  which  an 
evil  system  will  to-day  be  recognized  as  legitimate  if  it  will  only  produce 
a  winner?  The  professional  coach  knows  that  there  is  only  one  crime 
which  he  can  commit — and  that  is  to  lose  a  contest.  Any  other  crime 
is  accepted  as  an  example  of  his  astuteness. 

One  of  the  most  unfortunate  results  of  business  methods  being  al- 
lowed to  run  riot  on  the  athletic  field  is  the  loss  by  the  colleges  of  the 
true  purpose  of  sport.  Cannot  this  be  forcefully  illustrated  in  the  prep- 
arations which  a  college  makes  for  a  big  football  game?  When  Michigan 
leaves  Ann  Arbor  early  Wednesday  morning,  before  any  work  has  been 
done,  to  recuperate  and  practice  a  few  days  at  Wayne  before  playing 
Penn  the  following  Saturday,  and  when  Cornell  leaves  Ithaca  Monday 
morning  for  several  days  at  Atlantic  City  before  coming  up  to  Franklin 
Field  on  Thursday  for  a  single  hour  of  actual  football,  it  certainly  seems 
as  if  the  craze  for  efficiency  had  in  this  field  gone  too  far.  Such  training 
trips  may  be  well  likened  to  the  training  trips  taken  by  professional  base- 
ball teams,  and  yet  no  one  will  admit  that  a  college  should  run  its  foot- 
ball season  by  the  questionable  business  methods  used  by  such  profes- 
sional organizations  as  control  the  most-advertised  and  best-known 
teams  in  such  sports  as  baseball,  basketball,  and  even  horse-racing.  Still, 
a  closer  study  of  the  comparison  reveals  the  college  management  of 
sports  to-day  to  be  a  most  excellent  parallel. 

And  now  what  is  Haverford's  position  on  the  question?  It  un- 
doubtedly is  one  of  compromise,  and  this  attitude  seems  the  best  one  to 
adopt  under  existing  conditions.  It  is  apparent  in  the  College's  policies 
regarding  both  intercollegiate  contests  and  the  coaching  system.  In 
regard  to  the  latter  Haverford  has  thought  it  advisable  to  obtain  pro- 


Haverford's  Athletic  Opportunity  355 

fessional  coaches  for  her  major  sports,  but  she  has  taken  the  greatest 
care  to  see  that  her  selections  have  complied  with  the  highest  standards 
of  gentility  and  good  sportsmanship.  As  regards  the  other  question — 
that  of  intercollegiate  contests — there  are  few  Haverfordians  who  would 
advise  the  immediate  or  even  eventual  abolition  of  intercollegiate  ath- 
letic relations  which  Mr.  Foster  advocates,  but  there  are  many  indeed 
who  would  be  very  willing  to  plunge  still  more  deeply  into  the  popular 
trend. 

It  is  evident,  however,  that  there  must  be  potential  arguments 
against  such  a  plunge.  Let  us  consider  conditions  in  a  representative 
college  which  has  made  the  plunge,  and  then  picture  them  prevailing  at 
Haverford.  At  such  a  college  run  on  principles  of  "good  business," 
"intercollegiate  athletics  provide  a  costly,  injurious,  and  excessive  regime 
of  physical  training  for  a  few  students,  instead  of  an  inexpensive,  health- 
ful, and  moderate  exercise  for  all  those  who  need  it  most."  This  sums  it 
up  in  one  sentence.  At  such  an  institution  the  athletic  activity  of  at 
least  nine-tenths  of  the  students  consists  principally  in  watching  varsity 
games  from  the  stands  and  in  reading  about  them  in  the  papers,  while 
the  student  sees  his  A.  A.  dues,  which  should  contribute  towards  the 
opening  of  athletic  facilities  to  him,  really  go  for  quite  a  different  pur- 
pose. Furthermore,  we  have  all  met  the  man  who,  after  sizing  up  this 
unnatural  attitude  of  colleges  towards  sports,  decided  for  this  reason  in 
addition  to  others  to  take  a  business  course  which  would  give  him  the 
actual  instruction  he  desired  in  a  fraction  of  the  time  spent  in  a  college 
course.  In  the  latter  position  he  saw  that  he  had  open  to  him  athletic 
facilities  better  than  those  of  the  college  under  discussion.  He  could 
obtain  more  actual  exercise  at  one  of  the  now-abounding  athletic  or 
country  clubs  than  he  could  at  an  institution  which  encourages  only 
stars  to  engage  in  her  sports  and  which  shirks  her  fundamental  athletic 
functions  as  far  as  is  convenient.  Again,  he  would  argue  that,  when  he 
wished  to  see  a  spectacle,  he  could  see  a  public  professional  contest  much 
better  than  any  one  of  a  string  of  semi-professional  college  contests 
which,  if  he  were  at  college,  he  would  feel  compelled  to  attend  under  that 
overworked  lash  called  "college  spirit" — a  weapon  of  finance  which  is 
always  wielded  to  the  limit  by  the  athletic  management.  Picture  such  a 
judgment  being  made  of  Haverford's  athletics  and  then  decide  whether 
there  would  not  be  considerable  danger  in  fostering  here  college  athletics 
of  the  type  represented  by  the  example  above. 

Now,  at  last,  we  are  in  a  position  to  consider  what  opportunity 
Haverford  has  to  develop  its  athletics  along  lines  which  would  offer 
opportunities  for  exercise  to  everybody  in  College.      There  is  no  doubt 


356  TheIHaverfordian 

that  we  have  already  accomplished  much.  This  past  fall  approximately 
a  hundred  candidates  turned  out  for  the  football  and  soccer  squads,  and, 
notwithstanding  the  Swarthmore  defeat,  Haverford's  1915  football 
season  should  certainly  be  ranked  as  one  of  her  best,  because  it  was  the 
first  year  that  four  complete  teams  turned  out  regularly  for  practice. 
This  excellent  response  from  so  small  a  student  body  is  but  one  of  the 
many  incidents  which  seem  to  warrant  the  starting  of  more  contests 
within  the  College  itself  for  those  students  who  cannot  qualify  for  outside 
contests.  We  have  a  few  such  games  in  the  Inter-class  and  "  Wogglebug" 
series,  but  not  nearly  enough  to  keep  everybody  interested  and  active 
all  the  time.  This  lack  is  especially  noticeable  in  the  winter  and  spring, 
and  is  a  strong  argument  in  favor  of  the  introduction  of  new  sports  such 
as  swimming,  basketball,  and  baseball,  which  would  attract  many  men 
not  interested  in  gymnasium  work,  cricket,  or  track.  Inter-class  games 
could  be  started  immediately  in  these  and  other  new  sports  regardless 
of  whether  varsity  teams  were  organized  or  not.  In  such  a  discussion 
the  financial  side  has  not  such  a  strong  appeal  perhaps  as  others,  but  it 
is  well  to  remember  that  in  sports  held  within  the  colleges  the  usual  ex- 
penses which  accrue  from  fees  for  officials  and  referees  and  from  traveling 
expenses  are  reduced  to  the  lowest  minimum. 

Another  sport  which  has  not  received  enough  support  is  tennis, 
which  is  played  by  more  students  than  is  any  other  game,  and  yet  for 
which  the  facilities  are  comparatively  very  poor.  We  have  so  few  tennis 
courts  that  their  over-use  makes  it  impossible  to  keep  them  in  good 
shape.  But  when  last  spring  a  campaign  was  started  to  get  our  courts 
in  good  condition  and  to  build  new  ones,  the  results  fell  far  short  of  what 
was  desired  because  it  was  found  that  lowly  tennis  courts  did  not  make 
the  splendid  appeal  to  the  imagination — and  to  the  pocketbook — which 
is  truly  made,  for  example,  by  any  proposal  to  construct  a  costly  new 
grandstand  or  "bowl" — the  most  popular  gift  to  a  college  nowadays, 
but  one  which  is  not  under  any  conditions  an  agent  for  real  physical 
exercise. 

Again,  we  should  expect  the  Faculty  to  be  more  interested  in  the 
future  in  seeing  that  we  get  the  right  kind  of  athletics,  because:  first,  it 
is  an  excellent  way  to  bring  the  professors  in  closer  touch  with  the  stu- 
dents; and  secondly,  because  athletics  fundamentally  are  a  part  of  the 
curriculum.  Athletics  are  a  branch  in  which  every  student  should  be 
able  to  elect  several  good  courses  each  year,  and  this  can  best  be  made 
possible  when  the  Faculty  shall  have  at  least  as  much  power  in  deciding 
the  athletic  policy  of  the  College  as  do  the  Alumni,  the  student  body, 
or  the  outside  coaches. 


Sleep  Triumphant  357 

Finally,  it  might  be  well  to  prove  that  this  policy  of  getting  every- 
body active  in  athletics  is  sure  to  assist  rather  than  to  conflict  with  the 
other  desire — that  of  having  a  strong  Varsity  for  intercollegiate  contests. 
If  this  harmony  were  not  possible,  the  Varsity  team  should  be  the  one 
to  suffer,  because  it  is  the  College's  first  duty  to  open  athletics  to  every- 
body. But  a  clear  example  to  show  that  these  two  policies  can  be  suc- 
cessfully carried  out  together  may  be  found  right  at  our  own  door.  Re- 
cently we  celebrated  the  winning  of  the  intercollegiate  soccer  champion- 
ship. Naturally  we  had  one  of  the  best  Varsity  elevens  in  the  College's 
history;  and  yet  in  conjunction  with  this  team  we  ran  three  other  soccer 
elevens  who  also  played  good  soccer  and  got  real  enjoyment  out  of  it, 
besides  giving  practice  to  players  who  might  quickly  develop  into  first- 
team  material. 

Thus  with  the  assurance  that  these  two  lines  of  development  are 
not  incompatible,  let  us  co-operate  to  make  it  worth  while  for  everybody 
both  to  support  our  Varsity  teams  and  to  participate  in  the  College 
sports  themselves.  We  can  strike  a  happy  medium  between  semi-pro- 
fessional athletics  on  one  hand  and  purely  local  athletics  on  the  other, 
and  after  working  ahead  for  some  time  with  this  new  ideal  in  mind  we 
shall  find  that  Haverford  will  not  be  classed  among  the  colleges  which 
have  misdirected  their  efforts,  and  that  she  will  have  a  better  under- 
standing of  the  true  purposes  of  sport  and  of  the  advantages  which  it 
holds  forth  to  all. 

—Kenneth  W.  Webb,  '18. 


^leep  (Eriumptjant 

Sleep  whispered — whispered  to  my  soul; 
To  my  lips  he  held  a  bowl 
Of  dark  delight — 
Of  skies  and  night 
Deprived  of  light. 

And  drink  I  would  in  ecstasy, 

For  my  mind  had  lost  supremacy. 
And  pleasure-pain 
Approved  the  gain. 
Yet  held  a  stain: 


358  The  Haverfordian 

A  stain  that,  swiftly  running,  spread 
As  a  lightning  bright  with  dread 
In  distant  sky 
At  thunders'  cry 
To  flash  and  die. 

With  pulsing  glow  and  silent-slipping  speed 
Sleep  rode  a  winged  spirit  steed. 
I  saw  him  go, 
Like  sun-kiss'd  snow 
Or  river's  flow. 

I  watched  his  pale  and  vibrant  face 
Reel  and  whirl  in  vaulted  space, 
While  high  in  air 
He  fought  Despair 
And  haggard  Care. 

"Give,  God,"  I  prayed  in  grim  suspense, 
"  To  the  great  life-warming  Sense — 
To  Sleep — his  crown 
Of  swan-white  down, — 
His  stolen  crown." 

From  Heaven's  vaguest  mist-gray  clouds. 
Subtly  streaming,  silent  shrouds, — 
Fair  Sleep  returned 
My  plea  unspurned. 
My  soul  unburned. 

As  Morning  Glories  close  at  eve. 
So  my  eyes  he  shut,  to  leave 
Me  brilliant  dreams 
Of  gold  sunbeams 
On  silver  streams. 

—D.  C.  Wendell,  '16. 


EatntioU) 

(Concluded) 

WHEN  Black  Cloud  saw  the  little  idol  of  his  heart  departing  with 
Matthew,  his  pulses  leaped  suddenly  and  his  hopes  fell  to  a 
sickening  despair.  Rainbow,  by  the  consent  of  his  gods,  of 
his  people,  by  his  own  vow  to  himself,  by  everything  except  her  infernal 
stubbornness,  was  decreed  to  be  his.  She  was  the  pride  and  darling  of 
the  tribe;  he,  the  strongest  and  proudest  of  the  young  chiefs,  a  fitting 
mate  for  her.  He  had  wooed  her  with  every  art  in  his  power.  He  had 
dogged  her  steps  on  long  walks  into  the  canon;  ridden  untold  miles 
alone  with  her;  sat  at  her  feet  untold  hours  while  she  wove  baskets  for 
the  tourists.  Formerly  she  had  been  smiling  and  kindly  toward  him: 
then  her  mind  outstripped  his;  her  perceptions  grew  keen,  and  she 
found  him  dull  company.  But  the  faithful  lover  still  persisted  until 
hispresence  irritated  her  and  his  stupid  sentiment  approached  in  interest 
the  mumblings  of  the  insane.  Rainbow  tolerated  him  with  a  noble  forti- 
tude; she  looked  with  calm  self-restraint  on  these  last  convulsions  of 
a  dying  love  and  hoped  soon  to  lay  it  peacefully  in  its  grave. 

All  would  have  gone  well  had  it  not  been  for  Matthew.  To  have 
a  "pale-face"  step  suddenly  into  the  ring  and  climb  in  a  single  day  to  a 
firmer  place  in  her  heart  than  his  years  of  devotion  had  won,  was  a  little 
more  than  his  fiery  temperament  could  endure.  An  innate  racial  hatred, 
and  a  new-born  jealousy  put  a  scowl  on  his  face  and  a  smouldering  mad- 
ness in  his  heart.  His  wrinkled  old  mother  sat  in  her  accustomed  corner 
and  watched  him  with  worried  eyes.  His  formidable  frame  passed  rest- 
lessly in  and  out  of  the  Hopi  house.  He  had  not  been  at  the  mid-day 
meal,  and  she  knew  that  something  was  wrong.  A  dozen  times  his  eyes 
had  swept  the  trail  below  for  a  glimpse  of  his  beloved  little  tyrant.  This 
sudden  jealousy  and  this  unexpected  rival  made  his  arms  ache  for  her 
as  they  had  never  done  before.  The  old  woman  called  him  abruptly, 
and  dismissed  the  dirty  children  which  were  tumbling  and  sprawling 
about  her.  She  spoke  softly  to  him  in  Indian,  and  bade  him  sit  by  her 
and  tell  her  his  troubles.  But  Black  Cloud  looked  down  on  her  sullenly 
and  replied  that  his  troubles  weren't  for  women's  ears;  then,  brutally 
telling  her  to  get  busy  at  something,  he  stalked  away.  As  he  left  her, 
she  had  the  weary  look  of  one  who  receives  not  a  smile,  not  a  kind  word 
from  those  she  loves,  on  which  to  build  some  hope  in  heaven,  for  her 
declining  years. 

When,  toward    evening,  the   thirsty,  aching  tourists  filed  up  the 


360  The  Haverfordian 

head  of  the  trail,  Black  Cloud  watched  for  Rainbow,  half  a-tremble 
with  a  mingled  emotion  of  love  and  hate.  His  bursting  feelings  might 
have  been  swayed  by  her  lightest  word  into  a  spasm  of  rage,  or  a  trans- 
port of  joy.  As  each  dusty  burro  and  rider  turned  the  last  twist  of  the 
trail,  he  gave  an  involuntary  start;  and  then  no  more  came.  At  first 
he  stared  foolishly  as  they  dragged  by.  She  was  not  in  the  party !  With 
the  sudden  realization  his  eyes  flashed  wildly;  he  collared  one  of  the 
guides  and  pulled  him  off  his  animal  as  though  he  were  a  boy. 

"Where  Rainbow?    Where  Rainbow?"  he  demanded  hoarsely. 

The  tough  little  Western  cow-puncher  looked  up  with  a  snarl: 

"I  ain't  seen  yer  Indian  doll:  loose  that  half-hitch  on  my  neck  'fore 
I  fill  yer  full  o'  lead,  you !" 

Black  Cloud,  had  he  understood  the  language,  would  have  learned 
much  about  himself  in  the  next  half  minute,  but  he  merely  flung  the 
fellow  aside  and  pounced  on  another.  He  found  out  nothing.  She  had 
not  been  seen  going  or  coming.  Completely  bewildered,  he  wandered 
back  to  the  Hopi  House.  Perhaps  some  accident  had  befallen  her. 
Then  suddenly  he  felt  that  there  had  been  no  mishap.  She  knew  the 
canon  far  too  well  to  lose  her  way.  Her  steps  were  as  sure  as  the  goats' 
that  pastured  on  its  barren  sides.  The  white  man  had  kept  her,  and 
she  had  stayed  willingly.      The  thought  was  bitter  indeed ! 

That  night  the  last  traveller  had  wandered  back  to  the  hotel,  and 
the  Indians  were  dropping  wearily  to  their  blankets;  but  still  the  an- 
guished lover  paced  restlessly  up  and  down  the  canon's  edge,  staring 
gloomily  into  the  mocking  gulf  of  darkness  at  his  feet.  When  finally  he 
sought  his  rest,  the  lights  were  all  extinguished,  and  the  sound  of  heavy 
breathing  was  plainly  audible  from  the  prostrate  figures  among  whom 
he  took  his  place. 

Sleep  did  not  come  to  him.  He  lay  wide-eyed,  thinking  over  in 
detail  his  relations  with  Rainbow  since  the  first  day  when  he  had  dis- 
covered that  she  was  a  woman,  and  no  longer  a  child.  He  lingered 
eagerly  on  those  happy  times  when  she  had  cared  for  him — when  her 
aged  father,  since  passed  away,  had  chosen  him  as  a  mate  for  his  daugh- 
ter. Her  recent  coldness  and  utter  scorn  of  his  advances  made  his  teeth 
clench  and  breath  come  fast.  Finally  there  arose  before  his  eyes,  out 
of  the  blackness,  the  picture  of  Matthew  and  Rainbow  alone  together, 
at  the  bottom  of  the  canon.  He  knew  her  nature  too  well:  that  if  she 
ever  loved,  it  would  be  no  passing  trifle  in  her  life,  but  a  new  and  sacred 
experience  for  which  the  highest  price  in  self-sacrifice  would  be  lightly 
tossed  away. 

A  slow-rising  hatred  of  the  man  who  had  robbed  him  began  to  fer- 


Rainbow  361 

ment  in  his  brain.  It  grew  stronger  as  the  minutes  passed,  until  he  was 
writhing  on  the  floor  in  an  outburst  of  animal  temper.  Then  came  an 
uncontrollable  desire  for  action  and  vengeance;  here  was  no  vague 
power  threatening  his  happiness — no  subtle  change  of  mind  or  heart 
against  which  he  was  powerless,  but  a  man  of  flesh  and  blood  who  might 
be  overcome, — wounded, — murdered, — except  for  a  dozen  miles  of 
twisted  trail  which  the  darkness  rendered  hopeless.  His  feverish  brain 
worked  on.  He  pictured  her  lying  in  the  white  man's  arms,  with  the 
little  face  that  he  had  loved  so  well,  pillowed  on  the  white  man's  breast — 
the  kisses  of  which  he  had  dreamed  so  long,  given  in  a  single  night  to  a 
white  man's  mouth.  He  sat  up  and  stared  dizzily  through  the  clinging 
darkness.  A  voiceless  rage  deep  within  the  fibres  of  his  being  was  crav- 
ing some  expression. 

He  arose  unsteadily,  crossed  the  room,  slowly  feeling  his  way,  and 
fumbled  about  in  the  souvenir  case.  He  found  what  he  wanted,  wiped  his 
brow  and  stepped  outside.  For  a  moment  he  stood  in  the  breathless 
stillness:  every  trace   of  life  and  sound  was  hushed  into  oblivion. 

"By  God,  he  no  have  two  squaws!"  he  muttered  determinedly, 
then,  noiseless  as  a  shadow,  glided  across  the  garden,  up  to  the  hotel 
porch.  As  he  moved,  the  slanting  rays  of  a  new-risen  moon  gleamed  on 
the  knife  in  his  hand.  A  window  opened  gently  and  he  disappeared 
into  the  hotel. 

At  the  office  desk  he  lit  a  match.  It  was  but  a  moment's  work  to 
find  her  number  on  the  hotel  register.  He  spelled  the  name  out  slowly 
to  be  sure  of  no  mistake;  then, bounding  up  the  stairs  with  light  steps, 
he  passed  along  a  quiet  corridor  and  stood  before  her  door.  He  listened 
intently,  but  not  a  single  sound  jarred  the  sleeping  stillness.  Slowly  he 
turned  the  latch — then  a  faint  draft  sighed  down  the  hall,  and  the  door 
was  shut  behind  him. 

Their  room  faced  the  canon,  and  the  low  moon  shone  full  through 
the  open  window.  On  the  wide  bed  Matthew's  wife  was  sleeping  soundly. 
Beyond  was  a  cot  with  a  child's  light  head  dimly  visible  on  the  pillow. 
With  infinite  precaution  the  Indian  deftly  lowered  the  bedclothes,  and 
disclosed  in  the  pale  light,  the  white  figure  of  the  dreaming  mother.  She 
stirred  uneasily.  Her  shoulders  shook  in  a  little  involuntary  shiver  of 
cold.  Then,  without  a  sound,  and  with  the  accuracy  of  a  panther's 
spring,  the  Indian  took  his  revenge,  and  drove  the  knife  home  into  the 
warm  breast  of  the  half-awakened  woman;  when  she  finally  aroused 
herself,  she  was  groping  blindly  in  another  world. 

A  frail  little  chambermaid  knocked  at  Matthew's  door  on  the  fol- 


362  The  Haverfordian 

lowing  morning.  She  knocked  again,  receiving  no  answer.  Tiien,  be- 
lieving they  had  gone  to  breakfast,  she  entered,  laid  her  towels  on  the 
wash-stand,  and  turned  to  make  the  bed.  The  shock  sent  her  half-way 
across  the  room,  with  a  tiny  scream.  She  did  not  look  a  second  time, 
but  put  her  hands  to  her  head  and  fled  downstairs  as  though  chased  by 
a  ghost. 

In  spite  of  the  hotel  authorities,  the  news  of  the  murder  was  public 
property  inside  of  an  hour.  Matthew's  door  was  locked  and  a  guard 
stationed  outside.  The  baby  girl  was  entrusted  to  the  care  of  the 
proprietor's  wife.  It  was  discovered  that  Matthew  had  not  returned 
the  evening  before.  The  guides  were  questioned.  Yes,  he  had  gone 
with  the  Indian  girl.  The  knife — a  souvenir  from  the  Hopi  House — 
Rainbow  and  Black  Cloud  once  in  love — the  cold-bloodedness  of  the 
murder — these  facts  soon  drew  the  little  band  of  men  appointed  by  the 
proprietor  to  represent  the  law,  towards  the  Hopi  House.  In  the  lonely 
wilds  of  Colorado  there  was  no  time  for  a  fancy  code  of  justice. 

They  found  Black  Cloud  leaning  lazily  against  the  counter,  smoking 
his  pipe.  After  his  deed  was  done  he  had  slept  well  till  morning;  he 
turned  to  his  accusers  with  stoic  indifference. 

A  man  of  the  crowd  acted  as  spokesman. 

"Black  Cloud,  you  committed  murder  last  night  on  Mrs.  Dean 
Matthew.      Do  you  confess  to  it?" 

The  big  Indian  eyed  him  devouringly.  The  corners  of  his  mouth 
curled  faintly,  in  scorn. 

"What  you  say?"  he  grunted  slowly. 

The  man  repeated  his  accusation.  The  crowd  watched  with  threat- 
ening eyes.  The  Indian  took  a  step  backwards,  and  the  others  uncon- 
sciously came  forward. 

Black  Cloud,  with  a  swift  motion,  raised  his  arm  to  strike,  but  a 
revolver  was  thrust  in  his  face,  which  still  gave  no  trace  of  emotion. 
His  arm  dropped  to  his  side.  Then  deliberately,  in  a  tone  heavy  with 
anger,  he  spoke: 

"He  got  my  girl.  I  don't  want  his.  He  don't  get  two.  He  like 
Rainbow:  she  like  him.      Now  he  can  have  her." 

' '  Then  you  murdered  her  ? ' '  came  with  a  grave  finality  from  the  leader. 

The  Indian  nodded  his  head  casually.  The  impromptu  jurors 
sighed  in  relief.  They  had  looked  for  a  struggle.  Many  of  them,  peace- 
able citizens,  were  not  a  little  scared  by  the  ominous  appearance  of  their 
captive.  His  wrists  were  bound,  to  which  he  submitted  quietly.  He 
was  then  left  temporarily  with  two  armed  guardians,  while  the  council 
withdrew  to  discuss  his  punishment. 


Rainbow  363 

Matthew  and  Rainbow  had  arrived  in  the  meantime,  weary  and 
dusty.  An  acquaintance  with  whom  he  had  been  seen  in  the  hotel,  was 
picked  to  tell  him  of  the  tragedy.  As  Matthew  parted  from  Rainbow 
at  the  hotel  steps,  the  unlucky  fellow,  white  and  torn  with  pity,  sum- 
moned him  to  a  quiet  little  parlor  on  the  first  floor.  It  was  quickly  over 
with,  but  when  the  pair  emerged,  there  was  one  who  had  grown  haggard 
and  worn  in  the  few  brief  minutes. 

He  went  first  to  see  his  baby  and  then  to  the  ill-fated  room.  The 
knife  had  been  removed  and  the  clothes  changed.  She  lay  there  before 
him,  eyes  lightly  closed,  pink-cheeked,  as  restful  and  natural  as  he  had 
ever  seen  her  in  life.  With  his  glance  fixed  upon  her  face,  he  was 
mutely  trying  to  tell  his  startled  self  that  she  was  not  sleeping  but  dead, — • 
lost  to  him  until  eternity.  His  mind  rebelled  under  the  sudden  stress, 
and  he  found  himself  slipping  away  from  the  weight  of  the  truth,  and 
believing,  with  a  childish  faith  in  the  justice  of  things,  that  it  was  all  a 
mistake  and  unreal.  He  covered  his  face  with  his  hands  as  if  his  thoughts 
hurt  him.  Then,  before  he  knew  it,  the  door  opened  and  Rainbow  was 
by  his  side,  with  eyes  fastened  on  the  bed. 

"Let  me  be  alone,"  he  said  in  a  cold  voice. 

"No!    please!    a  leetle  while!"  she  begged. 

Then  slowly  she  picked  up  a  limp  hand  from  the  cover  and  held  it 
between  hers. 

"Me  didn't  believe  it,"  she  said  incredulously. 

"I  am  trying  to,"  was  the  submissive  reply. 

"You  loved  her,"  the  girl  continued,  wistfully  watching  his  face. 
"  But  she  is  happy  now.  You  must  forget  her.  Me  am  sorry  for  you, 
not  her.  See  how  quiet  she  sleeps.  She's  lucky.  She  go  to  sleep  on 
earth  and  wake  in  your  heaven  and  leave  you  all  alone  with  baby.  It's 
nothing  to  die,  but  it's  hard  to  live." 

"How  do  you  know?"  he  demanded  in  spite  of  himself. 

"Because  me  has  got  to  go  on  living." 

"Well,  what  of  it?"  said  the  man  abruptly. 

"Me  will  be  alone  like  you,  when  you  are  gone." 

"What  about  your  Indian  lover?"  Matthew's  voice  trembled. 

"Me  not  think  of  him.  He's  lucky  too.  He  gone  to  the  Great 
Spirit.  They  hanged  him.  Big  crowd  shouts :  stones:  rope  from  a  tree : 
and  last  of  all  he  smile  calmly,  and  say  he  kill  her  because  he  love  me." 

"Why  the  devil  didn't  you  marry  him  instead  of  running  after  me?" 
he  cried. 

She  seized  his  arm,  and  turned  her  troubled  eyes  full  on  his  face. 

"Me  did  not  know  him  was  so  jealous.      Me  have  not  loved  him 


364  The  Haverfordian 

for  years:  me  would  lie  there  dead  instead  of  her  if  me  could.  I  only 
got  one  life  before  I  go  where  they  are  gone;  and  I  give  that  life  to  you." 

The  thought  of  her  offering  herself  to  him  in  the  presence  of  his  dead 
wife  horrified  him.  For  the  moment  he  saw  Rainbow  as  a  little  vampire 
who  had  set  out  after  him  with  shameless  abandon,  and  was  now  before 
him  with  two  deaths  in  her  wake,  ready  to  finish  the  conquest. 

He  glowered  down  on  her  fiercely. 

"  I  want  a  wife  and  not  a  sqaw.     Get  out  of  here ! "  he  thundered. 

She  turned  pale  and  her  eyes  filled  with  tears.  Then,  like  a  flash, 
she  fled  from  his   presence. 

It  took  Matthew  several  days  to  get  away  from  the  canon  with  his 
wife's  body.  There  were  difficult  telegrams  to  send,  trunks  to  pack, 
two  lead  coffins  to  be  procured,  all  of  which  he  felt  little  able  to  do. 
Rainbow  kept  discreetly  out  of  his  way.  He  had  time  to  think  his 
troubles  over  and  adjust  himself  to  new  conditions.  Finally  he  began 
to  understand  the  Indian  nature  in  Rainbow — her  quick  emotions,  her 
fearless,  primitive  methods  and  the  simple,  lingering  tenderness  towards 
him  in  spite  of  what  he  did  or  said.  He  saw  that  her  only  crime  was  a 
heedless,  youthful  love, of  which  she  could  not  see  the  consequences.  He 
saw  too  that  death  was  less  strange  to  her  than  life;  that  her  sudden 
intrusion  upon  him  meant  no  irreverence  to  his  dead  wife. 

On  the  evening  before  his  departure  he  came  upon  her  sitting  on  a 
smooth  rock  at  the  very  brink  of  the  canon.  He  was  walking  alone  and 
almost  stumbled  over  her  before  he  discovered  her. 

"O,  it's  you!"  he  exclaimed. 

"You  going  away?"  she  asked  quickly. 

"To-night." 

"You  ever  come  back?" 

"Not  if  I  can  help  it." 

He  could  only  vaguely  distinguish  her  form  against  the  ocean  of 
darkness  behind  her,  but  he  felt  her  gaze  upon  him ;  he  felt,  too,  the  com- 
pelling attraction  of  her  strong,  unique  personality.  She  was  only  a 
little  figure  with  her  head  just  coming  to  his  shoulder;  but  when  he  saw 
the  burning  light  in  her  eyes, — the  same  that  he  had  seen  that  first 
evening,  he  knew  that  it  told  of  a  deep  emotion,  yet  even  more,  of  an 
ancient  race  "bom  with  the  wind  and  rain,"  afraid  of  nothing,  and  un- 
tamed. 

"Me  hate  you  for  leaving  me:  but  me  am  Indian:  and  you  no  want 
me.  Go  away  and  forget.  Only  kiss  me  once,  for  life  is  long  to  live 
alone." 


The  Fruit  of  Solitude  365 

Perhaps  from  pity,  perhaps  because  it  seemed  like  a  last  wish  on 
earth  which  he  dared  not  refuse,  he  leaned  over  and  kissed  her.  In  after 
years  he  was  often  puzzled  over  it,  but  that  night  he  did  not  think  of 
hesitating. 

Several  hours  later  he  departed  for  New  York  with  his  little  girl, 
and  his  wife's  body. 

But  Rainbow  sat,  tranquil  as  the  living  rocks  about  her,  dreanmig 
of  an  ideal  love, — of  fairy  heights  of  young  happiness,  all  built  up  from 
the  fabric  of  a  single  kiss. 

(The  end) 

—C.  Van  Dam,    '17. 


Wtt  Jfruit  of  ^olituUe 

When  in  communion  with  thy  inmost  soul, 
Withdrawn  from  out  the  surging  sea  of  life. 
And  that  rough  shore  where  its  mad  billows  roll, 
Withdrawn  from  all  the  world,  so  full  of  strife; 
If  chance  so  be,  near  some  cool  brook  reclined. 
Sad  at  the  thought  that  few  great  minds  agree. 
In  vain  thou  pond' rest  one  bright  truth  to  find 
That  shall  thy  soul  inspire  and  set  thee  free; 
If,  oft  by  this  same  idle  quest  beguiled. 
At  length  in  desperation  thou  dost  faint. 
Think  not  thy  life  disorder'd  is  and  wild. 
Such  doubts  do  come  to  God's  most  favored  saint. 
But  struggle  on  nor  count  the  fearful  pain; 
Peace  comes  at  last,  a  golden  crown  to  gain. 

—E.  R.  Lester,  '18. 


$()iUip£i  anb  tfie  ^oettc  Brama 

THE  death,  last  December,  at  the  age  of  forty-seven,  of  Stephen 
Phillips,  English  poet,  dramatist,  and  editor  of  the  Poetry  Review, 
brought  to  conclusion  a  life  bravely  sacrificed  upon  the  altar  of 
poetic  drama.  That  his  attempted  revival  of  poetry  upon  the  stage  was 
not  a  complete  failure  is  amply  attested  by  his  successful  productions, 
"Herod,"  "Paolo  and  Francesca,"  "Ulysses,"  and  "Nero."  But  his 
later  career  was  a  distinct  disappointment,  as  viewed  from  the  splendor 
of  the  promise  of  his  earlier  works.  One  of  the  purposes  of  this  article 
is  to  attempt  to  show  why  this  was  so,  and  why  a  poet,  whose  first  dra- 
matic offering  was  greeted  by  the  Spectator  with  the  comment,  "No 
youthful  poet,  save  in  the  case  of  Keats,  has  written  blank  verse  of 
greater  promise,"  should  have  had  his  later  works  received  with  indiffer- 
ence and  disfavor.  The  character  of  the  man — his  devotion  to  classical 
traditions,  the  peculiar  combination  in  him  of  the  practical  and  the  im- 
practical, the  praiseworthy  and  the  repulsive,  also  compel  attention. 

Stephen  Phillips  was  bom  at  Somerton,  near  Oxford,  England,  in 
1868.  His  father,  a  clergyman,  and  the  Precentor  of  Peterborough 
Cathedral,  carefully  provided  him  with  an  education  suitable  for  one 
of  the  professions.  But  the  younger  Phillips,  after  a  year  at  Queens 
College,  Cambridge,  decided  to  abandon  higher  education  for  the  stage. 
He,  therefore,  joined  Frank  R.  Benson's  Dramatic  Company,  a  traveling 
troupe  which  specialized  in  Shakespeare.  He  remained  with  this  com- 
pany for  six  years,  especially  starring  as  the  Ghost  in  "Hamlet."  He 
played  this  part  "with  a  dignity  so  awful,"  writes  Edmund  Gosse,  "that 
he  was  positively  called  before  the  curtain,  a  distinction  believed  to  be 
in  this  role  unparalleled." 

The  end  of  his  stage  career  came  with  his  marriage  to  Miss  May 
Lidyard,  an  actress  in  Benson's  Company.  His  motive  for  leaving  the 
stage  was  that  he  might  devote  himself  entirely  to  literature.  His  wife 
gives  this  interesting  insight  into  his  character  at  this  time:  "  It  was  his 
desire,  he  said,  to  give  up  all  the  world  and  chiefly  live  for  that  glory  in 
his  soul,  the  glory  which  he  felt  had  been  placed  there  that  he  might  give 
it  out  again,  as  a  beauty  and  protection  for  the  people,  as  a  stimulus  for 
creation  and  a  splendor  that  would  live  forever  in  the  eyes  of  God.  He 
would  often  tell  me  that  I  was  necessary  to  him  for  this,  and  often  he 
would  ask  me  to  pray  that  God  would  not  take  me  away  from  him ;  but 
sometimes  he  was  very  sad  in  thinking  that  the  Almighty  had  given  him 
this  wonderful  gift." 

The  first  public  expression  of  this  gift  was  a  thin  volume  called 


Phillips  and  the  Poetic  Drama  367 

"Eremus,"  printed  in  1894.  This  was  merely  a  poetic  experiment,  and 
was  never  reprinted.  But  in  the  following  year  appeared  "Christ  in 
Hades,"  a  poem  which  the  public  accepted  with  the  utmost  respect. 
Appended  to  this  volume  was  a  short,  ballad-like  poem,  "The  Appari- 
tion," which  Mr.  Gosse  praises  as  the  first  real  evidence  of  the  appear- 
ance of  a  new  voice  in  English  poetry.  Phillips's  next  volume,  that  of 
1897,  contains  the  best  of  his  early  poems.  Critics  gave  this  book  an 
enthusiastic  reception,  especially  the  Academy,  a  literary  journal  which 
hailed  the  volume  as  the  most  important  contribution  to  the  literature 
of  the  year  1897.  And,  what  was  more  practical,  the  Academy  enriched 
Phillips  by  the  gift  of  one  hundred  guineas.  The  fame  of  Stephen  Phil- 
lips, however,  has  arisen,  not  from  his  short  poems,  but  rather  from  his 
poetical  plays. 

Mr. — now  Sir — George  Alexander,  being  impressed  with  the  new 
poet's  work,  asked  him  to  write  a  verse  play  for  him.  Phillips  con- 
sented, and  chose  for  his  subject  that  immortal  episode  of  the  love  of 
Paolo  and  Francesca  which  appears  in  Dante's  Inferno.  His  experi- 
ence as  an  actor  made  him  well  equipped,  as  it  was,  to  write  a  play,  but 
additional  aid  came  from  Sidney  Colvin,  the  eminent  critic  and  biog- 
rapher. The  drama,  "  Paolo  and  Francesca,"  was  published  in  the  winter 
of  1899,  and  the  opinion  of  the  critics  was  almost  unanimous  in  its  favor. 
Edmund  Gosse  thus  comments  on  that  fact  in  the  Century  Magazine: 
"This  time  the  complacency  of  the  critics  was  so  universal  that  it  was 
almost  alarming.  All  the  laws  of  circumstance  seem  to  be  turned  topsy- 
turvy when  the  Quarterly  Review  and  the  Edinburgh  Review  compete 
which  shall  praise  soonest  and  loudest  the  work  of  a  very  young  poet." 
Among  other  adverse  critics,  Sir  Arthur  Pinero  ridiculed  its  acting  qual- 
ities, and  remarked  that  it  "would  not  run  ten  minutes."  As  a  matter 
of  fact  it  did  run  130  nights  at  the  St.  James's  Theatre,  three  years  later. 

While  "Paolo  and  Francesca"  was  still  waiting  to  be  staged,  Phillips 
was  not  resting  on  his  laurels,  but  was  writing  still  another  play.  For 
a  subject  he  turned  to  Josephus,  and  selected  as  his  hero,  Herod  the 
Great.  He  was  attracted  by  Josephus's  record  of  the  love  between 
Herod  and  Marianne.  He  strove,  to  quote  his  own  words,  "to  paint 
in  dramatic  verse  with  an  Eastern  background,  the  most  tremendous 
love  story  in  the  world."  The  interview  between  the  poet-dramatist 
and  Herbert  Beerbohm  Tree,  when  Phillips  read  his  "Herod"  to  that 
famous  actor-manager,  is  very  entertainingly  reported  by  the  poet  him- 
self: "The  last  act  of  this  ('Herod'),  Mr. — now  Sir — Herbert  Tree  was 
induced  to  hear  me  read.  As  I  was  reading  this  to  the  best  of  my  abil- 
ity, but  naturally  in  a  state  of    extreme  nervousness,  for  I  knew  what 


368  The  Haverfordian 

depended  on  the  impression  made,  I  happened  to  glance  over  the  man- 
uscript to  watch  the  expression  on  the  managerial  countenance.  To 
my  consternation  Sir  Herbert's  face  was  relaxed  into  the  most  unmis- 
takable of  smiles  it  was  possible  to  imagine.  He  appeared  highly  amused, 
and  when  I  had  read  anything  on  which  I  particularly  prided  myself,  he 
would  interrupt  with  a  hearty  laugh. 

"When  I  had  finished,  I  had,  of  course,  given  up  all  hope,  for  the 
play,  I  might  mention,  was  not — intentionally  at  least — a  comedy,  but 
was  amazed  to  hear  him  declare  that  he  had  practically  decided  on  pro- 
ducing it,  which,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  he  subsequently  did  at  His  Majesty's 
Theatre.  When  I  questioned  him  at  a  later  date,  as  to  his  disconcerting 
reception  of  '  Herod '  he  replied  that  he  had  thoroughly  enjoyed  it,  and 
was  unable  to  resist  laughing  outright.  In  any  case,  the  play  ran  close 
on  one  hundred  nights,  and  that  was  how  I  really  began." 

"Herod"  had  its  initial  performance  on  October  31,  1900,  with 
Beerbohm  Tree  in  the  title  role.  The  Spectator  and  other  London  jour- 
nals lauded  the  play  and  its  author  to  the  skies,  and  this  was  but  the 
beginning  of  a  series  of  extreme  compliments  which  London  critics  almost 
as  one  showered  upon  the  new  dramatist.  Unfortunately,  much  of  the 
praise  was  worthless  by  its  mere  extravagance.  When  the  reaction 
came,  several  years  later,  Phillips  was  not  prepared  for  it,  and  fell  an 
easy  victim  to  indifference  and  neglect. 

The  year  1902  is  the  high -water  mark  of  achievement  for  Stephen 
Phillips.  In  the  early  part  of  this  year,  two  more  of  his  poetical  spectacles 
were  staged  in  the  English  capital.  The  dramas  were  "  Paolo  and  Fran- 
cesca"  at  St.  James's  and  "Ulysses"  at  His  Majesty's.  Opinions  were 
divided  as  to  the  relative  merits  of  the  two  dramas,  though  many  critics 
favored  the  Italian  tragedy  to  the  Greek  epic-drama,  on  account  of  its 
romantic  appeal.  The  significant  fact,  however,  is  brought  out  by  The 
Spectator,  "To  have  two  poetic  plays  running  simultaneously  at  great 
London  theatres  is  an  achievement  of  which  any  poet  in  his  age  might 
be  proud." 

But  it  is  just  at  this  time,  as  Mr.  Padraic  Colum  points  out  in  The 
New  Republic,  that  Stephen  Phillips  became  the  unhappy  victim  of  that 
peculiar  system  of  London  reviewing,  according  to  which  it  changes  com- 
pletely in  character  every  five  years,  due  to  the  fact  that  the  young  re- 
viewers pass  on  to  something  else  after  that  period  of  time.  It  must 
have  been  that  in  1902,  "a  new  batch  of  reviewers,"  to  quote  Mr.  Colum, 
had  '  'arrived,  and  the  parole  amongst  them  was  that  Stephen  Phillips 
was  of  no  account  poetically.  Older  men,  eminent  critics  on  important 
journals,  remained  to  praise  him.      But  what  they  said  of  him  now  was 


Phillips  and  the  Poetic  Drama  369 

discredited  by  the  extravagance  of  the  things  they  had  said  before.  Wil- 
liam Archer's  compliments  on  'Paolo  and  Francesca'  and  'Herod' — 
'Sardou  could  not  have  ordered  the  action  better,  Tennyson  could  not 
have  clothed  the  passion  with  words  of  purer  loveliness';  'the  elder 
Dumas  speaking  with  the  voice  of  Milton,' — were  remembered  by  the 
younger  men,  and  they  smiled." 

The  Quarterly  Review  got  in  the  deepest  and  most  deadly  thrust  at 
the  poet.  It  was  from  the  pen  of  Mr.  Arthur  Symons,  himself  a  poet  of 
note,  and  recalls  the  Quarterly's  memorable  criticism  of  Keats's  "En- 
dymion,"  that  for  so  long  was  believed  to  have  hastened  that  poet's 
early  death.  Even  the  most  prejudiced  lover  of  Phillips  would  be  forced 
to  admit  the  cleverness  of  the  article,  and  the  general  sanity  of  its  reason- 
ing. But,  for  his  careful  avoidance  of  the  smallest  attempt  to  praise, 
for  his  failure  to  credit  Phillips  with  an  extraordinarily  daring  effort  to 
revive  the  poetic  stage  drama — an  attempt  which  had  baffled  Tenny- 
son and  Browning  before  him — the  review  should  be  severely  arraigned. 

"Poetry,"  writes  Symons,  "is  an  act  of  creation  which  the  poet 
shares  with  none  other  among  God's  creatures.  Poetical  feeling  is  a 
sensibility  which  the  poet  may  share  with  the  greengrocer  walking  arm- 
in-arm  with  his  wife,  in  Hyde  Park,  at  twilight  on  Sunday To  ex- 
press poetical  feeling  in  verse  is  not  to  make  poetry."  After  frankly 
accusing  him  of  modeling  his  verse  on  Tennyson  and  Landor,  the  re- 
viewer finishes  up  Phillips's  poetry  in  this  summary  manner:  "Now  in 
all  Mr.  Phillips's  verse  we  find  poetical  feeling;  never  the  instant,  inevi- 
table, unmistakable  thrill  and  onslaught  of  poetry."  Thus  he  would  place 
Phillips  on  a  par  with  the  above-mentioned  greengrocer.  Concerning 
his  stage  productions,  Mr.  Symons  writes  in  part,  as  follows: 

"Mr.  Phillips  has  written  for  the  stage  with  a  certain  kind  of  suc- 
cess, and  he  has  been  praised,  as  we  have  seen,  for  having  'written  a 
great  dramatic  poem  which  happens  also  to  be  a  great  poetic  drama.' 
But  this  praise  loses  sight  of  the  difference  which  exists  between  what 
is  dramatic  and  what  is  theatrically  efTective.  In  '  Paolo  and  Francesca,' 
in  'Herod,'  and  in  'Ulysses,'  there  are  many  scenes  which,  taken  in  them- 
selves, are  theatrically  effective,  and  it  is  through  this  quality,  which  is 
the  quality  most  prized  on  the  modern  English  stage,  that  these  plays 
have  found  their  way  to  Her  Majesty's  Theatre  and  to  St.  James's. 
But  take  any  one  of  these  scenes,  consider  it  in  relation  to  the  play  as  a 
whole,  think  of  it  as  a  revelation  of  the  character  of  each  person  who 
takes  part  in  it,  examine  its  probability  as  a  natural  human  action, 
and  you  will  find  that  the  people  do,  not  what  they  would  be  most  likely 
to  do,  but  what  the  author  wishes  them  to  do,  and  that  they  say,  not 


370  The  Haverfordian 

what  they  would  be  most  likely  to  say,  but  what  the  author  thinks  it 
would  be  convenient  or  impressive  for  them  to  say.  What  Mr.  Phillips 
lacks  is  sincerity ;  and  without  sincerity  there  can  be  no  art,  though  art 
has  not  yet  begun  when  sincerity  has  finished  laying  the  foundations. 
One  is  not  sincere  by  wishing  to  be  so,  any  more  than  one  is  wise  or  for- 
tunate. Infinite  skill  goes  to  the  making  of  sincerity.  Mr.  Phillips, 
who  has  so  much  skill,  devotes  it  all  to  producing  effects  by  means  of 
action,  and  to  describing  those  effects  by  means  of  verse." 

After  1902,  Stephen  Phillips  continued  to  write  for  the  stage,  but 
his  will  was  broken,  and  only  one  of  his  later  dramas  measured  up  to  the 
high  standard  set  in  "Paolo  and  Francesca"  and  "Herod."  This  was 
"Nero,"  a  tragedy,  presented  by  Beerbohm  Tree,  in  1906.  The  Spec- 
tator, always  his  friend,  has  this  to  say  of  his  "Nero": 

"  In  the  play  which  was  produced  at  His  Majesty's  Theatre  on  Thurs- 
day evening  (January  25,  1906),  Mr.  Stephen  Phillips  has  made  clear 
advance  in  knowledge  of  stagecraft.  In  many  respects  it  contains  less 
poetry  than  'Herod'  or  'Ulysses,'  but  it  is  incomparably  better  drama. 
There  is  a  keener  perception  of  character,  a  firmer  grasp  on  life,  and  a 
general  subordination  of  other  interests  to  the  dramatic  effect." 

Three  other  plays  were  produced  by  the  poet,  "The  Sin  of  David" 
in  1904,  "Pietro  of  Sienna"  in  1910,  and  "Faust,"  in  collaboration  with 
Mr.  Comyns  Carr.  The  first-named  play  was  a  symbolical  drama, 
with  its  scenes  laid  in  the  time  of  the  Commonwealth.  Sir  Hubert  Lisle 
stands  for  David,  and  his  sin  was  to  fall  in  love  with  Miriam,  wife  of 
Colonel  Mardyke  whom  he  sends  off  on  a  military  expedition,  where  he 
meets  his  death.  The  play  suffers  principally  from  the  author's  choice 
of  subject,  and  it  was  on  this  account  that  the  British  censor  banned  it. 
It  was  afterwards  produced  in  Germany.  "Pietro  of  Sienna"  was  not 
a  success,  and  "Faust,"  according  to  the  Athenceum,  "was  chiefly  a 
spectacle  providing  opportunities  for  the  scenic  artist,  and  more  pic- 
turesque poses  than  philosophy,  for  the  actors." 

Meanwhile  Phillips's  art  had  been  revealed  to  America.  The  first 
of  his  plays  to  be  seen  in  this  country,  "  Ulysses,"  was  marred  by  incom- 
petent acting.  But  in  1906,  Mr.  H.  B.  Irving,  eldest  son  of  the  late 
Sir  Henry  Irving,  brought  over  "Paolo  and  Francesca,"  and  gave  it, 
from  all  accounts,  a  very  adequate  presentation.  The  New  York  Nation 
thus  comments  on  it:  "Rich  as  Mr.  Phillips's  work  is  in  Hterary  graces, 
as  strong  as  it  undoubtedly  is  dramatically  in  some  of  its  scenes,  it  can 
scarcely  be  called  a  great  play."  Of  the  fourth  act,  however,  the  Nation 
reviewer  finds  that  "thenceforward  the  dramatist  is  absolute  master  of 
the  situation,  and  unfolds  it  with  a  fine  perception  of  theatrical  effect,  as 


Phillips  and  the  Poetic  Drama  371 

well  as  artistic  law."  The  dramatic  critic  of  the  New  York  Sun,  Mr.  John 
Corbin,  was  more  severe.  He  accused  Phillips  of  lacking  "the  authentic 
inspiration  of  the  dramatist.  One  feels  that  Mr.  Phillips  is  inspired  by 
literature,  not  by  life." 

In  the  fall  of  1909,  another  Phillips  drama  was  staged  in  the  United 
States  when  "Herod"  was  put  on  at  the  Lyric  Theatre,  New  York,  by 
William  Faversham.  Turning  again  to  the  Nation,  we  find  this  com- 
ment on  "Herod's"  first  night:  "To  say  that  the  representation  was 
in  every  respect  ideal  would  be  a  grave  exaggeration,  but  it  was  gen- 
erally adequate,  often  excellent,  and  in  places,  exceedingly  impressive." 

One  would  have  supposed  that  these  successes  in  England  and 
America,  coupled  with  the  returns  from  his  published  poems  and  plays, 
would  have  insured  him  financial  prosperity  throughout  his  remaining 
days.  But  account  must  be  taken  of  the  man's  extravagance,  his  lack  of 
a  keen  business  sense,  and  finally,  his  return  to  an  old  weakness — drink. 
His  fine  mental  faculties  began  to  be  seriously  strained,  and  his  poetical 
work  suffered  thereby.  It  is  not  unjust  to  suspect  that  the  unrelenting 
nagging  of  such  destructive  criticism  as  that  in  the  Quarterly  Review  above 
quoted,  had  a  great  deal  to  do  with  his  downfall. 

But  there  is  another  cause,  and  one  which  discloses  a  more  intimate 
side  of  the  poet's  life.  The  Independent  for  February  23,  1914,  printed 
a  touching  revelation  of  "Stephen  Phillips  In  His  Home,"  as  narrated  by 
his  wife,  and  in  this  article  is  related  the  death  of  the  poet's  young 
daughter,  Persephone. 

"The  loss  of  our  baby  girl,"  writes  Mrs.  Phillips,  "exercised  a  vivid 
and  cruel  influence  over  my  husband,  for  it  would  seem  that  he  never 
would  be  comforted.  After  this  I  would  frequently  lose  him,  and  days 
and  sometimes  weeks  of  terrible  suspense  were  added  to  my  gloom.  He 
could  never  bear  to  see  me  sad,  and  if  ever  I  forgot  myself  in  my  ex- 
treme poignancy  of  thought,  however  much  I  tried  to  cover  it  away — 
if  ever  a  shadow  of  this  crossed  my  face,  he  would  at  once  decline  all 

work,  or  comfort,  and  rush  from  the  house  in  a  state  of  utter  frenzy 

Sometimes  he  would  send  me  a  wire  or  a  note,  asking  my  forgiveness  for 
these  rash  and  sudden  outbursts,  which  he  would  most  deeply  lament, 
or  he  would  send  a  short,  sad  message,  imploring  me  to  come  at  once  to 
wherever  he  was,  to  save  him  from  madness  or  suicide." 

The  closing  years  of  Stephen  Phillips's  life  may  be  noted  briefly. 
In  1909  he  was  driven  into  bankruptcy.  Three  years  later  he  accepted 
the  editorship  of  the  Poetry  Review,  which  post  he  occupied  till  death, 
writing  sound,  intellectual  articles  on  modern  literature.  Also  he  pub- 
lished several  volumes  of  poems,  and  occasional  short  verse  in  English 


372  The  Haveijfoedian 

and  American  magazines.  His  "Lyrics  and  Dramas"  of  1913,  and  his 
"Panama  and  Other  Poems"  of  1915  were  hailed  as  a  return  to  his 
former  successful  style,  and  many  looked  for  a  permanent  revival  of  his 
powers.  But  death  cut  short  his  poetical  "come  back"  on  December  9, 
1915,  at  an  age  when  there  should  still  have  been  much  more  to  come 
from  his  pen.  It  is  interesting  to  surmise  what  future  generations  will 
have  to  say  of  this  poet's  courageous  attempt  to  revive  English  classical, 
poetic  drama. 

— George  A.  Dunlap,  '16. 


Bisiappomtment 

Oft  in  the  night 

My  thoughts  take  flight 
To  verdant  plains  of  sweet  Elysian  fancy. 

Quickly  I  rise, 

Rubbing  my  eyes, 
Intent  to  write  a  sonnet  gay  for  Nancy. 

Full  shall  it  be 

Of  mystery 
That  fills  the  notes  of  wild  JEolian  measures. 

Great  my  dismay 

When  fast  away 
Fly  all  the  dainty  lines,  my  sleepful  treasures. 


^te  ^at()  of  i^etrtbutton 


I. 

A  SKY,  black  as  ebony,  the  moon  as  a  large  round  amber  which  has 
been  incrustated  by  mistake  amid  the  stars,  like  mother-of-pearl. 
A  zephyr  wafts  the  fragrance  of  rich  flowers,  blended  with  the 
bitter-sweet  scent  of  acrid  pines;  one  can  hear  the  melodious  ripple  of  a 
brook  as  it  plashes  its  distant  way  down  the  hillside.  The  dewy  grass 
or  the  hard  gravel  paths  of  the  terrace  are  occasionally  illumined  with 
the  glow  of  a  shimmering  firefly  and  one  hears  the  poignant  accents  of 
some  lonely  and  abandoned  bird  calling  its  fickle  mate  back  to  the  de- 
serted nest. 

The  long  verandah  overlooking  the  terrace  is  deserted  save  for  two 
figures,  seated  too  closely  not  to  show  two  lovers'  passage.  And  then  it 
is  a  night  of  love,  so  why  not?  In  one  chair  a  young  woman  of  great 
beauty,  small  and  slender,  with  soft  grey  eyes,  a  pink  complexion,  a 
small  mouth,  and  hair  golden  as  the  honey  of  sweet  Hybla  bees  or  the 
rich  hue  of  yellow  saffron.  Her  beauty  is  that  of  some  wild,  shy  nymph 
of  the  woods,  never  yet  beheld  of  man,  whose  days  have  been  passed  in 
commune  with  nature,  ignorant  of  the  mystery  of  sex  or  any  of  Life's 
other  great — and  yet  petty — problems.  No  words  can  describe  that 
pure,  sincere,  unadulterated  beauty  of  countenance,  the  apotheosis  of 
virginal  womanhood. 

Her  companion  is  of  a  different  type:  very  thin  and  tall;  with 
placid  blue  eyes,  heavily  fringed  with  dark  lashes;  a  long,  straight  nose, 
whose  dilated  nostrils  seem  ever  yearning  for  the  bitter  odor  of  far-dis- 
tant lands.  He  has  a  world-weary  expression;  he  is  no  doubt  the  son 
of  some  robust  father;  he  is  one  of  that  generation  which  pays  for  the 
military  glory  of  its  sires ;  yet  tired  of  living  in  an  age  which  has  nothing 
glorious  or  sublime  in  it,  and  of  smoking  innumerable  cigarettes  and 
holding  lengthy  discourse  on  idealism,  he  himself  has  gone  to  the  wrong 
source  for  consolation,  as  bespeaks  the  somewhat  sensuous  curve  of  his 
mouth. 

And  yet  this  cynical  and  Byronic  youth  is  here,  talking  in  fervent 
accents,  talking  with  passionate  ardor  to  the  beautiful  girl  at  his  side: 
"One  hears  the  music  from  the  ball-room — a  commonplace  tune,  but 
gaining  in  beauty  as  it  meets  you  in  your  loveliness  until  it  seems  to  em- 
body all  the  harmony  of  every  master,  like  a  divine  canto  restored  again 
to  man  after  having  sojourned  among  the  gods.  And  I  here,  at  your 
feet,  paltry  and  weak,  pale  and  careworn,  with  you  in  your  fairy  splendor, 
like  some  wondrous  goddess  of  old!" 


374  The  Haverpordian 

"Ah!  more,  more!  Speak  to  me  further  of  this  love  of  yours." 

"From  awful  discouragement  and  ghastly  ennui,  you  and  your 
ineffable  loveliness  and  sweetness  rescue  me,  and  bring  me  to  heights 
unknown  before,  to  the  realization  that  Life  is  but  one  sweet  song,  ten 
times  worth  the  living.  Ah!  and  you  have  taught  me  loves  are  pure. 
Melissande-like,  you  have  inspired  a  man  to  bring  his  all  to  worship  you 
at  the  altar  of  beauty.  You  have  stirred  a  hopeless  realist  to  the  core 
and  moved  him  to  idealism.  And  in  this  new-found  happiness  and  ado- 
ration, in  this  heaven  of  delight,  I  often  ask  myself  if  it  is  not  too  beau- 
tiful, if  I  shall  not  bump  my  head  against  the  clouds. 

"I  am  not  theatrical!  For  the  beauty  of  two  fair  eyes,  like  trouba- 
dours of  old,  I  have  travelled  over  troubled  waters  to  find  my  lady  ;and 
in  the  coming,  if  disconsolate  her  name  has  brought  my  spirits  back, 
when  sick,  the  mention  of  her  peerless  beauty  has  invigorated  my  weary, 
aching  limbs,  and  given  life  to  my  bruised,  lovesick  heart." 

"Yes,  yes,"  she  whispers  breathlessly. 

"The  forest  brings  with  it  the  intoxicating  perfume  of  its  plants: 
not  one-hundredth  as  pure  as  the  perfume  of  your  hair;  the  music  of 
belated  birds  travels  us-ward :  yet  more  harmonious  is  the  music  of  your 
voice.  And  the  music  of  these  very  birds,  travelling  through  the  wood- 
land, will  have  met  the  soul  of  some  majestic  maker  of  melodies,  some 
Mendelssohn,  and  grown  richer  and  fuller  amid  sleeping  nature.  The 
yellow  moonlight  shining  palely  over  the  grey  roofs  in  the  valley,  and  a 
little  lake,  placid  and  beautiful,  trembles  like  a  magic,  mysterious  mirror 
— nature's  offering,  not  one-half  as  fair  as  you.  Ah,  your  lips!  All  that 
is  evil  in  me  is  banished  by  that  kiss- — as  the  famous  kiss  of  Roxane. 
And  you  and  I,  our  names  will  ever  be  linked  together;  I  will  immortalize 
them,  they  will  be  as  Hero  and  Leander,  Cyrano  and  Roxane,  Konigs- 
mark  and  Sophia-Dorothea  of  Zell " 

The  music  lulled  and  then  reached  a  crescendo;  he  looked  dully 
down  to  the  ground  and  stopped  in  the  middle  of  his  sentence;  the  girl 
also  leaned  back,  vaguely  conscious  of  coming  danger.  Then,  amid  a 
triumphant  bar  of  music.  She  entered.  Tall  and  graceful,  like  the  pale- 
Titan  woman  that  haunted  the  dreams  of  Baudelaire,  statuesque,  like 
the  women  Titian  loved  to  paint,  but  with  a  full,  red  mouth — inherited 
from  some  Rebecca  who  loved  an  Ivanhoe  of  yore  and  loved  in  passionate 
futility — wonderful  white  skin,  a  lithe  figure,  large  black  eyes,  and  raven 
black  hair.  Her  kind  drive  men  to  drown  their  unrequited  love  in  mellow 
wines  or  sapping  poisons,  or,  more  often,  poor  devils  think  of  her,  com- 


The  Path  of  Retribution  375 

mend  themselves  to  God,  and  blow  their  brains  out  with  her  name  on 
their  lips. 

Who  was  she?     It  really  does  not  matter. 

Proudly  she  walked  past  them  ,  paused  one  second  and  looked  into 
his  eye,  then  on  she  went.  The  past,  the  awful  past,  in  its  yellow  horror, 
came  to  his  mind  and  an  accusing  finger  pointed  at  him,  mindful  of  his 
sacrletlife:  "  What  hast  thou  made  of  thy  youth ? "  What,  indeed!  Pas- 
sion-wrecked, then  cast  away  by  this  woman,  like  an  old  pair  of  shoes. 

Then  this  black-haired  woman  came  back,  bent  over  him  and, 
"Come,  my  love,"  she  whispered,  "come  and  dance!" 

"Oh,  do  not  go!"  pleaded  the  Lady  of  the  Grey  Eyes. 

"Ha!  ha!  You  will  not  dance  with  Lola!  Fool!  You  shall  dance 
the  devil's  dance  in  hell  with  your  Lolita!  Come,  you  will  hold  your 
Lolita  in  your  strong  arms  and  press  your  lips  to  her  vermilion  mouth 
and  whisper:  'Lolita,  my  Lolita!     I  love  you!     God!    how  I  love  you.'" 

Then,  sinuously,  in  time  with  the  soft  music  from  the  ball-room,  she 
danced.  Her  red  gown  fluttered  as  the  embers  of  a  dying  fire  being 
blown  by  a  wind;  her  fair,  white  shoulders  moved  up  and  down  in  the 
dim  moonlight,  pulsing  with  passion;  her  gorgeous  jewels  shone;  her 
breast  throbbed  in  the  sensuous  dance.  As  none  but  Salom6  or  Lucrezia 
Borgia  might  have  danced,  she  twined  and  twisted,  bending  her  won- 
derful body  in  myriads  of  different  positions;  her  eyes,  black  and  afire 
with  lust,  on  his;  her  hair,  which  had  fallen  over  her  shoulder,  glistening 
against  the  white  flesh  where  it  lay,  knotted  and  braided ;  watching  him 
like  the  tigress  for  her  prey  and  noting  his  coming  surrender. 

Then  she  stopped.  "  Come,"  she  whispered.  "  My  love,  come  and 
dance." 

"God  forgive  me!"  he  cried,  and  crushed  her  in  his  arms. 

And  the  Lady  of  the  Grey  Eyes?  A  heart-rending  sob  from  her,  full 
of  pathos,  the  tragic  burst  of  all  the  pent-up  sorrow  and  tears  in  that  vir- 
ginal heart.  There  are  griefs,  pain,  sorrows  too  deep  to  describe;  the 
agonized  sob,  the  bitter  tears,  the  aching  head,  the  lifeless  limbs!  What 
are  they?     But  the  crushed  soul,  the  martyred  heart 

"Come,  my  love,  come  and  dance,"  she  sobbed.  "My  love,  come 
and  danCe." 

n. 

The  sky  was  as  a  black  cloak,  which  might  have  belonged  to  Lu- 
crezia Borgia.  The  stars  were  as  incrustated  jewels  and  the  moon  as  a 
big,  yellow  grease-spot.  A  hot  wind  blew  the  smell  of  pungent  poppies 
from  the  over-rich  garden,  mingled  with  the  fetid  odor  of  poisonous 


376  The  Haverfoiidian 

plants  from  the  forest,  and  one  could  hear  the  annoying  plash  of  a  far- 
away creek  as  it  sped  down  the  mountain-side.  Occasionally  some  fierce, 
wandering  bird  would  croak  its  passionate  welcome  to  its  fellow  through 
the  darkness  in  throaty  and  guttural  appeal. 

Five  years  had  elapsed.  You  and  I  might  not  have  noticed  the  dif- 
ference between  that  night  five  years  ago  when  Lola  had  triumphed  over 
the  Lady  of  the  Grey  Eyes  and  to-night;  but  then  you  and  I  have  not 
been  through  five  years  with  Lola! — five  years  of  agony,  of  death,  of 
hell  upon  earth. 

The  verandah  is  deserted  save  for  two  figures:  the  same.  The  girl 
is  beautiful  still,  since  she  is  young — and  youth  and  beauty  go  hand  in 
hand  along  the  road  of  happiness;  or  they  should.  Yet  a  wistful  sadness, 
a  nostalgia,  a  "  weltschmerz "  is  in  those  laughing  eyes  of  yore,  adding 
un  petitrien  to  the  ensemble,  making  it  too  pathetic  for  words.  She  is 
as  some  dryad,  who  loved  a  hunter  and  has  just  fallen,  pierced  through 
the  heart  by  an  arrow  from  his  bow;  she  has  learnt  Life  and  all  its  sor- 
rows, just  felt  the  bitterness  with  which  we  pay  for  our  laughter  and  joy, 
for  those  few,  short  minutes  of  love  and  happiness.  But  this  is  neither 
here  nor  there. 

He — well,  he  has  lived  the  life.  He  has  already  seen  his  destiny 
and  has  accepted  it.  Fate  plays  us  all  tricks;  he  has  abandoned  him- 
self to  what  lay  in  store  for  him.  The  happy  people  are  those  that  can 
do  this.  To  be  sure,  it  was  rather  painful,  but  then  Byronic  despair  was 
(and  will,  I  feel  sure,  be  again)  d  la  mode.  And  then  it  is  rather  sport 
to  be  the  despair  of  all  the  ladies  with  marriageable  daughters.  Be- 
sides, with  a  little  imagination  one  can  magnify  one's  sorrow,  pity  oneself 
and  think  of  oneself  as  a  hero.  "Irremediable"  is  rather  a  good  word; 
one  is  constantly  using  it  to  characterize  one's  woes.  And — it's  really 
true — one  begins  to  enjoy  this  superb,  imperturbable,  heroic  despair. 
So  like  Alfred  de  Musset,  you  know,  dear  Alfred  de  Mussetl  But  all 
this  has  nothing  to  do  with  my  story. 

He  is  speaking:  "  I  am  unworthy  of  forgiveness:  your  words  do  me 
infinite  honor  and  bring  me  infinite  joy.  And  I  am  too  unworthy  to 
accept  your  offer ;  I  love  you  too  much  to  harness  this  bulk  of  wickedness 
to  you.  I  have  delcided  to  live  an  almost  negative,  purely  passive  ex- 
istence. Marcus  Aurelius  has  given  us  the  secret  of  life,  he's  said  all 
this  far  better  than  I  can.     I  shall  never  be  surprised  by  anything,  never 

put  out But  thank  you  for  your  goodness.      I  have  come  to  say 

good-bye  to  the  woman  I  love;  after  many  days  of  wandering  in  the 
desert  of  loneliness  and  despair  I  am  here  to  welcome  you  as  an  oasis  of 
purity.     The  hope  of  this  day  has  kept  me  alive,  has  fed  me,  like  Heaven- 


The  Path  of  Retribution  377 

sent  manna  kept  the  wanderers  and  brought  them  to  the  Promised  Land. 
And  now  I  have  found  you,  now  I  weep,  for  we  must  part;  and  I  shall 
have  left  the  memory  of  years  of  guilt  and  one  sweet,  precious  hour  of 
unadulterated  purity.  I  shall  ever  remember  what  might  have  been 
but  wasn't." 

"Oh!  why  not?  I  want  you.  Can  you  not  stay  here,  as  my  hus- 
band?" 

"No,  it  would  be  a  crime  to  maryr  you.  You  will  find  some  young, 
fresh  man,  more  worthy  to  be  your  mate,  and  you  will  have  nice,  clean 
children,  as  beautiful  as  you.  And  God  will  give  you  a  happy  life,  for 
He  knows  you  deserve  it.  We,  you  and  I,  have  been  as  two  ships  that 
pass  in  the  night;  my  ship,  as  a  ship  on  fire,  has  stopped  for  help  from 
yours,  and,  for  a  moment  relieved  and  ready  to  sail  again,  it  goes  its  way 
far  to  the  westward,  injured  and  bruised,  yet  willing  to  go  on,  and  forging 

ahead  through  thousands  of  waves,  sailing  it  knows  not  whither 

But  your  ship,  having  given  aid,  looks  regretfully  at  mine,  now  a  dim 
speck  on  the  horizon,  and  sails  triumphantly  into  the  harbor,  flags  flying, 
in  all  glory.  In  the  haven  it  meets  quietness  and  rest  after  toil,  and  per- 
haps gives  one  thought  to  its  fellow,  which  has  weathered  every  rock  and 
is  no  doubt  sailing,  sailing  to  its  Destiny " 

III. 

The  Foreign  Legion — La  Legion  Etrangere — is  made  up  of  "bold,  bad 
men."  In  fact  the  dregs  of  civilization  find  their  way  into  it,  earn  a  sou  a 
day,  in  an  awful  African  sun  (their  food,  incidentally,  is  not  worth  one- 
half  their  pay)  and  die  in  the  tropics  from  malaria  or  enteric  fever,  or, 
often,  from  a  shot  in  the  back.  Of  course,  nobody  likes  the  Legon. 
Speak  of  anything  except  murder  and  nobody  can  answer  you;  but 
speak  of  that  and  the  legionnaires  wax  eloquent  about  how  they  got 
away  from  the  police  and  enlisted.  Once  they  are  in  the  Legion,  the  po- 
lice shuts  its  eyes  and  lets  them  fight  and  die. 

He — our  Byronic  hero — had  joined  the  Legion  because  times  were 
troubled.  German  gold  had  bought  the  natives  and  they  had  arisen  in 
arms  against  the  French.  These  Africans  were  no  mean  fighters;  in  the 
two  battles  that  had  been  fought,  they  had  had  all  their  own  way:  many 
of  the  legionnaires  had  died  and  some  had  deserted.  He  also  had  wanted 
to  desert  and  had  had  a  chance,  but  then  he  decided  to  stay  and  undergo 
his  self-inflicted  penance.  Later,  in  three  or  four  years,  he  would  return, 
and  perhaps,  if — oh!  how  he  loved  her!  Dreams  of  her  haunted  him. 
After  a  few  months  he  became  a  sergeant — and,  on  my  authority,  to  rise 
from  the  ranks  in  a  short  time  in  the  Legion  is  almost  unheard-of.     And 


378  The  Haverfordian 

a  jealous  little  Italian  had  tried  to  stab  him  the  night  following  his  pro- 
motion; he  had  just  saved  himself  in  the  nick  of  time.  Such  are  the 
children  of  the  Foreign  Legion,  who  work  like  dogs  in  the  hot  sun  of 
Africa,  and  die  like  flies  when  the  big  blacks  throw  poisoned  arrows  at 
them,  and  are  sometimes  buried,  but  more  often  not. 

********** 

When  Caesar  ordered  out  his  decima  legio  it  was  to  save  the  army 
from  a  difficult  position  at  the  sacrifice  of  some  of  the  finest  soldiers  the 
world  has  ever  known;  when  the  little  Corsican  cried,  " Faites  donner 
la  garde,"  it  meant  that  somebody  had  to  pull  the  chestnuts  out  of  the 
fire  and  the  best  soldiers,  big  giants  with  huge  moustaches,  rushed  into 
the  fray.  But  when  no  glory  is  to  be  won,  when  only  "dirty  work"  is 
to  be  done,  when  lives  and  lives  are  to  be  lost  ingloriously,  then  the 
Legion  is  called  out,  and  it  goes  and  does  its  duty  rather  well. 

They  were  to  fight  the  natives  that  day. 

At  last  the  Legion  was  called  out  and  began  to  drill.  A  young 
officer,  out  in  Africa  for  his  first  three  years  of  military  service,  fresh 
from  Saint-Cyr  and  redolent  of  Paris,  rode  up  and  spoke  to  him  in  low 
tones:  "The  Colonel  had  me  come  round  to  see  you  a  moment.  He 
might  find  it  necessary  for  you  and  about  thirty-five  men  to  charge.  If 
he  wishes  you  to  do  so,  be  ready  at  a  moment's  notice.  Au  revoir  and 
good  luck!"      He  rode  off. 

Then  the  men  started  marching.  They  were  glad,  these  big  men, 
to  be  fighting  for  their  country:  it  was  a  great  chance  for  some  of  them 
to  make  up  for  their  awful  past,  for  others  to  desert  and  away!  back  to 
Europe  in  the  morning. 

The  savages  were  all  lined  up  behind  a  hill  in  the  valley :  the  colonel 
decided  to  use  about  one  hundred  men  for  a  charge,  down  the  hill,  while 
the  rest  of  his  band  would  encircle  the  enemy  on  the  left.  So  he  was  to 
charge!     Well,  it  probably  meant  death,  but  still,  one  never  knows. 

A  word  from  the  colonel  to  an  aide-de  camp  who  came  over  to  our 
hero:   "You  will  be  ready  to  charge  when  ordered." 

"Bien,  mon  lieutenant.' 

A  hoarse  order,  and  a  hundred  men  beginning  a  mad,  headlong 
charge  down  the  hill.  Now  was  the  time !  now  or  never !  He  thought 
of  the  Lady  of  the  Grey  Eyes!  How  he  wondered  what  she  was  doing! 
Had  she  married?  Had  she  the  big,  strong  husband?  Had  she  the 
clean  children  he  had  predicted?      Yes,  she  must  have 

Down  the  hill,  down  the  hill,  thirty  red  and  blue  Frenchmen  rushing 
down  to  death. 


The  Path  of  Retribution  379 

The  Legion  never  get  praise  or  glory;  for  they  are  the  scum  of  the 
earth,  arid  praise  and  glory  are  not  for  the  scum.  The  pick  of  the  Legion, 
scum  of  the  scum,  dregs  of  the  dregs,  charging,  fighting  madly,  with 
awful  force,  dying  for  their  country. 

"Vive  la  France!     Vive  la  France!"   they  yelled. 

"Laigraki!  Laigraki!"  screamed  the  blacks.     "Laigraki!  Laigraki!" 

They  loved  to  charge,  led  by  this  young  sergeant;  they  knew  him  to 
be  infinitely  superior  to  themselves:  "  beau  comme  un  Jesus"  they  thought 
him.      Down  the  hill,  down  the  hill,  madly  charging! 

Good  Lord !     A  black  devil  had  the  flag !  the  tricolors. 

He  rushed  at  the  savage  and  struck  him  with  his  bayonet,  seized 
the  flag.      "Allans,  mes  enfants,  en  avant!    Vive  la  France!" 

Fighting  for  their  life-blood,  fighting  for  France!  All  that  is  left  of 
good  in  them  rises  to  the  fore;   they  fight  as  they  never  fought  before. 

"Bravo,  mes  enfants!     Fight  for  the  patrie." 

"  Laigraki !     Laigraki ! ' ' 

On,  on,  fighting  like  devils.  At  last  the  army  comes  on  the  left;  the 
savages  fight  as  never  they  fought  before,  fighting  like  doomed  men.  A 
big  black  rushes  at  him;  he  slips.  The  savage's  huge  knife  strikes  him 
in  the  neck  and  he  falls  bleeding  to  the  ground. 

Then  another  slash  from  the  black  and  merciful  death  brings  un- 
consciousness and  perhaps  forgiveness. 

A  doctor  passes  over  the  field. 

"Here,"  cries  his  attendant,  "a  sergeant  with  the  flag  in  his  hands." 

The  doctor  bends  over  the  body.  "Dead,  poor  devil!  Dead  as  a 
doormat.  He  does  not  look  like  the  usual  legionnaire.  Poor  dog!  I 
wonder  how  he  came  here." 

"  'Twas  he  who  led  the  charge." 

"Bravo!  It  was  a  great  fight.  And  clutching  the  flag  in  death  so 
hard,  that  I  have  difficulty  in  getting  it  from  his  grip.  What  fine  fellows! 
Grim  even  in  death." 

"Yes,  the  sergeant  looks  as  if  he  were  ready  to  fight  again." 

"He  is  in  a  land  where  no  battles  are  ever  fought,"  said  the  doctor. 
"He  has  found  peace  and  quiet,  like  a  ship  come  in  to  its  haven  at  night. 
God  grant  he  find  the  thing  he  fought  for." 

— /.  G.  C.  Le  Clercq,  '18. 


tE^fje  0iiiiti\t  ^Qti:  ^  ^tubp  in  €motional 

THE  time  has  passed  when  educated  men  looked  upon  the  Middle 
Ages  with  feelings  of  unmixed  contempt  and  superiority.  To  be 
sure,  we  know  that  the  period  from  the  Norman  Conquest  to  the 
Renaissance  was  one  of  religious  bigotry,  intellectual  pedantry  and  po- 
litical systems  which  fluctuated  between  despotism  and  anarchy.  But 
we  also  recognize  that  in  certain  points  the  Middle  Ages  were  equal  or 
superior  even  to  our  own  era,  blessed  as  it  is  with  railroads,  telegraphs, 
submarines,  universal  peace  agitation,  vocationalism,  and  Henry  Ford. 
Among  those  points  we  may  reckon  capacity  for  enthusiasm,  simple- 
minded  devotion  to  ideals,  and  readiness  to  make  the  most  Quixotic 
sacrifices  even  for  fantastic  or  mistaken  ideas.  Above  all,  the  Middle 
Ages  were  possessed  of  rich  and  varied  psychological  significance.  Men 
were  simpler,  more  childlike,  far  more  ready  to  respond  to  various  emo- 
tional stimuli.  And,  by  reason  of  this  quality  of  ready  emotional  re- 
sponse, the  romance  of  the  Middle  Ages  is  by  no  means  confined  to 
"Goetz  von  Berchlingen"  and  the  novels  of  Sir  Walter  Scott.  The 
explanation  of  this  romance  is  not  far  to  seek.  Elaborate  political  organ- 
izations, highly  developed  respect  for  law  and  order,  while  very  satis- 
factory from  the  viewpoint  of  material  prosperity,  are  not  the  conditions 
most  favorable  to  the  expression  of  individual  daring  and  initiative. 
Now,  in  the  Middle  Ages  the  grand  Roman  imperial  system  h-id  com- 
pletely broken  down,  as  far  as  western  Europe  was  concerned ;  while  the 
modem  political  organisms  were  barely  in  their  infancy.  The  sole  uni- 
fying element,  which  saved  Europe  from  utter  anarchy  and  confusion, 
was  the  medieval  Church,  one  of  the  most  interesting  political  and  psy- 
chological experiments  ever  undertaken.  But  in  secular  matters  there 
was  absolutely  no  unity  or  solidarity.  The  ambitious  soldier  of  fortune 
of  the  Middle  Ages  found  no  carefully  adjusted  balance  of  power,  no 
firmly  rooted  feelings  of  nationality  to  oppose  the  accomplishment  of  his 
schemes.  The  aspiring  warrior  of  that  time  did  not  have  to  worry  about 
international  credit,  munition  supplies,  railroad  communications  and 
labor  strikes.  War,  while  not  so  far-reaching  and  destructive,  was  far 
more  common  and  easier  to  bring  about.  The  titanic  achievements  of 
Napoleon  are  only  the  repetition,  on  a  grand  scale,  of  the  exploits  of 
countless  medieval  adventurers.  Now,  it  is  obvious  that  an  epoch 
when  men's  passions  were  so  imperfectly  controlled  by  any  outward 
j-estraints  would  almost  certainly  produce  some  very  interesting  cases 


The  Middle  Ages:  A  Study  in  Emotional  Psychology      381 

of  emotional  psychology.  In  fact,  it  is  only  from  the  emotional  stand- 
point that  the  period  is  worth  studying:  for  intellectually  it  makes  a 
sorry  showing.  The  dry,  voluminous  tomes  of  Thomas  Aquinas  and 
Duns  Scotus  offer  little  encouragement  to  the  modern  student  of  philos- 
ophy; while  Matthew  Paris  and  Otto  of  Freising  have  little  interest  for 
any  sa\e  the  professional  historian.  The  poetry  of  the  time  is  too  crude 
and  uncouth  to  appeal,  as  a  rule,  to  modern  taste;  the  art  is  formed  on 
arid  Byzantine  models.  Speculative  thought  was  rigidly  circumscribed 
by  the  Scriptures,  the  early  fathers  of  the  Church,  and  the  recognized 
Church  councils;  books  like  Abelard's  "Sic  et  Non"  were  few  and  far 
between.  But,  if  the  age  was,  on  the  whole,  destitute  of  great  books 
and  great  thoughts,  it  was  not  lacking  either  in  great  men  or  in  great 
deeds;  and  it  is  by  the  study  of  a  few  of  the  strongest  medieval  person- 
alities that  we  shall,  perhaps,  attain  the  clearest  view  of  the  true  spirit 
of  that  remarkable  epoch. 

Undoubtedly  the  best  exponent  of  the  noblest  aspirations  of  medi- 
eval religion  was  St.  Francis  of  Assisi,  one  of  the  sweetest  singers  in  the 
whole  choir  of  mystics.  The  outward  facts  of  his  life  are  certainly  not 
without  numerous  medie\al  parallels.  Born  in  1182,  the  son  of  a  rich 
Italian  merchant,  Francis  spent  his  youth  in  gayety  and  frivolity.  A 
number  of  e\ents,  including  a  serious  illness,  brought  about  a  complete 
change  in  his  manner  of  life;  he  cast  off  all  worldly  goods  and  devoted 
the  rest  of  his  life  to  preaching  and  charity.  So  far  there  is  nothing  very 
remarkable:  the  Middle  Ages  were  peculiarly  liable  to  outbursts  of  re- 
ligious fervor,  and  other  evangelists,  such  as  Peter  the  Hermit,  had  ac- 
complished even  greater  external  results  than  Francis.  But  there  are 
certain  elements  in  the  character  of  the  Italian  mystic,  which  not  only 
raise  him  above  the  religious  teachers  of  his  own  age;  but  also  make 
him  one  of  the  leading  figures  in  the  whole  history  of  man's  spiritual 
development.  The  first  of  these  elements,  perhaps,  is  the  absolute 
sweetness  of  his  nature.  His  disciples  did  not  signify  their  zeal  in 
Christ's  service  by  attempting  the  forcible  conversion  or  extermination 
of  all  non-Christians.  The  pure  and  lofty  character  of  St.  Dominic  will 
always  be  tinged  with  the  stain  of  the  horrors  of  the  Albigcnsian  Cru- 
sade. Even  the  pious  Louis  IX  offered  holocausts  of  heretics  to  the 
glory  of  God.  But,  so  far  as  we  are  able  to  ascertain,  no  act  of  religious 
bigotry  can  justly  be  attributed  to  the  influence  of  Francis  of  Assisi.  His 
character  was  also  free  from  the  more  harmful  features  of  asceticism. 
True,  we  find  in  his  life  much  of  prayer  and  meditation;  but  also  much 
of  practical  charity  and  social  service.  His  artistic  love  of  beauty  in 
nature  is  illustrated  by  many  passages  from  his  works.     One  of  the  most 


382  The  Hayerfoedian 

significant  and  touching  events  in  his  life  is  his  sermon  to  the  birds, 
which  strikingly  expressed  the  wide  range  of  his  sympathies.  The 
sweet,  joyous  faith  of  his  character  seems  to  have  touched  even  the  fero- 
cious bigotry  of  his  own  age ;  and  his  innocent  pantheism  never  involved 
him  in  the  suspicion  of  heresy.  Francis  has  left  behind  him  a  very 
tangible  memorial  in  the  Order  which  bears  his  name.  But  he  has  left 
a  more  enduring  impression  upon  the  religious  life  of  his  own  and  of 
every  subsequent  generation.  He  typifies  the  peaceful  revolt  against 
the  hard  dogmatism  of  the  medie\-al  Church.  Wherever  religion  is  a 
thing  of  the  heart  rather  than  of  the  head,  wherever  the  spirit  of  Christ 
obliterates  the  letter  of  the  law,  there  we  find  an  expression  of  the  per- 
sonality of  Francis.  At  various  times  his  teachings  have  had  great  in- 
fluence on  every  European  country.  This  spirit  has  been  especially 
strong  of  late  in  Russia,  where  we  can  almost  hear  the  gentle  saint  of 
Assisi  speak  in  the  pages  of  Tolstoi  and  Dostoievsky.  In  his  life  and 
works  we  find  the  purest  and  noblest  expression  of  the  spirit  of  religious 
romanticism.  A  true  child  of  the  Middle  Ages  in  his  exaggerations,  in 
his  naivfe  faith,  in  his  de^'oted  idealism,  his  gentleness  of  character  and 
keen,  artistic  love  of  the  beautiful  preserve  him  from  the  harsh  and  gro- 
tesque features  which  appear  in  so  many  of  his  contemporaries.  His 
life  is  a  glorious  symphony  of  faith,  hope  and  joy. 

But  if  St.  Francis  may  be  considered  to  represent  the  poetry  of  medi- 
eval religion,  its  prose  found  expression  in  Pope  Innocent  HI.,  the  might- 
iest pontiff  who  ever  wielded  the  keys  of  St.  Peter.  Under  Innocent  the 
theocratic  ideal,  which  was  so  characteristic  of  the  medieval  Church, 
reached  the  very  height  of  its  development.  This  ideal,  put  briefly,  was 
that  the  Pope  was  the  Vicegerent  of  God  on  earth,  with  full  authority  to 
execute  the  divine  commands.  The  rulers  only  held  their  divine  power 
by  sufferance  of  the  Pope,  who  could  rebuke  or  dismiss  them  at  will. 
The  Papacy  was  to  be  a  sort  of  Hague  Tribunal,  a  grand  court  for  the 
settlement  of  all  disputes  and  the  redress  of  all  grievances.  This  theory 
was  strikingly  similar  to  Napoleon's  conception  of  a  grand  European 
empire;  and  Innocent  may  well  be  called  the  Napoleon  of  the  medieval 
Church.  While  his  ideal  of  absolute  theocracy  was  extreme  and  imprac- 
ticable, it  was  noble  and  original ;  and  Innocent's  character  and  abilities 
were  not  unequal  to  the  great  task  which  he  imposed  upon  himself.  His 
pontificate  (1198-1215)  represents  the  highwater  mark  of  the  medieval 
Church.  At  no  time,  before  or  since,  probably,  has  religion  wielded 
more  absolute  power  over  the  minds  of  men.  Free  speculative  thought 
was  non-existent;  and  the  practical  power  of  excommunication  and 
interdict  was  almost  unbounded.      Nor  can  it  be  denied  that  much  good 


The  Middle  Ages:  A  Study  in  Emotionai,  PsvcHOLOciv      383 

came  out  of  this  state  of  affairs.  As  we  have  already  seen,  the  Church 
was  the  only  cosmopolitan  force  in  medieval  Europe.  Constant  inter- 
course between  ecclesiastics  of  different  countries  in  a  common  language 
formed  a  bond  union  between  the  nations  and  prevented  them  from 
sinking  into  isolated  anarchy.  We  must  give  Innocent  our  ungrudging 
admiration  for  his  championship  of  the  innocent  and  persecuted  Queen 
of  France,  for  his  manly  opposition  to  the  German  adventurers,  who 
overran  Sicily  after  the  death  of  Henry  VI.  But  we  cannot  forget,  on 
the  other  hand,  that  it  was  Innocent  who  stirred  up  the  Albigensian  Cru- 
sade, that  it  was  Innocent  who  was,  at  least  indirectly,  responsible  for 
the  horrors  of  the  civil  war  which  raged  in  Germany  between  Philip  and 
Otto  IV.  And  Innocent  himself  seems  to  have  felt,  in  his  later  years,  a 
harassing  consciousness  that  he  had,  somehow,  fallen  short  of  his  ideals. 
Too  noble  to  be  satisfied  with  mere  material  power,  he  died  with  a  bitter 
realization  that  all  his  absolute  authority  had  not  produced  the  higher 
spirituality  which  he  so  ardently  desired.  Innocent  is  one  of  the  heroic 
failures  of  history:  a  man  who  failed,  not  from  any  lack  of  constancy  or 
de\-otion  to  his  convictions,  but  because  his  convictions  themselves  were 
hopelessly  impracticable  and  incapable  of  accomplishment.  But,  al- 
though the  mighty  Pope  did  fail  from  the  standpoint  of  his  own  higher 
aspirations,  he  stands  forth  as  one  of  the  genuinely  great  men  of  the 
Middle  Ages,  as  the  supreme  incarnation  of  the  ideal  of  medieval  Chris- 
tianity, in  all  its  strength  and  in  all  its  weakness. 

Very  often  the  psychological  history  of  an  epoch  is  enriched,  not  so 
much  by  the  men  who  express  its  ideals  and  convictions  as  by  those  who 
contend  against  them.  This  is  peculiarly  true  in  the  case  of  the  Emperor 
Frederick  II.,  unquestionably  the  greatest  man  of  the  Middle  Ages,  and 
One  of  the  most  fascinating  figures  in  the  whole  range  of  history.  De- 
scended on  his  father's  side  from  the  mighty  imperial  race  of  the  Hohen- 
staufen,  and,  on  his  mother's,  from  the  bold  Norman  adventurer,  Robert 
Guiscard,  Emperor  of  Germany,  King  of  Sicily,  Jerusalem  and  the  Are- 
late,  the  glories  of  his  ancestry  and  the  extent  of  his  dominions  were 
alike  far  surpassed  by  the  splendor  and  brilliance  of  his  intellect.  Single- 
handed,  pitted  against  the  wonderful  organization  of  the  medieval 
Church,  fundamentally  at  war  with  almost  every  ideal  and  tradition  of 
his  time,  this  veritable  Superman  of  the  Middle  Ages,  by  sheer  brilliance 
of  mind  and  magnetic  personality,  held  two  of  the  most  active  of  the 
medieval  Popes  at  bay  in  the  most  titanic  conflict,  physical  and  spiritual, 
that  the  Middle  Ages  ever  witnessed.  A  brief  review  of  the  main  facts 
of  his  career  may  ser\-e  to  bring  out  the  remarkable  character  of  his 
achievements.      Born  in  1194,  he  won  the  imperial  crown,  when  he  was 


384  The  Haverfordian 

only  seventeen  years  old,  chiefly  by  his  own  daring  and  initiative.  Forced 
by  the  threats  of  the  Church  to  embark  on  a  crusade,  whose  folly  no  one 
could  appreciate  better  than  he,  hampered  by  the  rancorous  hostility  of 
the  Church,  he  recovered  Jerusalem  from  the  Mohammedans.  The 
years  from  1231  to  1235  were  spent  in  drawing  up  a  wonderful  code  of 
laws  for  his  beloved  kingdom  of  Sicily.  This  judicial  system,  composed 
largely  by  two  noted  legists  of  the  time,  Peter  da  Vinea  and  Thaddeus  of 
Suessa,  under  Frederick's  personal  supervision,  was  the  legislative 
triumph  of  the  Middle  Ages.  The  abolition  of  feudal  tyranny,  enlight- 
ened methods  of  taxation,  equitable  courts  of  justice  are  only  a  few  of  the 
reforms  contained  in  Frederick's  code.  And,  at  the  same  time,  his  bril- 
liant court  at  Palermo  foreshadowed  the  glories  of  the  Renaissance. 
But  this  peaceful  epoch  of  the  Emperor's  life  was  not  destined  to  endure. 
The  intensely  medieval  Pope,  Gregory  IX.,  viewed  the  brilliance  of 
Frederick's  court  with  jealousy  and  alarm;  and  a  succession  of  disputes 
between  the  temporal  and  spiritual  power  brought  on  the  bitter  and 
protracted  war  between  the  Church  and  Empire,  which  lasted  from  1238 
until  Frederick's  death  in  1250;  and  was  carried  on  with  continued  vin- 
dictiveness  by  subsequent  Popes  against  the  descendants  of  the  Emperor, 
until  the  cruel  murder  of  Konradin  at  Naples  in  1268. 

It  must  be  a  source  of  unfailing  regret  to  modern  students  of  Fred- 
erick's career  that  the  mighty  Emperor  did  not  have  a  Thucydides,  a 
Tacitus,  or  a  Gibbon  to  record  his  achievements  and  give  a  fair  picture 
of  his  character.  The  history  of  the  period  is  entirely  in  the  hands  of 
prejudiced  ecclesiastics,  whose  pens  are  sharpened  by  the  rancor  of 
political  and  religious  hatred.  And  their  enmity  is  quite  natural:  for 
never  did  the  medieval  Church  encounter  so  formidable  an  enemy  as 
this  mighty  Hohenstaufe,  who  was  strongly  suspected  of  being  a  Mo- 
hammedan, a  heretic  or  an  infidel.  And  yet,  through  all  the  mists  of 
prejudice  and  hostility,  we  get  occasional  glimpses  of  a  man,  superla- 
tively great  and  noble  of  soul,  struggling,  Prometheus-like,  against  the 
resistless  power  of  contemporary  thought  and  feeling.  Who  can  repress 
a  thrill  of  admiration  at  these  noble  words,  written  by  Frederick  when 
the  clouds  of  misfortune  were  gathering  thickly  about  his  cause:  "  Before 
this  generation  and  the  generation  to  come  shall  I  have  the  glory  of 
resisting  this  tyranny;  let  those  who  now  shrink  from  my  support  bear 
the  disgrace,  as  well  as  the  galling  burden  of  slavery!"  Of  all  the  medi- 
eval sovereigns  who  contended  against  the  Papacy,  Frederick  alone 
maintained  his  cause  with  resolute  firmness,  even  on  his  deathbed.  The 
closing  moments  of  the  great  Emperor's  life  reveal  no  abasement  of  the 
proud  soul,  no  weakening  of  the  powerful  intellect  in  the  face  of  death. 
In  his  will  he  directs  his  successor   never  to  give  back  the  rights  and 


The  Middle  Ages:  A  Study  in  Emotional  Psychology      385 

property  of  the  Church,  which  he  had  seized,  until  the  Church  fully 
restores  the  rights  and  honors  of  the  Empire. 

Frederick  bore  much  the  same  relationship  to  the  medieval  Church 
that  Hannibal  bore  to  Rome;  and  the  contemporary  ecclesiastical 
chroniclers  attack  his  character  and  reputatit)n  with  even  more  venom 
than  the  Roman  historians  show  towards  the  brilliant  Carthaginian. 
In  fact,  the  lot  of  the  mighty  Hohenstaufe  has  been  peculiarly  unfortu- 
nate. Far  too  advanced  and  rationalistic  for  the  comprehension  of  his 
own  age,  he  is  too  romantic  and  picturesque  for  ours;  and  the  venomous 
bitterness  of  his  contemporaries  is  only  equalled  by  the  utter  neglect  of 
more  modern  writers.  A  fit  companion  for  Caesar  and  Napoleon,  Fred- 
erick is  not  even  placed  on  an  equality  with  men  like  Charlemagne  and 
Otto  the  Great,  who,  compared  with  him,  are  mere  barbarians.  But, 
although  Dante  places  Frederick  in  hell,  although  countless  monks  were 
regaled  with  pleasing  visions  of  the  damnation  of  their  great  enemy, 
although  history  has  treated  him  with  singular  injustice  and  neglect,  yet 
the  life  of  the  glorious  Emperor  was  far  from  vain  or  fruitless.  The 
spirit  of  Frederick  lived  again  amid  the  splendors  of  the  Renaissance. 
And,  although  that  brilliant  burst  of  light  was  sadly  clouded  by  the 
religious  fanaticism  of  the  sixteenth  and  seventeenth  centuries,  never- 
theless, in  the  later  Renaissance  writers,  in  Goethe,  in  Stendhal,  and  in 
Nietzsche,  we  find  a  strong  reflection  of  the  proud,  brilliant,  sceptical 
culture,  which  is  so  evident  in  the  life  and  character  of  the  Emperor.  Of 
all  the  interesting  figures  with  w'hich  the  pages  of  medieval  history  are 
crowded,  that  of  Frederick  has  the  most  universal,  the  widest  signifi- 
cance. He  belongs  to  no  age,  race  or  creed;  he  belongs  to  humanity. 
In  breadth  of  culture  and  width  of  sympathy  he  has  few  equals,  ancient 
or  modern.  Surely  no  one  who  believes  in  the  sacred  right  of  the  indi- 
vidual to  spiritual  and  intellectual  freedom  can  withhold  the  full  meas- 
ure of  admiration  from  the  man  who  when  the  human  race  lay  crushed 
beneath  the  iron  weight  of  the  medieval  Church,  dared  to  combat  the 
physical  and  spiritual  tyranny  of  that  powerful  institution  with  all  the 
strength  of  his  being.  Though  Frederick  may  have  failed,  in  the  narrow 
material  sense  of  the  word,  the  principles  for  which  he  fought  are  invin- 
cible and  imperishable.  The  picture  of  his  devoted  heroism  will  be  an 
eternal  inspiration  to  all  who  contend  against  tyranny,  in  any  form. 
And  if  Frederick  were  in  the  hell  where  his  ecclesiastical  enemies  have 
so  charitably  placed  him,  we  should  still  hear  the  voice  of  his  uncon- 
querable spirit  crying  out: 

"  I  am  the  master  of  my  fate, 

I  am  the  captain  of  my  soul!" 

—  W.  H.  Chamberlin,  '17. 


THE  UNEASY  CHAIR 


ONE  of  the  delightful  privileges  enjoyed  by  an  editor  is  that  of 
reading  the  ideas  of  others  towards  his  magazine.  Especially 
interesting  are  the  comments  in  that  department  of  college 
and  school  publications,  which  for  lack  of  a  better  name  is  called  "Ex- 
changes." A  quotation  from  certain  papers  which  we  refrain  from  ex- 
posing, will  show  a  specimen  of  the  subtle  and  heart-easing  interchange 
of  compliments  disseminated  among  the  gentle  readers  for  the  edification 
and  eschewment  of  the  pleased  literati. 

We  quote  from  the : 

"The Monthly,  which  is  otherwise  a  good  magazine,  would 

do  well  to  publish  more  essays,  stories,  and  verse.  Its  personals  were 
very  interesting." 

And  from  the  5 Q : 

"The for  February  shows  a  goodly  line-up  of  promising 

poets.  The  poem  entitled  'What's  What'  contains  several  exquisite 
stanzas.      The  1st  and  3rd  are  the  best: — 

1 

"/  asl^ed  my  soul  a  question, 
Which  it  answered  in  reply, 
"I  give  to  you  the  best-I-own, 
And  I  will  never  die." 

3 
"'The  moon,  which  up  to  this  was  hid, 
Now  rose  in  fell  dismay. 
The  solitary  katydid 
Needs  must  her  song  delay.  " 

What  author  with  mind  so  obdurate  as  to  withstand  this  facile  ex- 
pression of  sympathy  and  appreciation?  But  let  not  the  erring  reader 
think  that  all  is  eulogy.      Nay!    nay! 

"The  M P contains  an  attempt  at  a  sketch  which  is 

very  crude."  This  then  is  admonition;  not  captious  criticism  but 
friendly  reproof. 

While  not  indulging  in  the  gentle  art  of  "Knocks  and  Nosegays," 
we  concur  heartily  in  a  "Long  live  Exchanges!" 


The  Alumni 


387 


" Honi  soil  qui  mal  y  pense." 

This  motto  may  cause  some  comment.  Editorially  speaking,  what 
we  mean  is  this:  that  if  one  writes  erotic  effusions  he  is  not  necessarily 
suggestive.  Surely,  the  college  man,  who  has  at  his  disposal  the  fiction 
of  America,  is  not  so  narrow  as  to  embellish  the  mere  suggestion  of  nat- 
ural love  with  hordes  of  unmeant  possibilities.  We  want  our  readers  to 
understand  that  the  writers  of  the  stories  which  are  published  in  the 
Haverfordian,  mean  not  to  per\'ert  the  morals  of  our  youth ;  but  they  do 
mean  to  write  naturally  and  to  the  best  of  their  ability  of  life  as  we  knoiv 
it  is.  Surely  the  mention  of  a  kiss  or  of  physical  charm  should  not  be 
taken  in  the  light  which  we  fear  that  many  do  take  them.  You  must 
consider  that  the  writer  may  be  sincere  even  if  the  reader  is  not.  Of 
course  we  realize  the  tendency,  in  the  light  of  the  unfortunate  trend  of 
modern  fiction,  to  pick  out  just  such  points  as  we  have  mentioned,  as 
examples  of  impropriety.  But  please!  dear,  gentle  reader!  when  a 
girl  happens  to  be  in  conversation  with  a  man,  in  the  momentary  absence 
of  a  chaperon,  please  do  not  throw  up  your  hands  in  horror  and  say, 
"There  goes  that  sex  problem,  again!" 


JL  VMM 


DECEASED 


'50 


Coleman  L.  Nicholson  died  Jan- 
uary the  16th  at  the  age  of  eighty- 
four  years.  He  was  the  father  of 
Dr.  Percival  Nicholson,  of  the 
Class  of  '02. 

The  Alumni  Quarterly  is  to  ap- 
pear soon.  It  will  contain  the 
following; — 

An  editorial  by  Jos.  H.  Haines, 
'98,  Secretary  of  the  Alumni  Asso- 
ciation. 


The  report  of  Winthrop  Sargent, 
Jr.,  '08,  Chairman  of  the  Haver- 
ford   Extension   Committee. 

A  review  of  the  work  of  Theo- 
dore W.  Richards,  '85,  winner  of 
the  Nobel  Prize  in  Chemistry,  by 
Prof.  G.  P.  Baxter,  of  Harvard. 

Four  letters  on  work  with  the 
ambulance  corps  in  France  and 
Belgium.  The  first  of  these  letters 
is  written  by  Dr.  W.  H.  Morriss, 
'08,  who  has  been  working  at 
Lapanne,  Belgium,  and  is  now  a 
resident  of  the  New  Haven  Hos- 
pital.      The   second    is    by    L.    A. 


388 


The  Haverfordian 


Post,  '11,  Rhodes  Scholar  at  New 
College,  Oxford,  and  during  the 
summer  an  orderly  in  the  French 
hospital  near  Paris.  The  next 
letter  is  written  by  Edward  Rice ,  J r . , 
'14,  with  whose  work  many  Hav- 
erfordians  have  become  familiar 
as  a  result  of  his  recent  return 
visit.  The  last  letter  is  by  Felix 
M.  Morley,  '15,  who  has  been 
working  with  Rice  on  an  ambu- 
lance train  operating  from  Bou- 
logne. 

An  article  by  S.  W.  Mifflin,  '00, 
on  "Preparedness  and  Platts- 
burg." 

A  review  of  college  athletics. 

An  abstract  of  college  news  up 
to  Christmas,  written  by  Wendell, 
'16,  undergraduate  member  of  the 
Quarterly  Board. 

Reviews  of  books  by  E.  R. 
Dunn,  '15;  Dr.  H.S.Pratt;  Dr. 
R.  M.  Jones,  '67;  Dr.  Clifford  B. 
Farr,  '94,  and  T.  Morris  Long- 
streth,   '08. 

The  second  annual  dinner  of 
the  Founders'  Society  was  held  on 
January  the  11th  at  the  Franklin 
Inn  Club,  Philadelphia.  About 
sixty  Haverfordians  were  present. 
Dr.  F.  B.  Gummere,  '72,  acted  as 
toastmaster.  The  speakers  of  the 
evening  were  President  Sharpless; 
Walter  Carson,  '06;  Warner  Fite, 
'89;  and  Jas.  P.  Magill,  '07. 

The  officers  of  the  Founders' 
Society  are  J.  P.  Magill,  '07,  Pres- 
ident;    Wilmer     M.     Allen,     '16, 


Vice-President  and  Secretary;  and 
Jos.  Tatnall,  '13,  Treasurer. 

At  the  luncheon  of  the  New 
England  Alumni  held  at  the  Hotel 
Esssx,  Boston,  on  December  18th, 
the  following  were  present: — Ben- 
jamin Tucker,  '56;  Reuben  Colton, 
'76;  C.  H.  Battey,  '88;  C.  T.  Cot- 
trell,  '90;  W.  W.  Cadbury,  '98; 
W.  R.  Chamberlain,  '00;  F.  M. 
Eshleman,  '00;  C.  N.  Sheldon,  '04; 
David  Phillips,  '09;  Paul  Jones, 
'05;  C.  D.  Morley,  '10;  E.  S. 
Cadbury,  '10;  C.  Wadsworth,  '11; 
W.  S.  Young,  '11;  Albert  Wood, 
'13;  J.  V.  Van  Sickle,  '13;  C.  H. 
Crossman,  '13;  H.  A.  Howson, 
'15;  W.  E.  Vail, '15;  G.  H.  Hallett, 
'15;    W.  Farr,  ex-'16. 

About  a  week  previous  to  the 
Christmas  holidays  a  number  of 
Haverford  ex-soccer  players,  now 
at  Harvard  and  vicinity,  tied  the 
Moses  Brown  School  with  a  score 
of  1-1.  Gifford,  '13,  shot  the 
goal  for  the  Alumni.  The  follow- 
ing constituted  the  team:  goal, 
C.  Crosman,  '13;  r.  f.  b.,  Hallett, 
'15;  1.  f.  b.,  Howson,  '15;  1.  h.  b., 
Nitobe,  '15;  c.  h.  b.,  Wilmer 
Young,  '11;  r.  h.  b..  Van  Sickle, 
'13;  o.  r.,  Gifford,  '13;  i.  r.,  N. 
Hall,  '13;  c.  f.  b..  Van  HoUen,  '15; 
i.  1.,  Wadsworth,  '11;  o.  1.,  E.  Cad- 
bury, '10. 

'68 
Louis  Starr,  M.  D.,  has  recently 
published  a  book  with   P.  Blakis- 


The  Alumni 


389 


ton's  Son  &  Co.  entitled,  "The 
Adolescent  Period." 

'82 
In  the  article  entitled  "Inter- 
pretation" in  Vol.  VII.  of  Hastings' 
Encyclopaedia  of  Relii^ion  and 
Ethics  (p.  395),  Geo.  A.  Barton  is 
named  as  one  of  the  nine  Ameri- 
cans selected  as  worthy  of  mention 
tor  their  work  as  interpreters  of 
the  Bible. 

'85 

Riifus  M.  Jones  during  the  holi- 
days attended  the  North  Ameri- 
can Preparatory  Conference  held 
at  Garden  City,  L.  I.,  to  make 
plans  for  a  world  conference  of  all 
religious     denominations.  Dr. 

Jones  was  appointed  a  member 
of  the  world  council,  a  body  con- 
sisting of  one  inember  from  each 
denomination. 

The  purpose  of  the  conference 
is  to  unite  more  closely  all  the 
divisions  of  the  Christian  Church. 
The  movement  is  being  directed 
by  John  R.  Mott  and  financed  by 
J.  P.  Morgan. 

'94 
Parker  S.  Williams  has  been  re- 
elected solicitor  of  Lower  Merion 
Township. 

W.  W.  Comfort  during  the  first 
half  of  January  delivered  a  series 
of  three  lectures  at  the  College  on 
the  life  and  works  of  the  poet 
Cowper. 


Dr.  Comfort  also  addressed  the 
Germantown  Tea  Meeting,  giv- 
ing an  outline  of  conditions  in 
Europe  as  he  saw  them  during  his 
recent  stay  there. 

'96 

The  Class  of  '96  held  its  annual 
dinner  and  reunion  at  the  Univer- 
sity Club,  December  27th.  Those 
present  were  Babb,  Brecht,  Hinch- 
man,  Maier,  Scattergood,  Sharp- 
less,  Webster  and  Wood. 

'97 
Alfred  M.  Collins,  '97,  deliv- 
ered a  lecture  at  the  College  Jan- 
uary 18th  on  "A  Hunting  and 
Scientific  Expedition  in  South 
America." 

'98 

The  engagement  has  been  an- 
nounced of  Jos.  H.  Haines  to  Miss 
Helen  M.  Whitall,  of  German- 
town,  Pa. 

'00 

The  1900  Class  Letter  has  come 
out,  dated  December,  1915.  It 
opens  with  an  account  of  the  class 
reunion  in  June,  1915,  and  of  the 
pleasures  of  baseball  and  French- 
cricket  on  the  "campus  of  dear  old 
Haverford"  again.  Letters  are 
published  from  W.  W.  Allen,  Jr., 
Wm.  B.  Bell,  R.  J.  Burdette,  Jr., 
J.  P.  Carter,  F.  R.  Cope,  Jr.,  H.  S. 
Drinker,  Jr.,  John  T.  Emlen, 
Frank  M.  Eshleman,  Ed.  D.  Free- 
man.   H.    McL.    Hallett,    W.    S. 


390 


The  Haverfordian 


Hinchman,  MacMillan  Hoopes, 
F.  S.  Howson,  H.  H.  Jenks,  Wm. 
W.  Justice,  Henry  H.  Kingston, 
Jr.,  H.  L.  Levikc,  John  E.  Lloyd, 
Frank  E.  Lutz,  S.  W.  Mifflin,  J. 
K.  Moorhouse,  J.  Irving  Peele, 
S.  F.  Seager,  F.  C.  Sharpless,  H. 
H.  Stuart,  A.  G.  Tatnall,  E.  B. 
Taylor,  Frank  K.  Walter,  Linden 
H.  White,  W.  W.  White. 

Walter  Swain  Hinchman  has 
recently  published  a  book  with 
Doubleday,  Page  &  Co.,  entitled, 
"The  American  School." 

J.  Rendell  Harris,  former  pro- 
fessor of  Biblical  History  at  Haver- 
ford,  has  published  recently  a  pam- 
phlet entitled  The  Origin  of  the 
Cult  of  Apollo. 

'02 

We  quote  from  the  Haverford 
Nwes  of  December  21st: 

"Ten  members  of  the  Class  of 
1902  gathered  on  Saturday  eve- 
ning in  the  Assembly  room  over  the 
Dining  Hall  for  a  banquet  and  gen- 
eral discussion  of  things  Haver- 
fordian. In  the  order  of  business 
was  a  letter  from  a  classmate. 
Reader,  now  in  California,  who 
appealed  in  behalf  of  the  work  of 
Robert  L.  Simkin.  Favorable 
action  was  taken  on  this  matter, 
and  a  subscription  was  also  made 
to  the  fund  for  additions  to  Walton 
Field.  In  view  of  the  death  last 
August   of  W.   W.    Fusey,   resolu- 


tions were  passed  that  a  letter  of 
sympathy  be  sent  to  his  family. 

"Those  present  were:  the  Pres- 
ident, C.  Wharton  Stork,  Secre- 
tary E.  G.  Kirk,  H.  L.  Balder- 
ston,  C.  R.  Cary,  R.  M.  Gummere, 
S.  P.  Jones,  W.  C.  Longstreth,  P. 
Nicholson,  G.  H.  Thomas,  E.  E. 
Trout." 

A  son  was  born  to  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Alexander  C.  Wood,  Jr.,  on  the 
9th  of  January. 

C.  L.  Seller  paid  a  visit  to  the 
College  during  the  Christmas  hol- 
idays. 

C.  W.  Stork  has  appeared  each 
month,  for  the  last  several  months, 
with  translations  of  Scandinavian 
poetry  in  the  pages  of  the  Ameri- 
can-Scandinavian Review  of  New 
York. 

Chas.  W.  Stork  is  publishing  this 
spring  two  volumes  of  poetry. 
The  first  is  an  original  narrative 
poem  called  Sea  and  Bay  and  is 
being  published  by  John  Lane  Co., 
The  second  consists  of  translations 
of  some  of  the  poems  of  the  Swed- 
ish lyric  poet,  Gustaf  Eroding,  and 
is  to  be  put  out  by  MacMillan  Co. 

Dr.  Stork  was  awarded  the 
short-story  prize  of  the  Browning 
Society  for  his  story  entitled  The 
Gravellotte  Rhapsody.  He  has  also 
published  several  book  reviews  in 
The  New  Republic. 


The  Alumni 


391 


'03 
S.  N.  Wilson  is  now  Assistant 
Head  Master  at  Swarthniore  Pre- 
paratory School.  He  is  teaching 
Geometry  and  acting  as  House 
Master  of  the  Gables  (Senior 
Dormitor\-)- 

The  engagement  of  Henry  J. 
Cadbury  to  Miss  Lydia  C.  Brown 
has  been  announced.  Miss  Brown 
is  a  daughter  of  Thos.  K.  Brown, 
principal   of  Westtown  School. 

J.  E.  HoUingsworth  read  a  paper 
on  "The  Evolution  of  a  Figure  of 
Speech"  before  the  Classical  Asso- 
ciation of  the  Pacific  North  West 
at  Seattle,  Wash.,  November  27th. 

Dr.  Henry  J.  Cadbury  attended 
during  the  Christmas  holidays  the 
annual  meetings  in  New  York  of 
the  Society  of  Biblical  Literature 
and  Exegesis,  and  of  the  Biblical 
Instructors  in  American  Colleges 
and  Preparatory  Schools.  At  the 
former  meeting  Dr.  Cadbury  read 
a  paper  on   "Christ  and  War." 

■04 
The  Class  of  '04  held  a  banquet 
at  the  College  on  December  27th. 
Fifteen  members  were  present. 

'09 

Jas.  W.  Crowell  was  married  to 
Miss  Helen  Hunt  Chambers,  of 
West  Grove,  on  December  31st. 
The  bride  is  a  graduate  of  Cushing 
Academv,    Mass.,    and    of    Drexel 


Institute,       Philadelphia.  Mr. 

Crowell  is  instructor  in  Spanish 
and  Portuguese  at  Stale  College, 
where  he  and  his  wife  will  reside. 

A  (laughter  was  born  to  Mr.  and 
Mrs.  Alfred  Lowr\',  Jr.,  on  Jan- 
uary 16th.  She  is  named  L\-dia 
Collins. 

R.  L.  M.  Underhill  returned  to 
Harvard  from  Switzerland,  where 
he  has  been  recuperating  from  a 
severe  illness  contracted  while 
studying  there.  He  will  resume  work 
for  his  Doctor's  degree  in  a  short 
time. 

'10 
The   engagement   has   been    an- 
nounced of  Edward  W.   David  to 
Miss   Annie    F.    Merrill,   of    Enos- 
burg  Falls,  Vt. 

A  son  was  born  recently  to  Mr. 
and  Mrs.  Alfred  S.  Roberts,  of 
Moorestown,  N.  J. 

'11 
A.  S.  Young  spoke  before  the 
College  Scientific  Society  January 
11th  on  electrical  instruments. 
Mr.  Young  is  with  the  Leeds  and 
Northrup  Co. 

The  engagement  of  Charles  H. 
Crosman  to  Miss  Dorothy  Craven, 
of  Dayton,  Ohio,  has  been  re- 
cently announced. 

The  engagement  is  announced 
of  James  E.  Stinson  to  Miss  Dor- 


392 


The  Haverfordian 


othy  Beacom,  daughter  of  ex- 
State  Representative  James  S. 
Beacom,    of    Greensburg,    Pa. 

A  daughter  was  born  to  Mr. 
and  Mrs.  Francis  M.  FroeHcher  on 
December  27th.  The  little  girl's 
name  is  Elizabeth  Lowry  Froe- 
Hcher. 

We  print  the  following  letter 
submitted  to  us  by  President 
Sharpless.  L.  A.  Post  of  the  Class 
of '1 1  is  a  Rhodes  Scholar  at  Oxford. 
Office  of  the  Provost,  University 
of  Penna.,  Philadelphia,  Dec.  17, 
1915. 
My  dear  President  Sharpless: 

I  just  received  a  letter  from  Mr. 
Wylie,  Oxford  Secretary  to  the 
Rhodes  Trustees  in  England.  There 
is  a  sentence  in  it  that  I  want  you 
to  read: 

"Your  present  Rhodes  Scholars 


— Post    and    Boyd — are    excellent 

fellows,  and  we  are  entirely  satis- 
fied with  them.      I  hope  you  will 
find  us  a  good  man  for  1916." 
Yours  sincerely, 
Edgar  F.  Smith. 

'11  and  '13 
Charles  Wadsworth,' 11, and  N.  F. 
Hall,  '13,  are  carrying  out  research 
problems  under  the  direction  of 
Prof.  T.  W.  Richards,  '85,  at  Har- 
vard. Prof.  Richards,  it  will  be 
remembered,  is  winner  of  the  Nobel 
Prize  in  Chemistry.  He  and 
Wadsworth  have  a  paper  in  the  Feb- 
ruary number  of  the  Journal  of  the 
American  Chemical  Society  entitled 
The  Density  of  Radio-active  Lead. 

'14 
The   engagement   has   been   an- 
nounced   of    Paul    H.    Sangree    to 
Miss    Margaret    Dodd,    of    Cam- 


'^a 


Saves  Stops  and  Trouble 


3 


Stitching  shoes  is  hard 
work  for  sewing  machine 
belts.  At  this  work  Tannate 
Round  Belt  ontlasts  oak- 
tanned  from  two  to  five 
times  or  more.  It  has  been 
doing  this  over  twenty 
years.  Like  the  other 
Rhoads  Belts,  it  is  made  for 
service.  Let  them  help  you. 

J.  E.  Rhoads  &  Sons 

PHILADELPHIA, 
12  North  Third  Street 

NEW  YORK. 
102  Beekman  Street 

CHICAGO. 
322  W.  Randolph  Street 

Factory  and  Tannery: 
Wilmington.  Del. 


The  Alumni 


393 


bridge,  Mass.  Miss  Dodd  is  a 
member  of  the  Class  of  1917  of 
Bryn  Mawr  College. 

Herbert     William     Taylor     was 
married    to    Miss    Irene    Lawrence 


on  Deceniljer  28lh  at  the  home  of 
the  bride  in  Brooklyn,  N.  Y.  Mr. 
and  Mrs.  Taylor  are  at  home  in 
the  Lamar  Apartments  at  Forty- 
sixth  and  Walnut  Streets,  Phil- 
adelphia. 


You  run  no  risks  on 

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OPEN  EVENINGS 

WM.  H.  MILLER,  Mgr. 

The  Haverfordian 


CRANE'S    ICE  CREAM 

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are  made  under  the  most  sanitary  con- 
ditions.    Call   and    see    them    made. 

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Contents 


In  Memory  of  A.  E.  H Carroll  D.  Champlin,  '14  396 

Carthage  and  Athens:  A  Warning  and  an  Inspiration 

W.  H.  Chamberlin,  '17  397 

A    Summer    Day W.    S.    Nevin,  '18  401 

The    Marsh    Rat Colby    Van    Dam,  '17  402 

Whence  Came  Man  to  Inherit  the  Earth 

E.  R.  Lester.  '18  411 

College    Pests Albert    H.     Stone, '16  412 

A  Song  of  the  Night Donald  H.  Painter,  '17  412 

Till    Death Russell    N.    Miller,  '19  413 

To  the  Wild  Gray  Geese D.  C.  Wendell,  '16  416 

Dreams  That  Never  Come  True   .  .   H.  P.  Schenck,  '18  417 

At  the  End  of  the  Day. .   J.  G.  Clemenceau  LeClercq,  '18  419 

The   Song   of   Work Robert   Gibson,  '17  423 

Among  the  New  Books  in  the  Library 

Edmund  T.  Price,  '17  425 

The  Uneasy  Chair 426 

Difficulties Charles    Hartshorne,  '19  427 

Alumni Donald   H.    Painter,  '17  428 


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The  Haverfordian 


EDITORS 

Robert  Gibson,  1917  Editor-in-Chief 

W.  H.  Chamberlin,  1917  Donald  H.  Painter,  1917 

C.  D.  Van  Dam,  1917  J.  G.  C.  LeClerco,  1918 

Walter  S.  Nevin,  1918 

BUSINESS  MANAGERS 
Arthur  E.  Spellissy,  1917  (Mgr.)         Horace  B.  Brodhead,  1917  (Sub.  Mgr.) 
J.  Stewart  Huston,  1919  (Asst.  Mgr.) 

Price,  per  year $1.00  Single  copies $0.15 

The  Haverfordian  is  published  on  the  tenth  of  each  month  during  college 
year.  Its  purpose  is  to  foster  the  literary  spirit  among  the  undergraduates  and 
to  provide  an  organ  for  the  discussion  of  questions  relative  to  college  life  and 
policy.  To  these  ends  contributions  are  invited,  and  will  be  considered  solely 
on  their  merits.  Matter  intended  for  insertion  should  reach  the  Editor  not  later 
than  the  fifteenth  of  the  month  preceding  the  date  of  issue. 

Entered  at  the  Haverford  Post-Office,  for  transmission  througii  the  mail£  as  second-dass  matter 
Vol.  XXXVII  HAVERFORD,  PA.,  MARCH,  1916.  No.  9 


Announcement 

In  lieu  of  the  retirement  of  D.  C.  Wendell,  G.  A.  Dunlap 
and  E.  R.  Moon,  it  gives  us  pleasure  to  announce  the  election 
of  Walter  S.  Nevin,  '18  to  the  editorial  staff;  of  Arthur  E.  Spell- 
issy, '17,  as  business  manager;  and  of  Horace  B.  Brodhead,  '17,  as 
subscription  manager. 

Robert  Gibson  has  been  re-elected  editor-in-chief. 


3Jn  iWemorp  of  ^.  €.  i|. 

Thy  soul  aspired  to  know  what  waits  beyond. 
Thy  faith,  from  him  who  made  loved  Pippa  sing 
And  bold  Ben  Ezra  trust,  will  ever  bring 
To  us  a  courage  that  cannot  despond. 
The  magnet  mind  we  knew — that  blessed  bond. 
Which  stirred  us  with  ambition's  fateful  sting — 
Is  now  at  rest;  we  mourn  for  those  who  cling 
Bereft,  but  peace  the  spirit  self  hath  donn'd. 
We  followed  thy  footsteps  on  earth;  above 
We'll  welcome  joys  that  friendship  gives  again. 
But  while  incarcerated  here,  we'll  love — 
As  thou  didst  show  us  how — our  fellow  men. 
We  glory  that  our  master  sleeps  and  dreams; 
He  earned  death's  ease  and  Heaven's  soothing  streams. 

— Carroll  D.  Champlin,  '14. 


THE    HAVERFORDIAN 


Vol.  XXXVII.  HAVERFORD,  PA.,  MARCH,   1916  No.  9. 


Cartfjage  anb  iStfjensi:  iS  Earning  anb  an  Snsfpiration 

MORE  than  twenty  centuries  ago  the  city  of  Carthage  stood 
forth  as  the  commercial  mistress  of  the  western  world.  Car- 
thaginian fleets  covered  the  Mediterranean,  Carthaginian 
explorers  visited  the  unknown  coasts  of  Gaul  and  Britain.  The  com- 
mercial supremacy  of  the  African  city  was  equally  undisputed  on  land. 
Carthaginian  caravans  penetrated  to  Arabia  and  the  interior  of  Africa. 
The  coffers  of  the  rich  aristocrats  who  directed  the  policy  of  the  state 
were  bursting  with  wealth.  If  ever  a  nation  seemed  to  rest  firmly  on 
the  foundation  of  material  prosperity,  that  nation  was  Carthage  in  the 
third  and  fourth  centuries  B.  C.  We  all  know  how  this  imposing  edifice 
of  power  and  wealth  fell  before  the  attack  of  Rome;  how  the  proud 
city  was  crushed  in  the  dust  and  humbled  even  beyond  the  desire  of 
her  most  vindictive  enemy,  Cato.  The  causes  of  the  material  down- 
fall of  the  city  are  obvious  enough.  Lack  of  patriotism,  reliance  upon 
mercenary  soldiers,  oppression  and  perfidy  in  her  relations  with  her 
subjects  and  allies,  internal  jealousy  and  factional  dissension,  all  these 
causes,  and  many  more,  worked  for  the  undermining  of  the  state.  The 
really  brilliant  military  genius  of  men  like  Hamilcar,  Barca  and  Hannibal 
was  neutralized  by  the  jealousy  and  inefficiency  of  the  narrow  plutocrats 
who  held  the  pursestrings  of  the  city.  The  surprising  thing  about  Carthage 
is,  not  that  she  perished,  but  that  she  left  nothing  for  the  intellectual 
appreciation  of  future  ages.  Greece  and  Palestine,  although  conquered 
by  the  military  power  of  Rome,  have  far  more  spiritual  interest  for  us 
than  has  the  Imperial  City  herself.  But  when  we  take  an  inventory  of 
the  contributions  of  Carthage  to  posterity  we  find  nothing  but  two  great 
men  (Hamilcar  and  Hannibal)  and  the  inspiration  for  one  brilliant 
novel,  Flaubert's  "Salammbo."  For  a  race  to  exist  in  power  and  glory 
through  many  centuries,  and  then  to  pass  completely  out  of  the  range 
of  human  interest  and  sympathy,  certainly  argues  some  radical  defect 
in  their  culture  and  civilization.  What  was  this  defect?  This  question 
may  best  be  answered  by  drawing  a  contrast  between  Carthage  and  her 
Greek  contemporary,  Athens. 


398  The  Haverfordian 

In  the  first  place,  let  us  compare  the  Greek  and  Punic  feeling  in  regard 
to  trade  and  commerce.  To  the  Carthaginian,  material  wealth  was  the 
highest  good,  the  supreme  object  of  worship.  The  aristocrats  of  the 
city,  far  from  considering  wealth  an  unworthy  object  of  pursuit,  vied 
with  each  other  in  the  splendor  and  vastness  of  their  commercial  enter- 
prises. The  Punic  aristocracy,  like  our  own,  was  founded  purely  on 
wealth.  On  the  other  hand,  the  typical  Athenian  felt  that  any  intimate 
connection  with  trade,  commerce  or  manual  labor  was  something  of  a 
degradation.  Nowadays  we  feel  certain  qualms  of  conscience  about 
enjoying  leisure;  a  Greek  would  have  felt  a  similar  uneasiness  about 
the  life  of  bustling  material  activity ,which  is  the  main  goal  of  the  average 
American.  However  impracticable  and  unattainable  the  Greek  ideal 
might  be  to-day,  it  certainly  stands  out  immeasurably  superior  to  the 
blind  worship  of  material  wealth,  which,  for  lack  of  a  better  term,  we 
may  call  Punicism. 

The  contrast  in  spirit  between  Hellenism  and  Punicism  is  nowhere 
better  exemplified  than  in  the  religious  observances  of  the  two  cities. 
The  Greek  gods,  as  described  and  expressed  in  the  works  of  the  great 
poets  and  the  great  sculptors,  embody  the  supreme  Greek  ideal  of  Beauty 
— physical,  intellectual,  and  aesthetic.  The  chief  deity  of  Carthage 
was  Moloch,  a  hideous  iron  monster  who  could  only  be  placated  by 
the  sacrifice  of  young  children.  The  Greeks,  equally  removed  from 
asceticism  and  from  license,  believed  that  the  highest  ideals  of  living 
were  realized  in  temperance  and  moderation.  The  Carthaginians, 
typically  oriental  in  their  utter  lack  of  restraint,  celebrated  their  re- 
ligious observances  by  unnatural  celibacy  or  more  unnatural  orgies. 
Hellenism  is  a  worship  of  the  spirit;  Punicism,  a  worship  of  matter. 
And  this  contrast  permeated  every  phase  of  Greek  and  Punic  life.  It 
was  the  consciousness  of  a  national  spiritual  heritage,  of  a  national 
soul,  that  inspired  the  Greeks  to  hurl  back  the  gigantic  armaments  of 
Darius  and  Xerxes.  And  it  was  the  lack  of  any  such  high  inspiration 
that  made  Carthage,  with  all  her  material  resources,  fall  before  the 
rising  power  of  Rome.  But  the  difference  between  Greece  and  Carthage 
is  most  strikingly  emphasized  by  the  influence  that  the  two  nations 
have  had  on  posterity.  Take  the  comparatively  insignificant  question 
of  military  success.  Hannibal's  victories  at  Thrasymenus  and  Cannae 
arouse  no  sympathetic  thrill  in  our  own  time.  At  best  we  feel  only  a 
cold  admiration  for  the  wonderful  genius  of  the  Carthaginian  leader. 
But  no  lover  of  freedom,  in  any  age  or  country,  can  listen  unmoved  to 
the  story  of  the  glorious  victories  of  Marathon  and  Salamis,  of  the  more 
glorious  defeat  of  Thermopylae.      True,   Greece  and   Carthage  alike 


Carthage  and  Athens:   A  Warning  and  an  Inspiration    399 

succumbed  to  superior  material  power;  but  the  very  name  of  Carthage 
was  buried  in  the  embers  of  the  burning  city;  while  the  names  of  Athens 
and  Thebes,  of  Corinth  and  Sparta, will  remain  as  living  realities  as  long 
as  the  love  of  art  and  the  love  of  freedom  persist  in  the  human  breast. 

But  the  contest  between  Hellenism  and  Punicism  is  not  merely  a 
question  of  academic  or  aesthetic  discussion.  It  is  an  intensely  vital 
problem,  just  as  significant  to-day  as  it  was  two  thousand  years  ago. 
For  these  two  ideals  are  not  supplementary;  they  are  irreconcilably 
hostile.  From  the  very  first  pages  of  history  every  nation  has  been 
compelled  to  choose  between  the  worship  of  Moloch  and  the  worship  of 
Athena.  It  was  at  Carthage  and  at  Athens,  respectively,  that  the 
ideals  of  materialism  and  aestheticism  met  with  their  fullest  acceptance. 
But  the  war  between  these  ideals  could  not  even  be  checked  by  the 
advent  of  universal  peace.  In  certain  epochs,  notably  in  the  Renais- 
sance, Hellenism  has  experienced  a  new  incarnation.  At  other  times 
Punicism  has  held  the  ascendancy.  Just  now,  in  our  own  country,  it 
must  be  said  with  regret,  the  spirit  of  Carthage  seems  to  be  enjoying  a 
moment  of  triumph.  Without  indulging  in  useless  lamentations  or 
vague  generalities,  we  may  easily  point  out  a  few  of  the  more  blatantly 
Punic  elements  in  our  national  spirit. 

One  of  the  most  Punic  features  of  our  civilization  is  our  attitude 
towards  education.  The  principle  of  vocational  training,  beneficial 
when  confined  within  its  proper  limits,  has  been  carried  to  such  an 
extreme  that  some  of  its  advocates  are  seriously  claiming  that  all  educa- 
tion which  does  not  directly  increase  the  earning  capacity  of  the  student 
is  superfluous.  A  school  of  profound  philosophy  has  arisen  in  the  Middle 
West,  which  proposes  to  supplant  the  antiquated  theories  of  Plato  and 
Aristotle  with  a  new  educational  panacea  called  "The  Wisconsin  Idea." 
The  dangers  of  such  a  tendency  in  the  education  of  a  comparatively 
young  and  unformed  nation  are  hardly  to  be  overestimated.  Arthur 
Schopenhauer,  the  famous  German  philosopher  and  critic,  predicted 
that,  with  the  threatened  decline  in  the  study  of  Latin,  literature  would 
sink  to  the  lowest  depths  of  barbarism  and  worthlessness.  It  is  not  too 
much  to  say  that  the  present  extremely  low  level  of  American  fiction 
bears  abundant  testimony  to  the  truth  of  Schopenhauer's  prediction. 
Moreover,  good  writing  is  almost  inextricably  involved  with  good 
thinking.  It  is  difficult  to  conceive  a  nation,  whose  literary  taste  is 
largely  puerile  and  tawdry,  embracing  a  wise  or  enlightened  policy  of 
statesmanship.  Hence  the  present  neglect  of  the  classics  is  a  serious 
menace  to  our  country,  not  only  from  the  literary,  but  also  from  the 
political  and  economic  standpoint. 


400  The  Haverfordian 

Even  more  ominous  than  the  excessive  enthusiasm  for  vocational 
training  is  the  spirit  of  commerciaHsm,  which  is  far  too  prevalent  in 
some  of  our  colleges.  The  temple  of  culture  is  only  too  often  turned 
into  a  den  of  thieves  and  moneychangers.  One  of  the  trustees  of  the 
University  of  Pennsylvania  frankly  admitted  that  he  favored  the  dis- 
missal of  Dr.  Scott  Nearing,  because  the  presence  of  such  a  radical 
economist  on  the  faculty  was  a  hindrance  to  donations  from  wealthy 
gentlemen  of  a  conservative  turn  of  mind.  Of  course  we  are  making 
progress  in  the  right  direction  here;  a  repetition  of  the  Nearing  case 
would  scarcely  be  possible  at  the  University  now.  But,  on  the  whole, 
the  battle  for  academic  freedom  has  yet  to  be  won  in  America.  The 
governing  bodies  of  many  of  our  higher  institutions  of  learning  are  far 
more  Punic  than  Hellenic  in  their  viewpoint. 

But  perhaps  the  worst  sign  of  all  in  our  present  age  is  the  absolute 
self-complacency  that  is  so  characteristic  of  the  typical  American.  Take, 
for  example,  our  policy  in  regard  to  the  Great  War.  We  have  main- 
tained strict  neutrality,  in  the  face  of  some  rather  serious  provocations; 
we  have  made  immense  financial  profits  out  of  Europe's  Armageddon. 
Now  this  policy,  while  it  may  be  very  sensible,  is  certainly  not  character- 
ized by  any  particular  heroism  or  self-sacrifice.  Yet  many  of  our  coun- 
trymen seem  to  be  firmly  convinced  that  we  have  played  a  singularly 
noble  and  exalted  role;  nay,  more,  that  the  warring  nations  in  the 
future  will  look  to  us  to  lead  them  from  the  slough  of  militarism  to  the 
heights  of  universal  peace.  Before  we  indulge  in  any  such  flattering 
dreams  we  would  do  well  to  take  an  inventory  of  our  own  spiritual 
possessions;  to  enquire,  in  all  humility,  whether  we  could  duplicate 
Belgium's  immortal  sacrifice  on  the  altar  of  national  faith  and  national 
honor.  We  pride  ourselves  on  our  democracy ;  but  democracy,  without 
the  capacity  for  devotion  and  sacrifice,  is  nothing  but  selfish  anarchy. 
Let  us  pause  for  a  moment  and  review  the  history  of  the  great  republics 
of  the  past. 

Five  centuries  before  Christ  an  army  of  two  million  Persians  hurled 
itself  upon  the  tiny  city-states  of  Greece.  The  whole  population  of 
Greece  was  probably  inferior  to  the  mere  fighting  strength  of  the  in- 
vaders; but  the  invincible  spirit  of  freedom  was  triumphant  over  the 
material  power  of  despotism;  the  invasion  was  repulsed,  and  the  price- 
less heritage  of  Greek  art  and  culture  was  saved  for  posterity.  Again, 
in  the  Middle  Ages,  at  the  battle  of  Sempach,  a  handful  of  Swiss  peasants 
routed  a  large  army  of  Austrians  and  founded  the  republic  which  has 
survived  to  this  day.  Late  in  the  sixteenth  century,  the  peaceful,  un- 
trained peasants  and  artisans  of  Holland,  fighting  for  their  civil  and 


A  Summer  Day  401 

religious  liberty,  proved  more  than  a  match  for  the  powerful  armaments 
of  Spain.  What  our  own  forefathers  did  in  our  two  great  wars  is  too 
well  known  to  require  repetition.  It  may  well  come  to  pass  that  the 
responsibility  of  a  great  battle  for  freedom  will  soon  devolve  upon  us. 
It  is  for  us  to  decide  whether  we  will  meet  this  responsibility  in  the  spirit 
of  the  ancient  Greeks,  or  in  that  of  their  degenerate  Byzantine 
successors. 

We  are  now,  as  a  nation,  at  the  parting  of  two  roads.  The  one 
leads  to  the  worship  of  material  wealth,  to  the  neglect  of  the  things  of 
the  spirit,  to  indifference  to  our  national  obligations,  to  cynical  con- 
tempt for  the  higher  emotions,  which  really  make  life  worth  living,  to 
ultimate  and  speedy  ruin,  spiritual  and  material.  This  is  the  road  of 
Carthage.  The  other  leads  us  away  from  materialism,  away  from 
selfishness  and  cowardice,  up  to  the  heights  of  art  and  freedom,  of  courage 
and  self-sacrifice.   This  is  the  road  of  Athens.     Which  will  we  choose? 

—W.  H.  Chamberlin,  '17. 


9  Summer  30ap 

A  robin  call  across  the  calm  of  morn, 
A  tender  breeze  that  ripples  in  the  corn, 
A  phoebe  piping  woodland  notes  forlorn. 
At  dawn. 

The  fever  of  the  blazing  sun  on  high, 
The  haze  of  heat  that  dances  'fore  the  eye, 
The  rill  that  laughs  in  liquid  melody. 
At  noon. 

The  tree-entangled  stars  that  shyly  peep, 
The  saffron  moon  that  slowly  climbs  the  deep. 
The  boundless,  brooding  sea  of  lulling  sleep. 
At  night. 

—W.  S.  Nevin,  '18. 


trtie  iilargf)  Eat 

{Those  doubting  conventional  readers  who  take  the  commonplaces  of 
life  as  a  proof  that  the  normal,  rational  thing  always  happens; — those  who 
call  the  unusual  the  impossible,  had  best  not  read  this  story;  for  they  will 
only  cast  it  aside  with  the  over-used  epitaph  of  literature,  "0,  it  couldn't 
happen  in  life.") 

BETWEEN  the  shadows  of  the  prison  and  the  Hghts  of  fame  there 
is  a  pitiable  sea  of  mediocre  beings,  who  are  not  strong  enough 
to  cHmb  above  the  average  to  their  goal,  and  still  are  afraid  to 
fall  very  far  below:  they  are  neither  very  good  nor  very  bad,  very 
great  nor  very  small;  they  hold  the  middle  ground  and  spend  half 
their  lives  to  gain  what  they  are  throwing  away  the  other  half, — in- 
effectual arbiters  between  virtue  and  sin  who  embrace  enough  of  one 
to  ease  their  souls  and  enough  of  the  other  to  ease  their  bodies, — whose 
lives  when  they  come  to  lay  them  down,  balance  up  to  a  little  more  or 
less  than  zero. 

Jean  Beaupuy  was  this  kind,  but  the  world  did  not  know  it,  and  he 
spent  more  effort  concealing  the  fact  from  himself,  than  it  would  have 
taken  to  play  the  real  man ;  for  he  was  one  whose  insight  into  right  and 
wrong  was  keen;  but  he  kept  deceiving  himself  until  his  pricking  con- 
science was  at  last  pampered  into  a  calm  conviction  that  he  was  doing 
the  right  thing,  and  the  only  thing  a  man  could  do  under  the  circum- 
stances. 

There  was  still  a  trace  of  uneasiness  on  his  pale,  slim  face  as  he 
gazed  with  a  heavy  stare  at  the  tapestried  walls  of  a  swell  cafe,  blew 
rings  into  space,  ordered  more  whiskey  and  reflected  that  Paris  was  very 
boring  in  war  times.  Then  his  eye  caught  the  sign  on  the  wall  for  the 
fifteenth  time.  He  turned  his  chair  around  nervously.  It  was  becom- 
ing uncanny  the  way  that  call  for  volunteers  forced  itself  on  his  attention. 
He  had  looked  at  it  so  often  that  the  soldiers  in  the  picture  began  to 
move  and  point  their  fingers  at  him  in  shame.  The  red  letters  of  the 
pleading  word  "wanted,"  would  dwindle  away  into  small  type,  then 
loom  up  again  assuming  monstrous  proportions  as  though  trying  to  cry 
out  their  country's  call. 

The  spacious  grill  that  he  had  last  seen  echoing  with  life  and  laugh- 
ter was  an  empty  desert  of  tables  and  he,  its  sole  occupant. 

"Mon  Dieu!  this  place  is  lonely,"  he  muttered. 

An  old  white-haired  man  brought  his  drink. 

"Any  news  from  the  front?"  demanded  the  customer  abruptly. 


The  Marsh  Rat  403 

"If  monsieur  were  there,  he  might  find  out,"  the  old  man  quietly 
suggested. 

Jean  Beaupuy  bit  his  lip.  Some  one  was  continually  touching  the 
raw  nerve  of  his  thoughts.  If  it  was  not  the  bartender,  it  was  the  news- 
boy, the  girl  conductor  on  the  trolley,  the  bootblack,  or  the  bell  hop 
at  the  hotel.  Those  unfortunates  whom  old  age  or  youth  kept  out  of 
the  trenches  looked  with  curiosity  at  a  healthy  young  man  in  citizen's 
clothes  loafing  about  Paris. 

But  why  should  he  fight?  His  father  was  a  Frenchman  reported 
killed  in  the  war  of  1870.  Jean  had  never  seen  him,  but  intended  to 
profit  by  his  lesson.  His  mother  was  Austrian  and  the  memory  of  her 
was  as  dear  as  life  itself  to  him.  Somehow  life  had  lately  grown  dearer 
than  ever  before ;  he  had  little  interest  in  the  selfish  motives  that  caused 
the  war,  and  a  healthy  dislike  for  guns  and  powder  and  corpses.  His 
conscience  would  not  let  him  take  arms  against  his  mother's  country 
and  Paris  had  been  his  city  since  youth.  So  rather  than  do  an  injustice 
to  the  Allies  or  to  Germany  he  decided  not  to  fight  at  all. 

But  under  these  neutral  conditions,  Europe  made  it  plainly  seen 
that  it  did  not  want  him  hanging  around.  Every  eye  that  saw  him, 
every  voice  that  spoke,  seemed  to  say,  "Not  fighting,  eh?  Then  get  out 
of  the  ring."  So  he  got  out,  with  little  thought  as  to  where  he  was 
going  or  when  he  would  get  there. 

The  first  misfortune  that  befell  Jean  Beaupuy  was  the  fact  that  out 
of  the  five  continents  at  his  disposal,  he  should  eventually  land  in  New 
Jersey.  When  he  crossed  the  ocean  he  had  expected  to  find  a  country, 
novel  in  scenery  and  wonderful  in  its  progress  beyond  the  Old  World; 
but  New  York  was  painfully  prosaic  and  uninteresting;  he  soon  was 
eager  to  get  away  from  the  crowds.  They  made  him  lonely  where  every 
face  was  unfamiliar  and  every  glance  casual  and  cold.  New  York  was 
mercilessly  inhospitable,  he  decided;  perhaps  the  "country-folk"  were 
more  thoughtful  of  strangers.  He  was  fond  of  shooting,  and  it  was  the 
fall  season.  Some  ignorant  "native"  told  him  that  ducks  and  New 
Jersey  were  synonymous;  and  this  is  how  Jean  Beaupuy  happened  to 
land,  one  brisk  October  day,  in  a  tiny  barren  summer  resort,  where  the 
ocean  roared,  and  the  four  winds  blew  unheeded  against  the  boarded 
windows  of  deserted  cottages.  The  place  was  merely  a  narrow  strip  of 
land  fitted  in  between  the  marshes  and  the  Atlantic.  The  little  group 
of  frame  houses  looked  pitifully  lonely  and  unprotected  against  the 
wide  sweep  of  ocean  and  sky.  They  were  only  a  few  feet  above  the 
surging  level  of  the  ocean,  and  the  moaning  breakers  licked  hungrily 
up  the  beach,  toward  the  sand-locked  posts  which  were  their  sole  support. 


404  The  Haverfordian 

The  newcomer  decided  that  the  name  Beaupuy,  although  good 
enough  in  Paris,  might  not  be  appreciated  by  the  score  of  longshoremen 
who  were  of  necessity  to  become  his  only  neighbors.  After  considerable 
debating  with  himself,  he  became  John  Dunn,  which  seemed  to  him 
sufificiently  uneuphonious  to  be  American.  The  natives  received  John 
Dunn  into  their  circle,  and  the  stranger  soon  began  to  enjoy  their  slow 
semi-negro  dialect,  and  the  dry,  unconscious  humor  of  their  simple 
talk.  They  would  gather,  of  an  evening,  around  the  big  fire  in  the 
post-office  to  talk  fishing  and  shooting  and  tell  the  tales  of  their  lives, 
until  John  Dunn  wondered  if  there  was  any  knowledge  on  any  subject, 
that  was  not  stored  in  the  shaggy,  grizzled  heads  of  these  old  sea-crabs. 

Two  quiet,  peaceful  months  slipped  by.  He  grew  fond  of  the  new 
country.  The  air  was  fresher  and  the  sunlight  brighter.  He  left  his 
old  self  completely  behind.  This  new  man,  John  Dunn,  was  a  more 
genial,  light-hearted,  sensible  being  than  Jean  Beaupuy.  The  shadow 
which  had  darkened  his  happiness  in  Europe,  faded  away  and  he  entered 
eagerly  into  the  simple  lives  of  the  longshoremen.  Sometimes  he  would 
stand  on  the  beach  with  the  wind  in  his  face  and  the  beat  of  waves  in 
his  ears,  gazing  long  and  steadily  at  the  blue  horizon.  At  first  a  guilty 
flush  would  climb  into  his  cheeks  while  he  thought  of  the  bleeding  sacri- 
fice to  which  he  might  well  contribute  his  small  part.  But  as  he  lived 
his  days  in  rest  and  peace  it  became  easy  to  think  as  he  wanted  to  think. 
He  had  not  strength  enough  to  tell  himself  the  truth,  but  carefully 
soothed  his  feebly-fluttering  conscience  with  the  magnanimous  thought 
that  it  was  wrong  to  kill  his  fellow  beings  under  any  condition. 

When,  one  bright  morning,  he  joined  a  ruddy-faced,  good-natured 
throng  of  men,  in  the  kitchen  of  the  house  where  he  boarded,  all  thoughts 
of  war  and  Europe  were  as  far  from  his  mind  as  those  foolish  notions  of 
a  duty  to  his  country.  There  seemed  to  be  an  unusually  humorous 
topic  in  question,  for  some  of  the  old  boys  were  bent  double  and  quaking 
with  laughter.  As  Jean  entered,  one  of  them  pounded  him  hilariously 
on  the  back  and  thrust  a  mug  of  beer  under  his  nose.  He  took  it  and 
began  laughing  because  everyone  else  was.  After  some  minutes  he 
found  out  what  he  was  laughing  at.  It  was  the  old  Marsh  Rat,  who 
was  thus  named  because  he  lived  alone  on  the  marshes,  with  the  fiddler 
crabs  as  his  only  neighbors.  He  had  come  to  town  the  day  before  to 
buy  some  baking  powder.  The  jocund  old  store-keeper  had  just  dis- 
covered that  he  had  given  him  roach-powder  by  mistake.  The  men  were 
speculating  as  to  the  appearance  of  the  bread  which  he  would  produce. 

John  Dunn,  being  a  little  more  thoughtful,  and  a  little  less  prone  to 
spasms  of  laughter,  than  his  beer-excited  companions,  felt  a  touch  of 


The  Marsh  Rat  405 

pity  for  the  old  man  whose  description  he  heard  in  such  graphic  phrases. 
He  went  off  that  afternoon  with  a  gun  and  a  lunch  box,  and  after  a  half- 
hour's  rowing,  pulled  in  on  a  mud  bank  behind  the  tall,  waving  grass. 
As  he  climbed  on  to  firm  ground  he  saw  a  tiny  box-like  hut  over  by  the 
other  water  edge.  A  well-worn  path,  and  a  single  plank  over  a  stream 
led  him  to  the  solitary  home  of  the  Marsh  Rat. 

The  little  dwelling  was  very  simple  and  poverty-stricken  in  appear- 
ance; there  was  only  a  scanty  pile  of  kindling  wood  by  the  door;  for 
wood  was  very  scarce  in  the  marshes.  The  outside  was  of  unfinished 
boards,  with  no  pretense  of  paint.  Jean  knocked  on  the  door,  and 
received  no  answer.  He  stepped  to  the  small,  dirty  window  and  peeped 
through.  Perhaps  the  owner  was  asleep.  Seeing  no  one,  he  pushed  the 
door  open  and  entered,  thinking  the  fellow  was  off  fishing. 

Inside  he  looked  blindly  around  until  his  eyes  became  accustomed 
to  the  tangle  of  shadows  that  changed  the  varied  contents  of  the  hut 
into  a  futurist  picture  without  reason  or  definite  form.  The  first  thing 
he  saw  was  a  pair  of  fencing  foils,  above  a  tall  bookcase  filled  with  curious 
looking  volumes.  In  the  comer  a  stove  glowed  dull  red  in  dim  light. 
Beside  it  was  a  chair,  a  table,  and  another  bookcase.  Jean  picked  one 
up.     It  was  a  treatise  on  the  soul,  by  Maeterlinck. 

"Studious  old  devil,"  he  muttered  in  surprise. 

"Eh,  who's  a  studious  old  devil?"  said  a  small,  thin  voice  from  the 
comer  of  the  room. 

Jean  whirled  about.  There  was  the  wizened  little  Marsh  Rat 
curled  up  in  an  armchair  behind  him,  blinking  and  squinting  like  a  bat 
brought  to  the  light.     He  had  apparently  been  asleep. 

Jean  eyed  him  in  blank  disgust. 

"Are  you  the  Marsh  Rat?"  he  demanded. 

"No,  I'm  not  a  rat.     Are  you?"  snapped  the  little  man  viciously. 

Then  he  blinked  again,  thrust  his  head  several  inches  out  of  his  dirty 
old  coat,  twisted  it  in  a  critical  glance,  and  drew  it  back  again  with  his 
ferret  eyes  suspiciously  watching  the  stranger's  face. 

"You  frightened  me  somewhat,"  said  Jean. 

"I  wouldn't  hurt  yer,"  the  Marsh  Rat  replied  slowly,  shaking  his 
scrubby,  dirty  head. 

"Well,  that's  nice  of  you!" 

Jean  looked  at  his  funny  little  host;  he  could  not  suppress  a  smile. 

"The  little  animal  rolls  up  nicely!"  he  thought.  For  the  Marsh 
Rat  had  not  moved  an  inch. 

"Sit  down,  sit  down,"  he  suddenly  piped.  "You  want  an  old  man 
like  me  to  get  up  and  fix  yer  comfy?   Not  I !   Not  I ! " 


406  The  Haverfordian 

"Thank  you,"  said  the  guest,  and  pulled  out  a  cigarette.  He 
would  have  offered  one  to  his  companion,  but  somehow  he  did  not  look 
used  to  cigarettes  and  Jean  had  an  incongruous  idea  that  he  might  set 
fire  to  his  stubby  whiskers  if  he  brought  a  lighted  match  too  near  his 
face.  For  the  said  whiskers  bristled  in  all  directions  like  a  well-filled 
pincushion  and  there  seemed  no  safe  place  of  approach  anywhere 
below  his  eyes. 

"What  can  I  do  for  yer?  Did  you  enter  my  home  fer  information, 
fer  food,  or  fer  trouble?" 

He  uncoiled  slightly,  and  his  eyes  dilated  angrily  at  the  word 
"trouble." 

"You  are  not  used  to  callers,  I  see,"  said  Jean. 

"  Used  .to  be.    Since  I  moved  out  here,  me  callin'  list's  grew  smaller." 

"I  came  to  see  how  you'd  digested  that  roach-powder,"  continued 
the  house-breaker  with  a  smile.  The  little  fellow  seemed  to  have  a 
"past";  what  was  more,  his  seed -grown  head  was  not  as  empty  as  one 
might  suppose. 

The  stubble  whiskers  swayed  and  separated  somewhere  near  the 
middle,  and  Jean  gathered  that  the  Rat  was  smiling.  He  pulled  out  a 
black  clay  pipe  and  lighted  it  up. 

"You  got  rats  an'  roaches  mixed,"  he  snickered  after  several  puffs. 
"Yer  know — yer  know,"  he  confided  with  some  show  of  enthusiasm, 
"the  grocer  made  a  mistake,  but  I  should  'a  noticed  it;  I  wouldn't  'a  told 
him  of  it.  'Tain't  no  joke  ter  make  a  mistake  like  that.  Might'a  hurt 
his  feelin's,  yer  know!" 

"He  was  worried  about  it,"  said  Jean  laughing. 

The  Rat  was  indignant. 

"He  must  think  I'm  blind,  and  noseless.  Say,"  and  his  neck  pro- 
truded noticeably,  "I  ain't  as  big  a  fool  as  I  look." 

"I  don't  believe  you  are  at  that!"  replied  Jean,  glancing  at  the 
rows  of  books  behind  him.  "I  heard  the  men  on  shore  talking  about 
you;    I  was  out  looking  for  mudhens,  so  thought  I'd  stop  in." 

Then  the  little  man  uncoiled,  and  soon  became  very  congenial 
and  talkative.  Jean  found  out  that  he  had  been  living  in  Jersey 
for  ten  years;  that  he  had  given  up  his  fellow-beings  as  a  bad  job;  that 
he  was  sixty  years  old ;  and  did  have  a  past. 

"You  must  find  these  barren  stretches  scanty  food  for  contempla- 
tion," suggested  Jean. 

"Lord  bless  you,  son!  I  don't  think  about  the  mud.  I  live  out  here 
to  be  alone:  yer  can't  trust  people,  so  why  not  get  away  from  'em? 
Them  that  loves  yer  the  most  can  hate  yer  the  hardest;  so  I  just  quit 


The  Marsh  Rat  407 

folks  in  general,  an'  come  out  here,  see!  I'm  king  o'  the  marshes,  o'  the 
mice  an'  rats  an'  fish  an'  birds,  an'  I'm  happy." 

He  arose  with  a  cackling  laugh,  and  hobbled  over  to  the  stove,  a 
bent,  ragged,  frail  little  figure.      Jean  watched  him  in  silent  wonder. 

"Were  you  ever  young?"  he  asked  in  all  seriousness. 

The  Rat  paused  where  he  stood  about  to  put  some  wood  on  the  fire. 

"Now^  yer  askin'  questions,  ain't  yer?"  he  said  slowly  and  earnestly. 
"Was  I  ever  young?  Sometimes  I'm  a-wonderin'  if  I  ever  was.  'Twas  a 
long  time  ago.  I  ain't  told  no  one  in  years,  but  I'll  tell  you,"  he  con- 
tinued decidedly.     "When  I  was  young  I  was  a  good-lookin'  feller." 

He  stopped  short  to  see  if  Jean  laughed ;  but  Jean  was  thoughtful 
and  he  continued. 

"The  girls  used  ter  like  me  party  well.  I  didn't  have  no  time  fer 
'em — gigglin',  simperin'  things,  always  lookin'  ter  be  kissed." 

Just  at  this  point  he  pushed  a  handful  of  wood  into  the  stove  and 
shut  the  door  with  a  vehement  bang. 

"Then  one  spring  morning,  when  the  birds  was  a-singin'  an'  the 
flowers  a-bloomin',  I  went  clean  plum  crazy  an'  married  one  of  'em." 

Jean  was  sitting  in  the  semi-darkness,  chair  tilted  back,  half  jovial, 
half  serious,  thoroughly  interested  in  the  shrivelled  personality  which 
was  appearing  where  he  had  thought  there  was  only  ignorance,  and 
dejection. 

The  old  man  approached  Jean  so  close  that  the  stubble  whiskers 
bristled  dangerously  near  his  nose.  He  spoke  slowly  and  stamped  his 
swampy  foot  to  emphasize  his  point. 

"I  married  the  purtiest  girl  you  ever  unfolded  yer  shutters  on,  an' 
she  loved  me  too!" 

He  shuffled  across  the  room,  took  something  from  the  table,  and 
brought  it  to  Jean. 

"There  she  is;  an'  that  much  of  'er  is  goin'  ter  be  buried  with  me." 

Jean  took  the  photograph,  which  was  brown,  and  cracked  with  age. 
He  moved  over  to  the  window,  for  the  red  sun  was  sinking  low  on  the 
marshy  plains. 

"What!"  he  said  suddenly,  gripping  the  piece  of  cardboard  in 
trembling  hands.     "Who — who  is  this?" 

"That  was  my  wife.  Ain't  she  cute?"  chirped  the  little  man 
proudly. 

Jean,  as  if  by  a  miracle,  was  gazing  into  the  calm,  kind  eyes  of  his 
own  mother. 

"What  was  her  name?  Where  did  she  live?"  he  cried,  clutching 
the  hope  that  it  was  a  hideous  mistake. 


408  The  HAVERFOitDiAN 

"You  don't  know  her;  she  ain't  from  this  country.  No  more  am  I. 
I'd  like  ter  see  'er  again,"  and  his  voice  lowered;  "don't  know  if  she's 
livin'  or  dead" — 

"Where  was  she  from?"  cried  Jean,  seizing  the  Rat  by  the  throat. 

"Lord  love  me!  From  Vienna,"  ejaculated  the  tiny  captive,  thor- 
oughly frightened. 

"God!"  Jean  muttered,  releasing  him. 

"Was  she  a  friend  o'  yours? "  inquired  the  Rat  timidly.  He  stretched 
his  neck  to  make  sure  it  was  still  working  all  right. 

"She— she  resembles  some  one  I  used  to  know."  He  controlled 
himself  with  an  effort. 

"She  was  a  fine  gal,  only  seventeen  when  I  married  her,"  said  the  old 
man  sadly.  "We  got  on  fine  at  first.  Lived  in  Paris  in  a  dandy  little 
home;  don't  yer  tell  no  one  this, "  he  snapped  suddenly,  with  a  suspicious 
glance  at  Jean,  who  was  sitting  with  head  bowed,  to  hide  his  face. 

"Go  on,"  he  ordered  tensely. 

"Well,  then  the  war  came  with  Prussia.  She  had  high-flown  ideas 
about  duty  an'  heroism.  'You  must  fight  and  make  a  name  for  yerself,' 
she  says.  'Ter  write  on  my  tombstone,'  I  says.  Then  she  called  me  a 
coward  and  says,  'Fight  or  it's  quits  'tween  you  an'  me.'  Them  weren't 
the  exact  words,  but  that's  what  they  meant.  An'  I  was  scared  blue.  I 
tell  yer  this  now,  but  I  wouldn't  a'  told  the  Lord  Himself  then;  I  was 
proud  as  Lucifer;  but  we  get  over  that,  all  of  us!  Well,  there  was  one 
hellish  battle,  an'  I  seen  it  coming.  So  I  faked  my  writin'  an'  writ 
Ren6e  a  letter — that  was  her  name,  Ren6e — and  told  her  that  her  hus- 
band was  shot  an'  died  bravely.  Then  I  just  slipped  across  the  water. 
I  missed  her  terrible  at  first;  but  I  ain't  dead  yet  an'  I  guess  she  is." 
He  giggled  as  though  the  way  he  had  tricked  fate,  amused  him. 

But  every  word  had  sunk  into  Jean's  soul  like  a  hot  brand.  The  veil 
of  excuses  was  torn  away  and  he  felt  his  red  blood  turn  pale  with  shame. 
The  thought  that  he  was  no  better  than  the  Rat  sickened  him,  and  made 
him  hate  the  breath  he  drew.  Then  he  did  the  most  heart-tearing  thing 
in  the  world:  he  sat  and  gazed  at,  and  pondered  over  the  living  im- 
personation of  his  own  hideous  defects,  carried  on  to  their  inevitable 
conclusion. 

For  some  minutes  the  suffering  man  sat  motionless  in  the  shadowy 
silence.  His  thoughts  underneath  were  wild  and  explosive,  yet  crushed 
down  by  the  futility  of  any  remedy,  until  his  senses  became  drear,  void, 
and  stagnant,  without  a  pang  or  a  hope.  He  knew  that  he  had  been  a 
coward  to  flee  Paris,  and  his  self-respect,  the  honor  of  the  name  he  bore, 
and  his  faith  in  himself  were  trampled  in  the  mud  by  the  Rat's  filthy 


The  Marsh  Rat  409 

feet.  Jean  stared  at  him  with  a  look  of  terror.  He  had  a  mad  desire 
to  shriek  out,  "Father!   father!   father!" 

But  the  Rat  smoked  away,  blissfully  unconscious  of  anything  tragic. 

"Guess  you  loved  a  gal  that  looked  like  mine,  didn't  yer?"  he 
mused  squeakily. 

"Yes,  I  did!"  said  Jean  in  a  hollow  voice. 

"She  was  a  cute  kid.     I  don't — " 

"Shut  up,  or  by  Heaven,  I'll— " 

"O,  all  right!"  ejaculated  the  Rat,  raising  one  withered  hand  with 
an  appeasing  gesture. 

"  Didn't  know  yer  thought  that  much  of  'er.  'Pears  we  think  alike, 
eh?" 

"No,  we  don't  think  alike!"  answered  Jean  with  emphasis.  He  was 
wondering  how  his  mother  could  have  married  that  distorted  excuse 
for  a  man.  His  sacred  memory  of  her  was  suddenly  and  completely 
destroyed,  leaving  him  desperate;  there  was  nothing  else  left  to  put 
faith  in,  and  the  feeble  moral  structure  of  his  life  was  tumbled  about 
his  feet. 

"Yer  look  worried!"  said  the  Rat  with  apparent  concern.  "Lord 
knows  I  worried  'nough  over  her  once.  You'll  get  over  it.  I  did.  We 
all  do." 

"I  wonder  if  we  do,"  muttered  Jean  dully. 

"Share!  Shure  we  do!  Say,  it's  gettin'  dark.  Don't  want  ter 
hurry  yer.     But  it's  bad  travelin'  over  them  waters  at  night." 

"Is  it?"  said  Jean  absently. 

He  arose  and  moved  toward  the  door. 

"Say!   Keep  quiet  about  what  I  told  yer!"  coaxed  the  Rat. 

"You  bet  I  will!"  and  somehow  Jean's  tone  reassured  him. 

"An'  come  over  and  see  me  again.  It  gits  lonely  over  here  some- 
times. Used  to  have  a  dog  an'  he  drowned  himself.  Here's  this  roach- 
powder.  Take  it  back  fer  me,  will  yer?  Tell  him  I  wanted  bakin' 
powder!" 

He  thrust  a  box  into  Jean's  passive  hands. 

"Rat-poison, — you  mean!"  he  murmured  inaudibly. 

"Come  again!   Come  again!" 

"I'd  love  to!"  said  Jean  as  he  stumbled  out  across  the  marshes, 

with  his  heart  bursting  in  dumb  agony. 

******** 

One  bright  day  of  the  following  spring,  when  the  breezes  were  soft, 
the  sea  still  and  shining, — when  the  little  town  was  awakening  for  the 
summer  season  and  white  trousers  and  colored  frocks  moved  about  the 


410  The  Haverfordian 

narrow  streets — when  white  wrinkled  sails  were  being  hoisted  above 
the  clear  green  water — on  such  a  morning  it  was,  that  the  postmaster, 
excited  and  gesticulating,  appeared  in  the  grocery  store  and  hailed  the 
lord  of  that  domain  in  eager  tones. 

"Hey,  Joe!  Look 'ere!  Look 'ere!  he  cried,  thrusting  a  well-creased 
magazine  over  the  counter. 

"Ain't  that  him,  as  I  live!  John  Dunn,  that  skinny-faced,  serious 
feller  what  came  'round  here  last  fall!  An'  look  at  that  name,  Bupee! 
O,  my  lord !   He  was  kiddin'  us! " 

He  slapped  his  knee  and  roared  with  laughter.  The  grocer  eyed 
the  picture  carefully. 

"It's  him!"  he  said  finally. 

"John  Dunn!  Somehow  I  never  thought  that  name  fitted  him, 
yer  know!" 

"What  about  'im?"  said  the  grocer  keenly. 

"Dead,  man!   Read!"  cried  the  other  impatiently. 

"I  can't  read  this  damned  stuff;  no  more  kin  you !"  retorted  the 
indignant  grocer. 

The  magazine  was  a  French  illustrated  monthly  which  one  of  the 
cottagers  had  left  in  the  post  ofiSce. 

"  It  says  John  Dunn  was  killed  in  a  scoutin'  expedition  an'  decorated 
for  bravery!" 

"How  do  you  know  it  says  that?"  demanded  the  grocer  skeptically. 

"  Me  wife  did  it !  All  herself!  She  keeps  them  language  dictionaries ! " 

"Still  waters  run  deep,  yer  know.  I  knew  he  was  a  brave  man. 
Yer  can  always  tell!" 

Before  the  day  was  done,  all  the  natives  knew  of  the  death  of  their 
former  companion  who  had  left  so  suddenly  and  mysteriously.  They 
hashed  it  over  that  night  in  the  post  office  and  on  the  fishing  pier,  and 
concluded  that  John  Dunn  was  a  fine  fellow  all  around. 

The  next  day  the  Rat  came  rowing  over  in  his  little  boat  to  buy 
provisions. 

"Hullo,"  he  snapped  to  the  grocer  as  he  poked  his  little  head  through 
the  swinging  doors. 

"Hullo!  Say!  Remember  your  messenger  you  sent  back  with  that 
roach-powder  last  fall?  Well,  here  he  is  with  the  dumdest  name  under 
him  that  I  ever  see  in  print." 

He  thrust  the  paper  over  to  the  Rat,  who  placed  it  three  inches 
from  his  nose  and  blinked,  and  squinted  for  several  seconds. 

"01    O!"  gasped  the  Rat.     Then  he  tottered,  wavered,  and  fell 


Whence  Came  Man  to  Inherit  the  Earth  411 

backward  to  the  floor  with  a  thump.     The  grocer  lifted  him  up,  all 
crumpled  in  a  heap.     He  was  trembling  and  panting  for  breath. 

"What's  the  matter?"  ejaculated  the  grocer,  holding   the  bushy 
little  head  in  his  lap. 

"He's — he's  my — "      A  convulsive  shudder  passed  through  the 
little  man's  body  and  he  never  finished  his  sentence. 

"Well,  I  be "  muttered  the  surprised  storekeeper.     "Guess  I 

got  a  corpse  for  sale!     His  heart  went  back  on  him  all  ter  once.    What 
in  the  name  of  Mike  was  he  tryin'  ter  say?" 

Colby  Van  Dam,  '17. 


l^fjcnce  Came  iWan  to  Snfjertt  tfje  Cartlj? 

Outside  the  pale  of  History's  fitful  light 

Long  centuries  lie  hidden  in  the  gloom; 

A  host  of  men  have  tried  to  pierce  the  night 

And  drawn  these  threads  from  Fancy's  mystic  loom. 

Semitic  bards  of  yore  creation  told, 

How  that  the  earth  was  made  in  six  brief  days; 

Then  down  from  Hellas  Emanation  rolled, 

Prometheus'  tale  the  poet  sang  in  lays; 

And  last  did  come  great  Darwin's  mighty  brain 

Unfolding  Evolution  well  worked  out. 

That  caused  mankind  to  think  in  diff'rent  train. 

Yet  much  remains  unseen  beyond  a  doubt. 

This  truth  doth  shine  out  bright:  All  is  not  learned, 
Nor  can  be  learned,  till  Time's  last  page  is  turned. 

—E.  R.  Lester,  Jr.,  '18. 


CoUege  $esit£i 

Dear,  gentle  reader,  entre  nous,  just  let  me  whisper  this  to  you:  I 
have  in  mind  a  little  plan  whereby  I  really  think  I  can  your  idle  moments 
quite  beguile  in  true  Walt  Mason  jingling  style;  and  crack  a  few  moth- 
eaten  jests  beneath  the  title  "College  Pests."  Perhaps  the  greatest 
pests  of  all  are  those  wise  ginks  who  have  the  gall  to  saw  a  rasping  violin, 
to  pick  guitar  or  mandolin;  or  from  the  flute  or  piccolo,  a  few  cracked, 
wheezing  notes  to  blow;  to  claw  the  keys  from  morn  till  night;  who 
feel  they  have  a  perfect  right,  when  coming  home  at  two  A.  M.,  to  bellow 
forth  some  amorous  hymn.  Some  fellows  are  so  asinine  to  think  their 
music  so  dumed  fine  that  they  can  saw  and  blow  and  pound,  and  make 
a  most  infernal  sound,  and  all  the  rest  of  us  the  while  will  sit  and  twirl 
our  thumbs  and  smile.  What  care  they  if  the  stude  next  door  must  o'er 
his  studies  sit  and  pore?  What  care  they  if  his  scattered  wits  throw 
forty  epileptic  fits?  They  shriek  their  discords  just  the  same,  and  tor- 
tured notes,  halt,  blind  and  lame,  that  almost  raise  one's  very  hair,  burst 
forth  upon  the  gentle  air.  It  makes  one  wish  for  wheels  and  racks, 
on  which  men  used  to  stretch  their  backs ;  the  pillory,  ducking  stool  and 
stock,  the  whipping  post,  the  headsman's  block — yea,  even  for  the  guillo- 
tine, to  lop  off  some  boob's  empty  bean.  I'm  sure  there  is  no  one  who 
feels  opposed  to  music  at  his  meals — who,  as  he  sips  his  demie  tasse, 
objects  to  some  real  stunning  lass,  in  glad  rags  a  la  gay  Paris,  warbling 
a  high-brow  melody.  I  will  admit  I  may  be  crude,  but  when  I  take 
my  mental  food,  to  tell  the  truth,  I  cannot  say  I  quite  enjoy  a  cabaret. 

—Albert  H.  Stone,  '16. 


^ong  of  tfic  i^islJt 

Oh,  shrieking  darkness  filling  all  the  deep 
Throughout  infinity  from  end  to  end, 
How  long  shall  vaulted  heav'n  her  azure  keep, 
And  morning's  sun  her  silent  arch  ascend? 

Ah,  roaring  silence  that  surrounds  us  still, 
Why  waste  our  little  on  thy  frigid  ears? 
For  thou  canst  not  our  hearts  with  gladness  fill. 
Nor  from  our  eyes  dry  up  the  welling  tears. 

— Donald  H.  Painter,  '17. 


tlTiU  Beatfi 

EIGHT  years  had  passed  for  Larson- — years  of  toil,  pain  and  mem- 
ories. Eight  years  ago  James  L.  Dawson  had  disappeared,  and 
eight  years  ago  Dr.  Larson  had  appeared. 
It  was  on  a  day  such  as  this,  mused  Larson,  as  he  stood  staring  out 
of  his  window, — bleak,  cold,  with  a  heavy,  wet  snow,  eight  years  ago. 
On  that  day  his  wife  had  gone  off  with  another  man,  and  he  had  never 
seen  or  heard  from  her  since.  Once  a  distant  lawyer  had  written  to  his 
own  lawyer  asking  whether  he,  Dawson,  would  oppose  a  suit  for  divorce. 
His  lawyer  had  answered  that  Dawson  would  never  stand  in  the  way  of 
his  wife's  happiness,  and  Dawson  had  never  heard  nor  sought  to  find  out 
whether  the  divorce  had  been  granted  or  not.  He  had  loved  his  wife 
and  had  sought  relief  from  the  blow  by  leaving  his  office  on  Broadway 
and  plunging  into  work  among  the  settlements.  Here  he  was  known 
to  the  poor  people  of  that  district  as  the  "Good  Doctor";  many  were 
the  tales  related  by  the  poor  women  of  the  miraculous  cures  of  the  great 
Larson,  and  many  were  the  prayers,  offered  by  grimy,  calloused  men, 
of  thanks  for  "Jim"  Larson. 

In  his  life  among  the  poor  people  he  had  met  Alice  Levant,  a  settle- 
ment worker.  He  often  aided  her  and  was  her  almost  constant  com- 
panion during  her  visits  to  the  tenements.  They  had  beome  close 
friends;  whether  that  friendship  had  deepened  in  either  of  them  could 
not  be  told :  they  showed  but  a  close  personal  friendship  to  each  other. 

Larson's  meditations  were  interrupted  by  a  pounding  on  the  door. 
He  went  out  and  saw  a  small  flaxen-haired  boy  with  a  pair  of  wistful 
brown  eyes. 

"A  pwitty  lady  told  me  to  bwing  'is  to  you,"  he  said  slowly,  holding 
out  a  note. 

Larson  took  the  note  and  read  it.  It  was  from  Alice,  asking  him 
to  accompany  the  child.  She  had  found  a  woman  sick  and  weak  from 
lack  of  food,  the  note  ran.  "Your  fame  has  reached  the  poor  woman's 
ears  and  she  has  a  wonderful  faith  that  you  can  cure  her."  Larson 
took  up  his  coat,  hat  and  grip  and  followed  the  boy. 

The  boy  took  him  to  an  old,  black,  and  gloomy  place  with  dark 
sullen  rooms.  There  was  a  dirty  alley  alongside  leading  to  a  dirtier 
street.  An  empty  dog-kennel,  some  bones  of  animals,  fragments  of  iron 
hoops,  and  staves  of  old  casks  lay  strewn  about.  It  was  the  picture  of 
decay  and  misery.  But  Larson  was  used  to  such  conditions  and  had  no 
compunctions  about  entering  as  we  might  have.  He  was  led  to  a  dim 
room  whose  only  daylight  entered  by  one  pane  of  glass.     On  the  bed  and 


414  The  Haverfordian 

covered  with  a  sheet  lay  a  pale,  wan  slip  of  a  woman  with  cheeks  sunken 
and  hollow,  and  in  a  fit  of  coughing.  She  was  turned  away  from  the 
entrance,  and  by  her  side  sat  Alice,  trying  to  ease  the  pain  and  fever  of 
the  woman  by  wiping  her  head  with  a  cold  cloth. 

As  the  doctor  entered  Alice  rose  and  whispered  to  him. 

"Please  see  if  you  can't  do  something  for  this  poor  soul,  doctor. 
She  is  very  poor  and  but  for  that  would  have  sent  for  you  long  ago.  But 
she  has  declined  to  accept  charity,  until  I  told  her  it  was  absolutely 
necessary  for  her  to  receive  medical  attention.  She  is  so  delicate  and  so 
out  of  her  element.  She  is  proud,  and  has  become  weak  and  thin  through 
starvation,  refusing  to  send  for  aid.      Please  cure  her,  if  possible." 

The  last  was  uttered  in  a  pleading,  questioning  tone,  and  the  doctor 
looked  down  at  her  and  tenderly  answered,  "  I'll  do  what  I  can, /or  you." 
The  last  words  were  directed  to  the  pleader  and  were  uttered  aloud. 
Upon  hearing  them  the  sick  woman  turned  and  looked  at  the  doctor. 
She  gave  a  gasp  and  leaned  forward. 

"Jim!  You!"   she  cried. 

The  doctor  bent  over.     "  Mary ! "  he  exclaimed.     "Why,  why — " 

But  the  woman  was  seized  with  a  fit  of  coughing,  and  the  doctor 
hastened  to  relieve  her.  He  gave  her  some  medicine  and  felt  her  pulse. 
Alice  arose  and  said,  "I'll  get  some  food,"  and  went  out  into  the  hall. 

"Tell  me,"  said  the  doctor,  when  the  woman  was  again  settled 
comfortably  upon  the  pillow,  "why  are  you  here  and  in  this  condition? 
Where  is — he?"     He  could  not  bring  himself  to  mention  the  name. 

"  He  died  about  a  year  ago,  leaving  me  with  a  few  dollars.  He  never 
worked.  He  was  a  cafe  runner,  and  married  me  for  my  money.  When 
that  was  almost  gone  he  took  sick  and  died.  He  drank.  Oh,  how  I 
have  suffered  these  years!  Believe  me,  Jim,  I  have  paid  the  cost, — paid 
with  interest.  He,  the  brute,  would  sometimes,  in  fits  of  drunkenness, 
beat  me  and  make  me  give  him  money.  He  was  fine  till  after  I  got  the 
divorce,  but  then  he  showed  himself  for  what  he  truly  was.  Oh,  what  I 
have  endured!     Jim,  Jim,  please  take  me  back,  Jim!    Oh  please!" 

She  tried  to  raise  herself  up,  but  fell  back  exhausted. 

"Be  quiet  now,"  said  the  doctor.  "You  need  rest  and  food  even 
more  than  medicine." 

The  sick  woman  grasped  his  hand  and  leaned  back  in  the  pillow. 
She  closed  her  eyes  and  sought  sleep.  Across  the  bed  sat  the  boy,  who 
had  been  a  silent  witness  of  the  little  drama.  Not  wishing  to  dis- 
turb the  resting  woman,  the  doctor  refrained  from  asking  any  questions. 
Soon  the  heavy  breathing  told  that  the  much-needed  sleep  had  taken 


Till  Death  415 

hold  of  the  wearied  body.  The  doctor  arose  and  went  into  the  hall, 
where  he  met  Alice  returning. 

"No  doubt  you  were  surprised  at  what  occurred,"  he  said.  "But 
let  me  explain.  That  woman  in  there  is  my  wife.  She  is  not  so  accord- 
ing to  law;  but  I  believe  in  a  higher  law  than  civil  rule.  I  am  bound  by 
no  creed  of  church  when  I  say  this,  but  I  remember  when  I  said,  'For 

better  or  for  worse, till  Death  do  us  part."     Then  he  told  her  his 

story.  Why  his  wife  had  gone  he  did  not  know,  but  he  believed  it  to 
have  been  because  of  jealousy.  She  had  always  been  jealous,  and  es- 
pecially of  the  women  who  came  to  see  him  at  his  office.  Their  visits 
were  the  cause  of  numerous  outbreaks  and  threats  on  her  part.  It  was 
in  such  a  fit  of  jealousy,  he  believed,  that  his  wife  had  spitefully  gone  off. 
"That  is  why,  Alice,  I  have  never  asked  you  to  marry  me.  I  will  never 
feel  myself  free  of  her  until  death  causes  it.  I  always  loved  her,  and 
now  that  she  is  come  back,  I  will  no  doubt  love  her  the  more." 

"But  you  are  no  longer  bound  to  her,"  cried  Alice.  "She  is  di- 
vorced and  has  married  again:  she  is  no  longer  your  wife." 

"I  am  bound  by  a  higher  law  than  man's." 

"But  although  you  have  never  said  it,  you  love  me,  and  I  love  you. 
We  have  been  the  best  of  friends  for  these  many  years.  Is  not  this  new, 
sweeter  love  stronger  than  the  old  one  which  has  burned  out  and  per- 
ished?" 

The  doctor  slowly  shook  his  head.  Just  then  the  door  opened  and 
out  came  the  little  boy,.     "What  is  your  name,  boy?"  asked  the  doctor. 

"James,  sir,"  respectfully  answered  the  boy. 

The  doctor  started  at  the  name. 

"Alice,"  he  said,  "there  is  one  question  I  wish  to  ask  my  wife. 
Upon  her  answer  depends  my  answer  to  you.  But  whatever  her  answer, 
let  us  still  be  good  friends.     Will  you?" 

Alice  said  not  a  word,  but  choked  back  a  sob  and  wiped  away  the 
tears  that  were  fast  filling  her  eyes.  She  went  into  the  room,  the 
doctor  turned  and  followed  her.  She  had  placed  the  provisions  on  the 
table  and  turned  to  the  door.  The  doctor  stood  there  silently  and  she 
passed  out.  He  sat  down  by  the  side  of  the  bed,  his  head  between  his 
hands. 

Many  hours  passed  and  the  doctor  still  sat  there  thus.  The  boy 
had  eaten  some  food  and  had  lain  down  beside  the  woman  and  gone  to 
sleep.  After  a  while  the  woman  gave  a  movement  and  turned.  The 
doctor  rose  in  expectancy  and  waited.  The  woman's  eyes  opened  and 
she  saw  him. 

"Jim,"  she  said,  smiling  contentedly. 


416  The  Havertordian 

"Mary,"  he  whispered  hurriedly,  "tell  me  quick, — whose  boy  is  he?" 
"Ours,"  she  said,  looking  up  at  him  lovingly.      "Yours  and  mine: 
our  Jim." 

—Russell  N.  Miller,  '19. 


Wo  tfje  Wi\\i  (§raj>  (gcejse 

Into  the  velvet  black  of  night 

I  search  with  longing  gaze,  from  under  dripping  eaves, 

Counting  the  gleams  of  the  Pharo's  light. 

Thick  holly  trees  rustling  gently  round  about 

Envelop  the  lonely  house,  while  shadows  in  a  rout 

Whirl  o'er  the  weathered  eastern  side 

As  rhythmic  shafts  of  light,  beacon  sent, 

Flash  and  fade,  silent  as  a  turning  tide. 

In  undertones  across  the  bay  deep  roars  the  distant  ocean; 

No  stir  of  wind — yet  giant  swells  roll  in  with  listless  motion. 

Hark!   From  the  South  comes  a  call 
Full  to  my  listening  ear; 
A  clarion  note,  now  harsh,  now  clear, 
And  its  melody  breaks  to  a  harmony. 
Wild  and  scattered  and  near. 
Then  far,  to  a  soothing  symphony; 
And  I  know,  though  I  cannot  see. 
Through  the  dark  there  sails  a  V, — 
A  speeding  north-turned  wedge  on  wing, 
Calling,  question-asking,  full  of  Spring. 

So  on  and  on  through  clouds  and  gloom. 

Over  moorlands  brown,  by  cliffs  where  breakers  boom, 

Swift  of  flight  and  strong  of  pinion, 

They  seek  their  home,  their  wild  dominion. 

L' Envoi 
Faint  call,  clear  call. 
Call  that  stirs  my  breast, — 
Honk  of  the  wild  gray  geese 
And  all  Spring's  vague  unrest. 

—D.  C.  Wendell,  '16. 


©reams  ^fjat  ^eber  Come  tKrue 

JOHN  was  in  a  dreadful  hurry.  At  this  inopportune  moment  the 
collar  button  which  normally  occupied  the  opening  in  the  rear  of 
his  neck-band  fell  to  the  floor  and  bounded  beneath  the  dressing- 
table.  John  was  not  a  profane  man  normally,  but  we  are  all  human  and 
John  mumbled  several  words  which  his  wife,  waiting  patiently  some 
distance  away,  fortunately  did  not  hear,  for  John  was  an  elder  in  the 
church  besides  being  a  Sunday-school  superintendent  and  manager  of 
the  firm  of  Duds  and  Tyes,  Haberdashers. 

"Do  hurry,  John,"  groaned  Mrs.  John  patiently. 

The  hero  of  this  tale,  however,  was  groping  under  the  dark  recess 
which  almost  all  furniture  possesses  beneath  it  under  certain  circum- 
stances of  illumination,  and,  being  unable  to  answer  orally  because  of 
the  dust,  he  wiggled  one  foot  in  approbation  of  his  wife's  sentiments  and 
continued  his  search.  At  length  the  coUarless  form  emerged  from  the 
depths,  bearing  in  triumph  the  elusive  article  of  male  attire.  Sad, 
sad  to  relate,  however,  the  shirtfront  was  streaked  with  foreign  matter, 
making  necessary  a  change  of  that  instrument  of  torture. 

At  last  he  was  ready.  His  spotless  tie  was  the  only  article  neces- 
sary to  complete  a  spotless  appearance.  Just  as  he  was  at  the  critical 
point  in  the  management  of  the  bow  and  walking  back  and  forth  over 
the  Turkish  rug,  he  trod  upon  that  section  of  space  where  the  rug  ceased 
and  the  nicely  waxed  floor  began.  Not  only  was  the  accomplished  bow 
an  achievement  yet  to  be  accomplished,  but  several  square  inches  of 
polish  was  removed  from  the  Jacobean  table  in  the  process  which  Mr. 
John  followed  in  making  the  rapid,  not  to  say  ungraceful,  journey  from 
the  normal  upright  to  the  normal  reclining  position.  A  new  shirt  was 
imperative. 

Just  then  the  telephone  rang  and  John  hastened  to  answer,  leaving 
Mrs.  John  in  a  condition  intermediate  between  convulsions  and  tears. 
It  was  a  mistake.  They  didn't  want  John's  house  at  all.  The  oper- 
ator called  it  a  mistake,  but  what  Mr.  John  called  it  cannot  be  printed. 
On  the  way  back  to  his  chamber  he  pulled  out  his  watch.  It  was  just — 
the  watch  was  stopped. 

He  pulled  on  the  coat  with  his  superbly  white  teeth  gritted  in  a 
savage  grin.  But,  in  spite  of  all,  a  gleam  of  sunshine  suddenly  broke 
over  his  intelligent  countenance.  The  triumph  that  was  to  be  his  was 
at  hand.  In  a  crested  box,  tied  with  black  and  white  ribbon,  was  the 
hat  of  the  year.  Made  by  a  London  hatter,  and  imported  for  this  occa- 
sion, it  was  to  be  the  climax  of  the  manager's  appearance  at  the  opera. 


418  The  Haverfoedian 

He  gamboled  to  the  table  where  the  box  crowned  his  various  tobacco 
jars  and  books.  He  fingered  it  with  loving  touch.  With  systematic 
method  he  cut  the  sealing  ribbon.  He  removed  the  lid,  revealing  masses 
of  pink  tissue  paper.  With  delight  he  delved  into  the  mass  and  pulled 
out — a  brown  derby. 

The  grandfather's  clock  in  the  hall  below  struck  ten  times.  Mr. 
John,  however,  stood  as  if  transfixed  with  horror.  He  gulped  three 
times,  but  words  failed  him.  A  sound  broke  upon  his  wounded  soul. 
It  was  the  dulcet  but  sarcastic  voice  of  his  wife.  For  a  time  he  could 
not  fathom  the  meaning  of  the  words  she  spoke.  Gradually,  very  grad- 
ually, he  grasped  the  sense  of  what  she  said.     Again  she  repeated  them. 

"Oh,  fiddlesticks!    Let's  stay  home." 

Mr.  John  awoke  with  a  start.  He  reached  for  his  watch.  Ten 
o'clock.  He  walked  to  the  hall  and  looked  up  the  stairs  with  malice  in 
his  eyes.  A  rustle  of  silk  could  be  distinguished  by  a  very  careful  lis- 
tener. Mrs.  John  appeared  at  the  head  of  the  stairs  in  all  the  glory  of 
her  finery. 

"Think  I'm  going  to  anything  this  time  of  the  night?  I'm  going  to 
stay  home." 

Mrs.  John  broke  into  tears  as  Mr.  John  started  the  Victrola.  Tears 
always  grated  on  Johh's  nerves,  and  somehow  that  confounded  dream 
clung  to  his  inner  consciousness. 

"All  right.  Let's  go  in  town  and  have  something  to  eat  at  Spoofin's, 
dear,"  he  said. 

—H.  P.  Schenck,  '18. 


;at  tf)c  Cnb  of  tfjr  23a|> 

"And  I  say  unto  thee  that  thou  shall  find  blessed  calm  and  perfect  peace  at 

the  end  of  the  day." 

Characters 

A  Saxon  doctor,  in  the  service  of  the  German  Army. 
His  aide,  a  Prussian. 

Henri  Guyon,  a  corporal  in  the  34th  Infantry. 
Dying  soldiers. 

The  scene  is  laid  in  that  portion  of  what  was  the  first  line  of  the  French, 
now  in  the  hands  of  the  Germans.  All  over  the  stage  lie  soldiers  in  the 
throes  of  death,  or  some  only  slightly  wounded.  Groans  are  heard  now  and 
then  all  through  the  action.  A  doctor,  kneeling,  is  bending  over  a  soldier: 
his  aide  stands  erect  at  his  side,  as 

The  curtain  rises. 
Doctor.    See  this  man  here? 
Aide.     I  do,  sir! 
Doctor.  I'm  afraid 

He'll  never  fight  again  in  his  brigade. 

A  hemorrhage — he's  in  a  hopeless  plight. 

{He  moves  on  a  few  feet  to  the  next.) 

It  was  a  foolish  but  heroic  fight. 
Aide.    What  I  can't  understand  is  why  retreat 

Was  not  resorted  to  ...  As  for  defeat  .  .  . 

We  all  do  meet  it  once  .  .  . 
The  Doctor  {carried  away  by  his  admiration  for  the  plucky  soldiers). 
Because  the  French 

Will  never  leave  the  enemy  a  trench, 

Because  a  Frenchman's  blood  within  him  boils 

If  he  before  the  enemy  recoils. 

Because — it  matters  not  how  great  the  pinch — 

A  Frenchman  dies  before  he  yields  an  inch. 
Aide.     Doctor,  come  let  us  save  another  life ; 

We  better  go  where  you  can  use  your  knife 

In  better  cause.     A  German  yonder  lies  .  .  . 
Doctor.     Silence!     My  life  work  is  higher  to  rise 

Than  petty  race  distinction.     I  discriminate! 

Thank  God  that  far  above  all  hate 

My  mission  is.     I  try  to  save  all  life. 


420  The  Haverfordian 

All  men  my  brothers  are,  e'en  though  the  strife 

Which  Germany,  God  bless  her !  now  does  wage, 

Makes  others  only  German  pain  assuage. 

{A  silence.     The  doctor  moves  on  from  man  to  man  until  he  has  ex- 
amined all  those  on  the  stage.) 

Now  we'll  pass  on.     This  poor  man  cannot  brace  .  .  . 

And  soon  he'll  meet  his  Maker  face  to  face. 

(Another  silence.     Now  and  then  a  soldier  stirs.    Groans  everywhere.) 
A  soldier.     Brother,  I  die, — 

Another.    The  "Boches"  our  trenches  cross'd  .  .  , 
The  first.     Our  fight  was  glorious  and  if  we  lost 

'Tis  fine  to  fight  as  we.     A  thousand  died  .  .  . 
A  third.     Good  Lord! 
Another.     What  agony! 
The  second.     I  die! 
The  first.  My  side 

Is  bleeding  .     .  . 
The  second.     O,  the  yawning  wide  expanse 

Of  my  wound  .  .  . 
Henri.  Noble  blood  of  dearest  France! 

Magnificently  shed  to  save  .  .  . 
The  first.    Thank  God,  on  French  soil  we  will  find  a  grave, 

Wherein  to  lie !     O  France!  .  .  .  a  million  dead. 

I'm  faint.     I  cannot  move!  .  .  .  Ohelp!  .  .  .  my  head! 

(Another  silence.      Two  of  the  soldiers  have  fallen  back;    the  death- 
rattle  of  one  is  heard.) 
The  first  (rising  up  suddenly).     Dupont!     Farewell,  Dupont!     Dupont! 

I'm  done  .  .  . 

(He  falls  back.) 
Henri.    Thus  to  have  lost  is  really  to  have  won  .  .  . 

I'm  done.     I've  fought  for  many  weary  hours. 

Thank  God,  I  die  where  erstwhile  were  French  fiow'rs. 

Farewell,  dear  son!   I  come,  O  loving  wife! 

Good-bye  to  all !  Good-bye !   I  leave  this  life ! 

(The  bell  of  an  ambulance-car  rings.) 

What's  that?    I  hear  an  ambulance-car's  bell  .  .  . 

My  life  was  but  a  many -sounding  knell ! 

What  time  is  it?    A  bullet  in  my  breast 

Is  lodg'd  ...  I'm  tired  .  .  .  peace  and  calm  ...  a  rest  .  .  . 

What  was  it  I  just  said?  .  .  .  Ah  yes!  the  bell. 

My  life  was  but  a  many-sounding  knell. 


At  the  End  of  the  Day  421 

The  first  that  I  remember  was  at  home, 
Where — happy,  careless  lad ! — I  used  to  roam 
Amid  the  Gascon  pastures  green  and  sweet, 
Loving  to  hear  the  herd's  low  and  the  bleat 
Of  lost,  wandering,  and  far-straying  sheep  .  .  ^ 

Lord  Jesu !  God !   I  pray  my  soul  to  keep. 

(He  guffaws  as  he  says  with  all  the  bonhomie  and  rough  wit  of  a  "pion- 
pion"). 

Sweet  bells!    Ah,  life,  it  is  absurd  .  .  . 

That — playing  youth — I  loved  the  sound  of  bell, 

And  to  that  music  I  will  march  to  hell. 

I  hear  the  shepherd's  music  in  the  shade, 

Regardless  of  the  careless  sheep  that  stray'd. 

I  hear  the  tired  flute-player's  loud  wheeze; 

I  hear  the  winds  make  music  in  the  trees  ... 

I  hear  the  southern  tunes  and  anthems  wild ; 

I  hear  the  songs  I  sang,  a  little  child. 

And  as  this  mem'ry  my  soul  agitates 

It  is  the  heart  of  France  that  palpitates 

Within  me;  and  into  my  weary  soul. 

Comes  all  the  beauty  of  a  Gascon  knoll. 

With  Gascon  grass  and  Gascon  sunshine  fraught  .  .  . 

It  .  .  .  indeed  ...  a  glorious  fight  ...  we  fought. 

I  hear  the  bell  that  summoned  us  to  church ; 

I  see  the  peasant  girls  without  a  smirch 

On  their  best  Sunday  dresses.    Ah  ...  I  see  .  .  . 

The  whole  dear  little  village  .  .  .  comes  to  me. 

I  hear  the  kind  old  cut€  read  the  mass; 
The  more  he  reads,  I  listen  less,  alas! 
My  eyes  around  me  wander  till  I  spot 
My  Ermintruda  ...  I  loved  her  a  lot  .  .  . 
And  pretty  Ermintruda  was  my  bride. 
She  walk'd  up  to  the  altar  at  my  side. 
Ah !  wedding  bells !   your  music  God  above 
Pleases  .  .  .  and  to  the  blessings  on  our  love 
He  adds  the  hope  that  soon  a  little  son 


422  The  Haverfordian 

To  us  will  be:  and  our  sweet  love,  begun 
Under  a  bright,  clear,  and  auspicious  star, 
No  earthly  cares  or  troubles  e'er  will  mar. 

I  hear  the  bells  ring  as  the  priest  baptized 
My  son,  my  dear  Jean,  whom  I  idolized. 
Sweet  bells  of  innocence  and  purity, 
I  hear  you  now  in  my  obscurity. 

The  bells!   I  hear  the  bells!   Dear  Christ!   I  die! 

The  bells!   Brass  bells  of  death!  Alas,  I  lie 

Upon  the  ground  ...  in  awful  pain  .  .  .  and  pray 

That  merciful  death  soon  will  come  my  way. 

The  bells  .  .  .  my  blood  ...  a  word  .  .  .  my  soul  .  .  .  O  France, 

I  have  indeed  enjoyed  this  pretty  dance 

You  led  me  .  .  .  O  dire  death!  .  .  .  What  should  I  fear? — 

Jean,  darling  Jean,  I  feel  you  drawing  near. 

Come,     come  .  .  .  Ermintruda  .  .  .  my  wife  .  .  .  my  son  .  .  . 

O,  will  you  praise  me  for  the  work  I've  done? 

Good-bye,  dear  friends  .  .  .  Good-bye  ...  we  meet  again, 

Where  brave  men  dwell  ...  in  calm  .  .  .  together  .  .  .  pain, 

Ah,  death!  ...  I  cannot  breathe  .  .  .  and  it  compels  .  .  . 

The  bells,  the  bells,  the  bells,  the  bells,  the  bells. 

— J.  G.  Clemenceau  Le  Clercq,  '18. 


Morning  bell  and  whistle  shrill 
Summon  me  at  break  of  day 
To  the  factory  on  the  hill; — 
Place  I  take  at  shrieking  drill. 
There  to  eke  my  life  away. 

No  comrades — just  me  alone; 
There  to  work  and  ne'er  to  play. 
While  the  wheels  and  levers  moan, 
Bodies  sweat  and  spirits  groan. — 
Here  I  eke  my  life  away. 

Morning  bell  and  whistle  shrill, — 
Will  my  labors  never  cease? 
Will  I  work  and  work,  until. 
Stricken  with  a  fatal  ill, 
I  earthward  turn  for  peace? 

There's  the  cough — it's  growing  worse. 

Dust  has  settled  in  my  lung. 

Well — Sheehan  has  a  pretty  hearse — . 

/  didn't  think  Fd  ever  curse 

The  place  Fd  got  to,  rung  by  rung. 

It's  hot  in  here — so  blasting  hot; 
But  I  must  hold  the  iron  tool, — 
A  slip  means  death — but  still  Fm  not 
So  shaky  at  the  awful  thought. — 
The  earth  is  soft  and  cool. 

A  newsboy  once,  and  full  of  hope, 
I  faced  the  world  with  youthful  pride; 
I  didn't  smoke  and  didn't  tope. 
The  people  said  Fd  climb  the  rope. 
But  now  I  wish  Fd  died! 

It  seems  an  awful  thing  to  say 
With  me  a-holdin'  down  a  job 
At  sixty  per  fur  nine  a  day. 


424  The  Havertordian 

It  ain't  the  hours,  it  ain't  the  pay, 
That  makes  my  temples  throb. 

It's  just  the  thought  of  bein'  here 
Fur  every  day — fur  every  day, — 
Without  no  hope — without  no  cheer, — 
Drat  the  sweat — that  wa'n't  a  tear. 
It's  just  the  same — the  same  alway. 

They  say  that  some  go  loony  by 
A  never-quit  monotony. 
I  may  too,  before  I  die. — 
But  now  my  throat  is  awful  dry. 
And  drink  don't  satisfy. 

Then — there  is  Mary  and  the  kid. 
I'd  work  a  million  years  fur  them! — 
Still, — there's  my  life  insurance  hid. 
That's  one  good  thing,  at  least,  I  did 
Fur  Mary  and  fur  Lem. 

I  wonder  will  she  think  of  me 
When  I  am  gone?   She  will  not  rave 
Nor  weep  hysterical.    I  see 
Her  cryin'  quiet-like,  as  she 
Transplants  a  pansy  on  my  grave. 

Well,  here  I  am  a-talkin  like 
I  was  a  corpse  without  no  life. 
Pluck  up  a  bit,  you  clumsy  kike! 
I'll  turn  the  kid  a  wooden  bike; 
'Twill  tickle  him  atid  please  the  wife. 
******** 

Morning  bell  and  whistle  shrill. 
Have  you  no  pity  in  your  sound? 
Dost  note  the  workman  stark  and  still. 
Who  lies  so  white  upon  the  hill? 
Think' st  thou  his  peace  is  found? 

— Robert  Gibson,  '17. 


^mong  ttje  Mt^  iBoofes!  in  tfje  Hibrarp 

THIS  period  of  the  year  iisuallN-  brings  a  dearth  of  good  fiction, 
but  the  Library,  contrary  to  its  custom,  has  added  to  its  supply. 
"The  Haunters  of  the  Silences,"'  by  Charles  G.  D.  Roberts, 
is  an  interesting  portrayal  of  the  ways  of  wild  animals,  and  is  similar  to 
the  author's  "Kindred  of  the  Wild,"  published  several  years  ago. 

A  Haverfordian  has  presented  us  with  a  copy  of  his  works,  viz: 
"A  History  of  English  Literature,""  by  Walter  S.  Hinchman,  of  the  Class 
of  1900.  All  periods  of  English  literature  are  covered,  from  Anglo- 
Saxon  times  down  to  the  present.  Stress  is  laid  on  the  facts  of  English 
literature  by  outlining  the  lives  of  the  authors,  no  attempt  being  given 
to  an  interpretation  of  their  works. 

With  this  work  on  English  literature  is  another  of  almost  equal 
interest  on  "American  Literature  since  1870,"^  by  Prof.  F.  L.  Pattee. 
No  other  book  quite  covers  that  period  of  our  literary  history  which  is 
distinctly  American.  The  changing  spirit  of  the  country  since  the 
Civil  War  is  traced  in  the  writings  of  our  great  authors.  The  chapters 
on  Mark  Twain,  Walt  Whitman,  and  "The  Shifting  Currents  of  Fiction" 
are  most  interesting. 

"Our  Philadelphia,"*  by  E.  R.  Pennell  and  Joseph  Pennell,  is  a 
book  to  thoroughly  enjoy.  It  is  a  collection  of  reminiscences  of  Old 
Philadelphia,  characterized  as  the  "most  distinctive  city  in  America." 
Inserted  are  several  hundred  sketches  by  Joseph  Pennell,  and  these 
recall  sections  of  the  new  Philadelphia,  familiar  to  all. 

Another  gift  to  the  Library  is  a  copy  of  "Disguise  Plots  in  Eliza- 
bethan Drama,"'  by  Dr.  V.  O.  Freeburg.  It  is  pointed  out  that  the  use 
of  the  disguise  motive  forces  itself  into  all  literatures,  and  in  the  Eliza- 
bethan drama  this  use  is  particularly  extensive.  Over  four  hundred 
plots  are  discussed  with  various  forms  of  disguises. 

These  are  a  few  of  the  more  interesting  books  in  the  New  Case. 
Scattered  in  among  volumes  on  missions  and  Quaker  biography  are  a 
few  books  of  travel,  a  distinctly  new  departure.  "Through  Persia  in 
a  Motor  Car"  and  "Travels  in  Alaska  with  John  Muir"  appear  to  be 
the  most  promising.  A  new  play  by  John  Masefield,  "The  Faithful," 
also  relieves  the  biography  above  mentioned.  "The  House  on  Henry 
Street,"  judging  from  its  title,  would  give  promise  of  a  lively  best  seller, 
but  one  finds  the  title  merely  a  disguise  plot  to  a  book  on  social  work. 

— Edmund  T.  Price,  '17. 

1.  L.  C.  Page  Co..  Boston. 

2.  The  Century  Company. 

3.  The  Century  Company. 

4.  Lippincott. 

5.  Columbia  University  Press. 


THE  UNEASY  CHAIR 


WHEN  the  Uneasy  Chair  heard  the  news  it  squeaked  and  groaned. 
"  Do  I  have  to  bear  your  weight  for  another  term?"  it  sighed, 
and  then  it  squeaked  and  groaned  a  great  deal  more.  Sorry 
to  cause  the  patient  creature  so  much  mental  anguish,  I  dusted  it  gently 
with  my  coatsleeve  in  the  hope  of  lulling  it  into  its  customary  long- 
suffering  silence.  Having  heard  much  of  the  quieting  effects  of  judicious 
rubbing  of  mules'  necks,  dogs'  ears,  and  cats'  paws,  I  applied  this  simple 
home  remedy  to  the  Chair — for  it  too  is  a  quadruped,  in  spite  of  hard 
usage.  I  stroked  it  gently  on  the  neck,  behind  the  ears,  and  all  the 
places  a  little  boy  hates  to  have  washed,  but  beyond  a  plentiful  accumu- 
lation of  black  dust,  my  efforts  were  in  vain.  The  Chair  seemed  actually 
to  be  weeping.  Incredulous,  I  looked  around  to  ascertain  the  cause  of 
the  good  article's  grief.  Wendell  and  Dunlap,  our  Senior  members, 
were  waving  farewell  to  the  Chair.  The  call  of  the  Diploma  was  upon 
them.  The  loyal  old  Chair  was  bobbing  and  beckoning  in  return,  as  if 
in  acknowledgment  of  services  rendered.  As  the  forms  of  the  depart- 
ing editors  passed  out  of  sight  another  figure  entered  by  the  door  marked 
"Admission  Only  on  Business."  The  Chair  brightened  visibly,  and 
after  introducing  Walter  S.  Nevin,  '18,  to  the  members  of  the  mystic 
circle,  it  motioned  the  newcomer  to  a  vacant  chair  with  the  caption 
"W'elcome"  above  it.  All  was  silent  for  a  moment.  Then  in  through 
the  office  burst  the  mighty  E.  R.  Moon. 

"Good-bye,  fellows!"  It  came  like  a  blow.  Ed  attempted  to  be 
gruff, — but  ah  !  Ed  has  a  kindly  and  a  sympathetic  nature  concealed  in 
that  Spartan  frame.  The  brusque  farewell  ended  with  a  cough,  and 
Ed's  face  was  suffused  with  that  famous  smile  as  he  handed  over  the 
business  keys  to  Art  Spellissy.  Then  knock!  knock!  knock!  like  the 
tapping  on  the  gate  in  "Macbeth,"  and  in  came  another  famous  smile, 
which  none  could  mistake  for  other  than  that  of  H.  B.  Brodhead,  '17. 
Beal  walked  over  to  a  very  new  little  desk  labeled  "Subscription  Mana- 
ger," which  had  been  out  of  use  for  a  long  time.  But  Beal  seated  him- 
self with  an  air  of  propriety  and  raised  the  rasping  cover. 

I  continued  to  dust  the  Chair  subconsciously.  A  long  period  of 
silence  followed,  and  — Z-z-z-z — was  that  a  snore?  I  looked  in  astonish- 
ment at  the  Chair.     Yes — it  was  asleep.       Its  eyes  were  fast  shut  and 


Difficulties  '      427 

its  lower  lip  protruded  just  like  the  picture  of  the  giant's  head  after 
Jack  cut  it  off.  "I'm  ashamed  of  you,  Chair,"  I  started  to  say,  but 
checked  myself  in  lime.  If  it  would  sleep,  why  disturb  it?  For  it 
needed  rest  so  badly,  don't  you  know. 

"Well,  fellows,  we're  ofT  again.     What  about  a  motto?" 
"Well,"    drawled    a    sleepy    voice    from    a   corner,    "what's     that 
about.: — 

"Dauntless  the  slug  horn  to  my  lips  I  set " ? 


difficulties! 

A  pool's  surface  gleams  brighter  in  the  sun 
When  breezes  ripple  o'er  it;  brooks  sing  proud 
Their  gayest  tune,  when  they  o'er  great  rocks  run; 
The  landscape  is  ennobled  with  a  cloud: 
E'en  so  the  soul's  dull  mirror  shines  more  bright 
When  ruffled  by  misfortune;  streams  of  life 
All  tuneless  flow  till  rocks  of  fate  they  fight; 
Perfecting  shades  in  spiritual  world  are  rife. 
The  finest  trees  grow  close  in  forest  clustered, 
Upspringing  skyward  through  obstructed  growth; 
The  barest  cliffs  with  columbines  are  lustered; 
From  bleak  sands  the  mirage  to  flee  is  loth: 
So  souls  opposed  to  souls  together  grow. 
In  stoniest  ways  the  love  of  God  will  show. 

— Charles  Hartshorne,   '19. 


JLUMNI 


We  regret  to  announce  the  sad 
death  of  Paul  C.  Hendricks,  '15, 
who  was  burned  to  death  in  the 
hotel  fire  at  Atlantic  City,  N.  J. 
Death  in  any  case  is  awful,  but 
the  death  of  one  who  had  just 
entered  upon  his  life's  career 
touches  us  with  more  than  ordinary 
sadness.  Paul  Hendricks  was  a 
man  well-beloved  of  all  who  knew 
him. 

He  came  to  Ha\-erford  from 
Mercersburg  Academy;  was  a  cor- 
poration scholar  during  Freshman 
and  Sophomore  years;  was  a  mem- 
ber of  the  Glee  Club  and  Cap  and 
Bells  during  Sophomore,  Junior, 
and  Senior  years;  was  on  the  cast 
of  the  play  called  "The  Import- 
ance of  Being  Earnest,"  Sopho- 
more year;  was  Assistant  Business 
Manager  of  the  Class  Record;  and 
was  Class  Secretary  during  Senior 
year. 

The  first  dinner  of  the  Chicago 
Haverford  Alumni  occurred  on  the 
same  night  on  which  the  Alumni 
dinner  at  Philadelphia  was  held — 
January  29th.  Sixteen  Haver- 
fordians  were  present,  ranging  from 
Charles  Tatum,  '53,  to  the  Class  of 
1915.  This  organization  was 
formed  in  order  that  visiting  Hav- 
erfordians  might  get  in  touch  with 


Chicago  men,  and  that  the  name 
of  Ha\erford  might  be  better 
known  in  Chicago.  The  officers 
elected  were  A.  C.  "Wild,  '99, 
president;  Wm.  G.  Audenreid,  '90, 
secretary  and  treasurer.  The  as- 
sociation will  meet  on  the  third 
Monday  of  each  month  at  the 
l^niversity  Club  of  Chicago. 

Alumni  annual  banquet  was  held 
January  29th  at  the  Bellevue- 
Stratford,  Philadelphia.  Charles 
J.  Rhoads,  '93,  acted  as  toast- 
master.  President  Sharpless  was 
one  of  the  speakers.  David  Bisp- 
ham,  '76,  sang    for  the  gathering. 

The  Alumni  Association  of  New 
England  held  its  annual  dinner  at 
the  Lombardy  Inn,  Boston,  on 
February  18th.  Walter  S.  Hinch- 
man,  '00,  acted  as  toastmaster. 
Speeches  were  made  by  President 
Sharpless  and  President  A.  Law- 
rence Lowell  of  Harvard.  Among 
those  present  were  Reuben  Col- 
ton,  '76,  President  of  the  Associa- 
tion; Henrv  Baily,  '78;  S.  K. 
Gifford,  '76;  J.  H.  Gifford,  '79; 
P.  C.  Gifford,  '13;  Theodore  Rich- 
ards, '85;  Charles  P.  Wadsworth, 
'11;  N.  F.  Hall,  '13;  W.  E.  Vail, 
'15;  J.  V.  Van  Sickle,  '13;  D.  B. 
Van    Hollen,    '15;    Yoshio    Nitobe 


The  Alumni 


429 


'15;  G.  H.  Hallett,  Jr.,  '15;  E.  S. 
Cadbury,  '10;  W.  \V.  Cadbury, 
'98;  C.  T.  Cottrell,  '90;  F,  M. 
Eshleman,  '00;  B.  F.  Eshlcman, 
'67;  C.  N.  Sheldon,  '04. 

President  Sharpless  .spoke  before 
the  MiHtary  Committee  of  the 
House  of  Representatives  at  Wash- 
ington, on  February  9th,  against 
further  miUtary  and  na\al  pre- 
paredness. 

C.  C.  Morris,  '04,  and  \V.  R. 
Rossmaessler,  '07,  entertained  our 
Intercollegiate  Soccer  Champion- 
ship team  at  a  banquet  at  the 
Merion  Golf  Club,  February  10th. 
As  many  Alumni  were  present  as 
undergraduates.  Certificates  of 
'Varsity  "H's"  served  as  place 
cards  for  the  members  of  the  team. 
C.  C.  Morris  acted  as  toastmaster. 
Dr.  R.  M.  Gummere  on  behalf  of 
a  committee  of  Alumni  and  others 
presented  each  'Varsity  man,  and 
Manager  Maxwell,  with  gold  soccer 
balls  about  one-half  inch  in  diam- 
eter. Speeches  were  made  by 
President  Sharpless,  who  was  guest 
of  honor;  Captain  Cary,  '16;  J.  H. 
Scattergood,  '96;  A.  S.  Cookman, 
'02;  A.  G.  Priestman,  'OS;  S.  W. 
Mifflin,  '00;  and  VV.  R.  Rossmaess- 
ler, '07. 

We  quote  from  the  Haverford 
News  of  Februar\-  15th  : 

"On  Monday,  February  7th,  Dr. 
Rufus  M.  Jones  delivered  in  Kings 
Chapel,  Boston,  a  Lowell  Institute 


lecture  on  the  Quakers  and  their 
contribution  to  the  religious  life  of 
New  England.  This  was  one  of 
the  series  of  lectures  on  the  leading 
religious  denominations  of  New 
England  which  had  been  arranged 
for  one  of  the  Lowell  Institute 
courses  for  the  winter.  Dr.  Jones 
also  gave  a  number  of  other  ad- 
dresses in  Boston  and  Cambridge 
during  the  period  of  his  \-isit." 

The  following  Haverfordians  are 
active  in  the  civic  affairs  of  the 
College  neighborhood:  Alfred  M. 
Collins,  '97,  President  of  the  Main 
Line  Citizens'  Association ;  Presi- 
dent Sharpless,  member  of  the 
Committee  on  Law  and  Order 
Legislation;  R.  M.  Gummere,  '02, 
member  of  the  Committee  on  Parks 
and  Pla}-grounds;  Jonathan  M. 
Steere,  '90,  Chairman  of  the 
Finance  Committee;  Edwin  M. 
Wilson,  '94,  member  of  the  Finance 
Committee;  Charlton  Yarnall,  '84, 
member  of  the  Committee  on  Law 
and  Order  Legislation;  Dr.  A. 
Lo\'ett  Dewees,  '01,  member  of 
the  Relief  Committee;  John  L. 
Scull,  '05,  member  of  the  Village 
Impro\ement  Committee. 

The  following  humorous  poem 
was  found  by  Wm.  Ellis  Scull, 
'83,  among  some  old  papers  be- 
longing to  his  father.  Its  date 
and  author  are  unknown. 

At  bright  and  glorious  Haverford, 
Near  twenty  years  ago, 


430 


The  Haverfordian 


Vacations  ran  full  rapidly, 

And  sessions  all  ran  slow; 
Then  Smith  ground  us  in  Ethics, 

And  Gummere  in  Surveying, 
And  Dennis  did  Jugurtha, 

While  the  Juniors  did  the  playing. 
The  Seniors  studied  hard  and  late, 

For  Private  'Xaniination, 
And  got  themselves  {in  Augtcst) 

Into  mental  perspiration; 
And  in  their  dormitories, 

With  a  bed-quilt  o'er  the  door, 
They  burned  the  midnight  tallow  dip, 

To  light  the  hidden  lore 
Of  Euripides  and  Calculus,  and 

When  the  halls  were  quiet, 
Would  meet  below  in  classrooms, 

To  forage  for  some  diet. 
'Twos  then  milk  toast  did  suffer. 

And  Cas'tner  pies  of  mince. 
With  ginger  pop  and  lemonade 

Their  thirsty  throats  to  rinse. 
But  noiv,  Fm  told,  the  provender 

That  "Mater"  gives  her  chicks 
Is  edible,  and  " chicken  feed" 

No  more  with  "lerse"  they  mix: 
Then,  when  a  batch  of  sour  bread 

Was  baked,  we  were  unable 
To  get  more  till  'twas  eaten, 

Or  we  "loafed"  it  from  the  table. 
Those  were  "Hard  Times"  for  some 
of  us, 

Aye,  "Hardy"  times  were  they, 
When  we  were  watched,  like  little  mice 

For  cunning  cat  the  prey. 
The  chamber  door  at  top  of  stairs 

Was  left  'most  times  ajar, 
To  catch  the  first  faint  mutterings 

Of  distant  civil  war; 
But  sometimes,  when  the  blue  specs. 

Beyond  the  jamb  were  seen, 


A  quick  discharge  of  Hessian  boots 

Would  drive  them  in  again. 
At  last,  one  stormy  session, 

Each  night  the  din  waxed  loud, 
The  Faculty  was  nonplussed, 

The  officers  seemed  cowed; 
The  boots  flew  right,  the  boots  flew  left. 

And  lights  were  put  all  out, 
And  whistling,  singing,  screeching 

Made  a  veritable  rout. 
Friend  Davis  then  determined 

To  see  what  could  be  done, 
To  catch  the  leaders  in  the  act 

Of  this  high-handed  fun. 
There's  a  dormitory  vacant 

Right  in  the  battleground; 
'Tis  chosen  by  his  Corpulence, 

While  on  his  daily  round. 
At  eleven  at  night  when  "glims  are 
doused," 

He  fastens  down  the  latch; 
The  boys  expectant  stand  at  doors 

The  grand  finale  to  watch. 
Why  watch  they — have  they  learned 

Who  occupies  the  room? 
And  vowed  that  bed  of  daisies 

Should  befriend  Daisy's  doom? 
'Tis  silence,  save  the  heavy  feet 

Upon  that  chamber  floor; 
'  Tis  darkness,  save  the  glimmering 
light 

Over  that  chamber  door. 
The    light    is    out,    the    bedstead 
creaks 

With  unaccustomed  weight. 
First  one  slat,  then  another  slat 

Betrays  their  ticklish  state; 
A  lojig  scratch,  then  a  splurge. 

Then  a  htdging,  thundering  sound, 
A  shriek,  "'Tis  robbers!"  echoes 

Through  the  empty  halls  around. 


The  Alumni 


431 


And  bursting  in,  the  boys  do  find 
Three     hundred     weii!,ht     on    the 
ground. 
A    lamp!    quick!    quick!     or    blows 
will  fall 
On  this  devoted  head. 
A  light!  A   light!   or  trampled  soon 
Will  be  this  Daisy  bed. 

We  had  a  great  procession,  once. 

When  Hardy  ruled  the  roast; 
Of  banners,  and  of  lanterns  made  of 
melon, 

It  did  boast. 
And  through  the  woods,  and  past  the 
holes 

Left  by  the  trees,  it  wound; 
Tin  pails,  and  pans,  and  flageolets 

Sent  forth  a  hideous  sound, 
As  if  all  operatic  elves. 

That  night,  did  go  their  round. 
"Assistant  Sup"  beheld  the  sight; 

His  blue  specs,  off  he  laid, 
And  on  swift  feet  he  hied  him 

All  to  the  greenwood  shade. 
"Ah!   now,"  said  he,  "  if  only  I 

Can  catch  this  Robin  Hood, 
And  hold  him  till  the  Council  meets. 

My  service  will  be  good." 
But  ah!   without  his  blue  specs.. 

How  could  his  course  he  see? 
For  as  he  watched  the  lanterns. 

Into  a  hole  fell  he; 
The  splash  into  the  soft  ooze 

Was  heard  by  all  the  clan. 
And,  quickly  dropping  banners, 

To  the  College  Halls  they  ran; 
No  one  was  "dipped"  but  Hardy, 

Who  mostly  in  such  games, 
"  Was  under  the  necessity  of 

Taking  a  feiv  names" — 


That  night  at  Reading  and  in  Halls, 
No  more  his  face  he  shows. 

But  the  laundress  was  heard  to  speak 
Of  stiff  mud  on  his  clothes. 

And  thus  full  many  a  folio 

Of  such  matter  I'd  relate, 
But  just  now  going  a-fishing, 

I'm  in  a  hurried  state. 

Philomater. 

72 
On  Friday,  February  11th,  a 
dinner  was  given  at  the  College  by 
a  member  of  the  Class  of  '72  to 
Thomas  S.  Downing,  '72,  who  is 
spending  the  winter  with  his  sister, 
Mrs.  Godler,  near  Haverford.  The 
dinner  was  laid  in  the  small  Math, 
room,  which  was  part  of  the  old 
study-room  when  the  class  was  at 
Haverford  as  students.  Stories  of 
old  Haverford  enlivened  the  eve- 
ning, which  was  an  unusually 
pleasant  occasion.  The  members 
of  the  class  present  were  R.  T. 
Cadbury,  •  Thomas  S.  Downing, 
Dr.  F.  B.  Gummere,  W.  H.  Gib- 
bons, Wm.  M.  Longstreth,  E.  M. 
Wistar.  Prof.  A.  C.  Thomas  at- 
tended as  a  guest. 

Dr.  F.  B.  Gummere  is  to  repre- 
sent Haverford  on  a  committee  in 
charge  of  the  Shakespeare  Cele- 
bration in  colleges  and  universities 
in  Philadelphia  and  vicinity.  This 
celebration  will  be  held  during  the 
first  week  of  May. 


432 


The  Haverfordian 


'82 
George  A.  Barton  is  author  of  an 
article  entitled  "Tammuz  and 
Osiris,"  which  appeared  in  the 
December  number  of  the  Journal 
of  American  Oriental  Society. 

'87 
Frederic  H.  Strawbridge  presided 
as  a  member  of  the  firm  at  the 
Annual  Meeting  of  the  Straw- 
bridge  &  Clothier  Relief  Associa- 
tion, held  at  the  store  on  Thursday 
evening,  the  10th  of  February. 
A  word  of  greeting  from  Mr. 
Strawbridge;  two  or  three  vocal 
and  instrumental  numbers  by  mem- 
bers of  the  store  chorus  and  orches- 
tra, and  an  illustrated  lecture  by 
Dr.  Herbert  J.  Tily  (manager) 
constituted  an  interesting  program. 

'89 
Dr.  William  R.  Dunton,  Jr.,  of 
the  Sheppard  and  Enoch  Pratt  Hos- 
pital at  Towson,  Md.,  has  written 
a  book  for  nurses  which  is  published 
by  W.  B.  Saunders  Co.,  of  Philadel- 
phia. It  is  called  "Occupation 
Therapy,"  and  is  intended  to 
instruct  nurses  in  companionship 
and  in  re-education  of  mental 
invalids. 

J.    H.    Painter    is    principal    of 
Steele  High  School,  Dayton,  Ohio. 

'92 
Gilbert  J.  Palen,  M.D.,  is  author 
of  two  pamphlets  on  medical  sub- 


jects. The  first  is  entitled,  "Focal 
Infection,"  and  is  reprinted  from 
The  Hahnemannian  Monthly  of 
September,  1915.  The  other  one 
is  called  "The  Tonsil  Operation," 
being  a  reprint,  with  illustrations, 
of  an  article  in  The  Journal  of 
Ophthalmology,  Otology  and  Laryn- 
gology of  July,  1915. 

Christian  Brinton  delivered  a 
lecture  at  the  College,  February 
24th,  on  "Impressionism  and  the 
Modern  Spirit  in  Contemporary 
Painting."  Mr.  Brinton  was  Trow- 
bridge Art  Lecturer  for  1915  at 
Yale  University. 

Dr.  Henry  S.  Conard,  of  Grin- 
nell  College,  Iowa,  is  exchange 
professor  in  Botany  at  Harvard 
the  current  half-year.  An  article 
from  his  pen  appears  in  the  Feb- 
ruary W estonian  ent\t\&d,  "Botany 
and  the  Citizen." 

'96 

Dr.  T.  H.  Haines  had  an  article 
entitled,  "  Relative  Values  of  Point- 
Scale  and  Year-Scale  Measure- 
ments of  One  Thousand  Minor 
Delinquents,"  in  the  Journal  of 
Experimental  Psychology  of  Feb- 
ruary, 1916. 

'97 
A.    M.    Collins    lectured    at   the 
University    Club    of    Philadelphia, 
February    the    3rd,    on    his   South 
American  hunting  trip. 


The  Alumni 


433 


'00  AND  '02 
Walter  S.  Hinchman,  '00,  and 
C.  W.  Stork,  '02,  have  contributed 
poems  to  a  magazine  called  Con- 
temporary Verse,  published  at 
Chestnut  Hill  by  Howard  S.  Gra- 
ham, Jr.,  editor. 

'00 

A  son  was  born  on  January  21st 
to  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Walter  S.  Hinch- 
man at  their  home  at  Groton 
School,  Groton,  Mass. 

J.  Rendel  Harris  is  author  of  an 
article  entitled  "The  Place  of  the 
Woodpecker  in  Primitive  Religion," 
which  appeared  in  the  February 
number  of  the  Contemporary  Re- 
view. 

'02 
A.  G.  H.  Spiers  delivered  a 
lecture  at  the  College,  February 
9th,  on  "Two  Fundamental  Traits 
of  French  Literature."  This  was 
one  of  the  faculty  lectures.  Dr. 
Spiers  on  February  2nd  lectured  at 
West  town  Boarding  School  on 
"Idealism  in  French  Literature." 

Edward  W.  E\ans  has  resigned 
his  position  as  legal  counsel  of  the 
Bell  Telephone  Co.  in  order  to 
devote  himself  to  the  work  of  the 
Fellowship  of  Reconciliation. 


Friends'  Select  School  of  Philadel- 
phia. 

'03 
H.   J.   Cadbury   is  scheduled   to 
read  a  paper  sometime  this  spring 
before    the    Philadelphia    Classical 
Club. 

'04 
E.  T.  Snipes  has  become  associ- 
ated  with   the   law   firm   of   Kane 
and  Runk,  Philadelphia. 

'08 
James  C.  Thomas,  2nd,  is  teach- 
ing  at    Riverview   Military   Acad- 
emy of  Poughkeepsie,  N.  Y. 

'11 

Mr.  and  Mrs.  Victor  F.  Schoep- 
perle  have  recently  had  a  daughter 
born  to  them. 

'13 
Mr.  and  Mrs.  Lloyd  H.  Menden- 
hall  are   in   Cuba    working    under 
the   American    Friends'    Board    of 
Foreign  Missions. 

'14 

J.  C.  Ferguson,  3rd,  is  studying 
business  in  the  University  of  Penn- 
syh^ania  night  school. 


Wm.  V.  Dennis  was  instrumental  S.  P.  Clarke  is  taking  the  night 

in  arranging  for  the  exhibition  visit      school  law  course  at  Temple  Uni- 
f     the     College     gym.     team     to      versity. 


434 


The  Haverfordian 


'15 
E.  N.  Votaw  and  K.  P.  A.  Tay- 
lor are  working  on  the  University 
of  Pennsylvania  gym.  team. 

Edgcr  C.  Bye  has  announced 
his  engagement  to  Miss  Clara  A. 
Williamson  of  Media,  Pa.  Mr. 
Bye  is  now  teaching  English  in  the 
West  Chester  State  Ncrmal  Schcol. 

'10 

We  ha\e  received  from  Jam.es 
Whitall,  who  is  living  now  at  217 
King's  Road,  Chelsea,  London, 
S.  W.,  a  number  of  translations  of 
Greek  and  Latin  poetry  and  prose 
in  pamphlet  form.  Mr.  Whitall 
and  some  friends  are  engaged  in 
translating  these  classical  selec- 
tions for  the  sake  of  a  wider  propa- 
gation of  culture.  We  print  below 
their  prospectus. 

To  give  some  idea  of  the  nature 
of  the  contents  of  these  very  inter- 
esting pamphlets  we  quote  the 
following: 

GiROLAMO  Amaltheo  (1507-1574) 
A  Leave-Taking 

Farewell,  sun-smitten  mountain 
peaks,  farewell, shady  haunts  among 
the  valleys:  lolas  departs  from 
your  recesses.  Hapless  Tolas!  No 
more  will  you  see  the  meadows 
that  are  so  pleasant  to  the  lowing 
kine  with  odorous  marybuds  and 
marjoram. 

Hapless  lolas!  Sunk  in  the  cool 
grass  of  the  sloping  hill,  you  will  no 


longer    see    the    bullocks    warring 
fiercely  with  their  horns. 

Not  the  murmuring  of  sliding 
rills,  the  whispering  of  ilex-boughs, 
shall  soothe  you,  nor  the  wind  lure 
you  to  the  land  of  sleep. 

A  Fragment  of  Sappho 

Tlie  Stars  of  Night 

The    stars    of    night     gathered 

round    the    moon    will    veil    their 

bright   faces  when   she   grows   full 

and  lights  everything  with  silver. 

'74 
We  are  glad  to  print  the  follow- 
ing  letter   and    clipping   from    the 
Times-Star,  Cincinnati,  Ohio,   sent 
us  by  Samuel  E.  Hilles. 

Jan.  6th,  1916. 
The  Haverfordian, 

Haverford,   Pa. 
Gentlemen : — 

I  am  enclosing  a  clipping  as  to 
Warden  Osborne  at  Sing  Sing, 
which,  it  seems  to  me,  m.ight  be 
of  interest  to  your  readers. 

It  was  certainly  an  interesting 
experience  on  my  part,  to  see  the 
improved  conditions  there  under 
Mr.  Osborne's  methods,  and  the 
wider  publicity  that  can  be  given 
to  his  work  there,  in  its  new  effi- 
ciency, the  more  the  idea  will  be 
put  into  effect  elsewhere. 

The  letter  of  the  conx'ict  cam.e 
to  me  through  the  Outlook,  and  I 
endeavored  to  copy  it  \-erbatim, 
errors  and  all,  as  being  thus  more 


The  Alumni 


435 


impressive;,  so  if  you   print  it,    I 

think  this  would  be  the  best  plan. 

Very  truly, 

Sam'i,  E.  Hii.i  ks. 

Mr.  Osborne  has  written  me 
that  he  is  scheduled  to  lecture  on 
Penology  at  Yale  University.  It 
would  be  interesting  if  you  at 
Haverford  could  also  secure  him, 
for  one  or  more  addresses. 

AS  TO  WARDEN  OSBORNE  OF  SING 

SING 
To  the  Editor  of  the  Times-Sta": 

My  paper  this  evening  tells  of  the  pledge 
made  last  night  by  every  one  of  the  1,600 
men  in  Sing  Sing  prison  to  "live  up  to  the 
principles  of  the  Mutual  Welfare  league, 
and  to  continue  order  and  discipline." 

To  me,  who  spent  a  night  there  recently, 
by  appointment  with  their  Entertainment 
Committee,  and  thus,  though  a  stranger, 
now  largely  understand  the  situation,  the 
news  that  led  up  to  this  pledge  is  of  stir- 
ring interest,  and  1  wonder  if  the  West- 
chester county  authorities  have  been 
fully  justified  in  the  action  reported 
against  the  warden. 

It  is  not  so  much  that  Warden  Osborne 
is  a  grandson  of  Lucretia  Mott,  the  re- 
vered Quaker  .Abolitionist  and  preacher — 
nor  that  his  antecedents  at  .Auburn,  N.  Y., 
were  as  a  successful  manufacturer  and 
respected  citizen;  but  that  he  is  the  man 
who,  in  a  year's  time,  has  changed  a  moral 
pesthole  into  a  self-respecting  and  mu- 
tually helping  community — prison  though 
it  be — this  it  is  that  has  appealed  to  me, 
as  to  so  many  others. 

Last  October  I  stood  in  their  mess  hall, 
where  formerly,  under  the  old  regime, 
80  guards,  with  drawn  clubs,  were  fre- 
quently unable  to  keep  order;  but  now, 
under  the  Osborne  methods,  two  or  three 
guards  only  stood  near  the  men  just  ad- 
mitted, and  the  men  were  quiet  and  or- 
derly, though  no  longer  forbidden  conver- 
sation, or  even  to  turn  their  heads  toward 
a  neighbor.  Without  fear  I  went  any- 
where among  them,  and  I  met  eyes  that 
met  me  straight,  and  hearty  hand-shakes. 
The  able-bodied  men  were  at  work.  They 
were  impri.soned  for  various  offences, 
some  of  them  serious,  but  in  no  case  did  I 
inquire.      Now,  at  least,  they  were  largely 


YOUR  CARD,  and 


— a  combination   to 
capture  a  Queen! 

$1   the  package  at: 

C.  G    WARNER'S 


a  law  unto  themselves,  in  the  best  sense — 
they  were  on  the  honor  system.  Even 
the  old  leaders  in  trouble  (and  I  met 
them)  were  proud  to  behave  themselves, 
in  their  new  sense  of  loyalty  to  the  warden, 
and  I  inspected  the  careful  records  of 
their  own  patrol  system,  which  my 
friendly  guide,  a  convict,  was  anxious  for 
me  to  understand. 

.As  one  of  the  prisoners  has  lately  writ- 
ten: "When  I  came  here  I  was  crushed 
in  spirit,  broken  in  body,  and  full  of  bit- 
terness against  everybody,  same  as  most 
of  the  men  who  came  here.  In  the  shoe 
shop  where  I  worked  were  three  keepers, 
but  the  days  could  not  be  passed  without 
fighting  with  knives  or  other  instruments 
and  sometimes  the  fights  were  very 
bloody.  We  worked  very  little,  and  we 
did  not  work  well,  and  sometimes  we 
wasted  raw  material  and  damaged  the 
State  property,  because  the  rage  and  the 
bitterness  was  so  great  in  the  man's  heart 
against  the  prison  officials  and  against 
the  society  who  sent   us  here  with  long 


436 


The  Haverfordian 


sentences,  that  we  could  not  fight  against 

our   own    feelings When    we    came 

out  again  we  were  not  a  bit  better,  but 
a  good  deal  worst,  sick,  disordered  in 
mind,  full  of  vindictiveness,  and  we 
longed  for  revenge." 

He  continues:  "About  a  year  ago  came 
Mr.  Osborne,  and  with  him  his  new  system 
and  the  league.      Mr.  Osborne  understood 

our    condition He     trusted     and 

treated  like  a  father  would  treat  his  sick 
children,  and  we  wondered  from  his 
goodness.  He  presented  us  with  his  con- 
fidence and  founded  our  faithful  friend, 
the  M.  \V.  L.  (Mutual  Welfare  League). 
A  new  epoch  is  started   with  the  league. 

It  is  a  body  of  prison  self-government 

The  new  system  of  the  league  made  a 
great  change  all  o\er  the  prison.  We  do 
not  use  drugs  any  more.  Our  excited 
temper  became  calm,  and  so  in  the  shoe 
shop  this  year  not  a  single  fight  occurred, 
and  only  a  very  few  happened  in  the  other 
shops.  Now  everybody  is  willing  to 
work,   and   do  our  work  with  care,  and 


winningly We  do   not   dream  re- 

\enges,  but  we  work  steady,  and  teach 
ourselves  to  do  good,  and  so  we  are  going 
to  show  the  people  our  real  character." 

And  when  these  trusted  men — and  all 
are  trusted  who  show  themselves  worthy 
of  it — now  go  out  from  Sing  Sing,  they 
are  .sought  by  employers  of  labor;  the 
stigma  of  prison  life  is  removed  by  their 
own  good  conduct  in  the  institution,  and 
most  of  the  600  or  more  who  are  released 
each  year  find  honest  employment  and 
are  saved  for  u.seful  li\es.  It  may  not  be 
according  to  old  ideas  of  vindictive  pun- 
ishment, which  in  so  many  cases  made  a 
confirmed  criminal  of  a  first  offender,  but 
the  gain,  by  Mr.  Osborne's  methods,  is 
tremendous,  measured  by  results — by 
men.  And  so  I  would  ask  your  readers 
to  suspend  judgment  in  this  present  case — 
to  give  at  least  some  credit  for  what  has 
been  done  at  Sing  Sing  since  Mr.  Os- 
borne took  hold,  and  to  belie\'e  that  the 
men   themselves  believe   in   him. 

S.XMUEL    E.     HiLLES. 


IN  A  PLANING  MILL--^ 
.  BELTED  WITH  .  C 
''»:     RHOADS'OILT  EDGE"! 


,J.,i]FHQADS 


BELTING 


IT  KEEPS  SO  FLEXIBLE 


The  planing  mill  pictured 
uses  Rhoads  Tannate  Lace 
Leather.  One  advantage  of 
Tannate  over  ordinary  lace 
is  that  it  keeps  tough  and 
flexible  instead  of  growing 
hard  and  brittle.  Stops 
from  broken  lace  cost  much. 
Tannate  costs  little  in  com- 
parison. 

J.  E.  Rhoads  &  Sons 

PHILADELPHIA. 
12  North  Third  Street 

NEW  YORK. 
102  Beeknian  Street 

CHICAGO, 
322  VV.  Randolph  Street 

Factory  ar.d  Tannery: 
Wilmington,  Del. 


The  Haverfordiam 


VOU  can't  go  out  in  the  market 
and  buy  printing  as  you  can 
some  commodities,  shopping  here  and 
there,  and  count  on  the  lowest  priced 
article  really  showing  the  lowest  cost. 
£ach  job  of  printing  is  a  separate 
piece  of  manufacture.  For  this  reason 
no  printer  can  tell  exactly  what  any 
job  is  worth  until  it  is  finished.  If  he 
has  to  figure  close,  somebody  is  sure  to 
lose,  and  generally  it  is  both  the  cus- 
tomer and  the  printer.  You  can't  get 
quality  and  service  that  way.  Select 
your  printer  as  you  would  your  tailor. 
The  man  who  wants  a  cheap  suit, 
cheaply  made,  goes  to  a  cheap  tailor. 
For  a  good  suit,  well  made,  you  go 
to  a  good  tailor.  You  don't  shop. 
Buy  your   printing  in  the  same  way. 

THE  Holmes  press 

J.  Linton   Engle,  Treasurer 

1336-40  Cherry  Street.     Phila. 


EVERYTHING  FOR  THE  SCHOOL  ROOM 
Printing  and  Engraving  a  Specialty 

Peckham,  Little  &  Co. 

SCHOOL  and  COLLEGE  SUPPLIES 

Commercial  Stationers 

59  EAST  ELEVENTH  STREET, 
New  York  City 

Telephone,  Stuyvesant  |  7454 

A.  G.  SPALDING  k  BROS. 

Manufacturers  of 

High  Grade  Equipment  for  all 

Athletic  Sports  and  Pastimes 

THE 


Mark 


in  the  appraisal  of  athletic  goods 

Write  for  our  Catalogue. 

1210  Chestnut  Street,        Philadelphia,  Pa. 


BROWNING,  KING 

Lokens  Iron  and  Steel  Co. 

&  CO. 

MANUFACTURERS  OF 

1524-1526  Ctestnut  Street 
Pliila<lelpliia 

STEET. 
PLAICES 

For   Boilers,  Ships, 

YOUNG  MEN'S  SUITS 

Bridges,  Etc. 

and  TOP  COATS 

First  to  make  Boiler  Plates  in  America 

Evening  Clothes 
HATS            HABERDASHERY 

A.  F.  HUSTON.  President 

C.  L.  HUSTON.  1st  Vice-President 

H.  B.  SPACKMAN,  2nd  Vice-President 

JOS.  HUMPTON,  Sec-Treas. 
CHAS.  F.  HUMPTON.  Asst.  Sec-Treas. 

When  Patronizing  Advertisers  Kindly  Mention  The  Haverfordian 


The  Haverfordian 


Good  Hair  Cutting  is  an  art.    Our  men  all  know 

how,  and  will  give  you  the  best  work  at  standard 

prices.      No  tipping  or  other  annoyances. 


13th  above  Chestnut,      Philadelphia 

Entire    Building 


/"Your 
Fountain  Pen 


Should  be  fitted  to' 
your  hand  by  a 

SPECIALIST 
All     Makes     Repaired 
Allowance  on  old  pens  exchanged  for  new 
Reclaimed  pens  at  reduced  prices 


1 


Agent  for  Waterman's  Pens    j 

'^NICHOL,    1016  CHESTNUT   STREET^ 

HARRY  HARRISON 

DEPARTMENT  STORE 

Dry  Goods,  Notions.  Clothing  and  Shoes,  Ladies' 
Millinery  and  Trimmings 


Lancaster  Ave. 


Ardmore,  Pa. 


H.  D.  REESE 

1203  Filbert  Street,  Philadelphia 

Meals 

Bell  Phone,  Filbert  2949  and  2950  Keystone  Phone,  Race  3835  and  3836 


Have   You  Visited   Haverford's 
NEW  DRUG  STORE? 

To  do  so  is  a  treat.     You  will  find  a  complete, 
high  grade  tsock. 

Prescriptions   carefully   and    accurately   com- 
pounded by  registered  pharmacists. 

Agency  for  WHITMAN'S  CANDIES 
Eastman's  Kodaks  and  Supplies 

For  prompt  and  efficient  service,  phone  Ardmore  1372 

C.  G.  WARNER,  P.  D. 

BRADBURN  &  NIGRO 

Cor.  13th  and  Sansom  Streets 
F,  H.  YOH  PHILADELPHIA 


MEN'S  GARMENTS  of  BETTER  KIND 

Made  to  Measure 

$25  to  $50 


Smedley  &  Mehl 

Lumber 
and  Coal 

BUILDING  MATERIAL 


Phones.  Nos.  1 1 00  and  1 101 


ARDMORE 


ARDMORE  HARDWARE  CO. 
ARDMORE,  PA. 

Hard\vare,  Sporting  Goods, 

Housefurnishing 

The  Dresden  Tea   Rooms 

10  East  Lancaster  Avenue,   ARDMORE,  PA. 

CANDIES,  CAKES,  ICE  CREIAM 
MAGAZINES 

Special    Prices   on   Pennants 


When    Patronizing    Advertisers    Kindly  Mention  The  Haverfordian 


The  Haverfordian 


ipilBaaii^pEi?^ 


Daniel  E.Westonj 


'wms&sE 


{prannzaiiXifitPmoA' 


^jd^^^MHsaiiiii^ 


You 


risks 


run  no  risks  on 


TARTAN  BRANDS 


Canned  Goods 

Coffee 

Macaroni 

Tea 

Olive  Oil 


Alfred  Lowry  &  Bro. 


PHILADELPHIA 


Merion  Title  and  Trust  Co.  of  Ardmore 

Incorporated  March  28,   1889. 

Capital  Paid $150,090  Surplus $125,000 

Capital  Authorized $250,000  Undivided  Profits $50,000 

Receives   Deposits  and    allows  interest   thereon,  insures  titles,  acts  as  executor, 
trustee,  guardian,  etc.;  loans  money  on  collateral  and  on  mortgage;  acts  as  agent  in 
the  purchase  and  sale  of  real  estate;  receipts  for  and  safely  keeps  wills  without  charge. 
Special  attention  given  to  settlement  of  Estates.     Safety  Deposit  Boxes  to  Rent  in 
Burglarproof  Vaults,  $3.00  to  $20.00  per  annum. 
OFFICERS: 
RICHARD  J.  HAMILTON.  President 
H.  A.  ARNOLD.  1st  Vice  President  JOHN  S.  ARNDT,  2d  Vice  President 

HORACE  W.  SMEDLEY.  Secy  H.  L.  YOCUM,  Treas.  and  Asst.  Secy 

H.  G.  KURTZ.  Asst.  Treasurer  WILLIAM  P.  LANDIS,  Trust  Officer 


JOB  PRINTING 

OF    EVERY    DESCRIPTION 
PROMPT  AND  REASONABLE 

MAIN  LINE  PRINTING  GO, 

10  ANDERSON  AVENUE 
ARDMORE,  PA. 


COLLEGE  WORK 
A  SPECIALTY 


ESTIMATES  GIVEN 
PHONE  1087 


OPEN  EVENINGS 


Bell  Phone  868 
Rates.  $2.25   to  $3.00  Per  Day 

LINCOLN 
HIGHWAY 


Rooms  with 
Private  Bath 


INN 


MODERN    APPOINTMENTS 

Every  Room  with  Outside  Light  and  Air 

No  Bar.         SALESMEN'S  DISPLAY  ROOM 

Especial  Attention  to  Automobile  Parties 

349   MAIN   STREET,     COATESVILLE,    PA. 

38  miles  west  of  Philadelphia,  on  the 
Lincoln  National  Highway. 

WM.  H.  MILLER,  Mgr. 


When  Patronizing  Advertisers  Kindl  Mention  The  Haverfordian 


The  Haverfordian 


CRANE'S    ICE  CREAM 

^      CAKES  &  PASTRIES 

are  made  under  the  most  sanitary  con- 
ditions.    Call    and    see    them    made. 

Store  and  Tea  Room,  13th  and  Sansom  Sts. 
Main  Office,  23rd  Street  below  Locust 

Special  Prices  for  Large  Orders 


Name  Registered  August  7th,  1906 


Plate  Glass 


Window  Glass 


Skylight  and  Floor  Glass.  Rolled  Cathedral,  beautiful  tints.  Embossed, 
Enameled  and  Colored  Glass.  A  full  stock  of  Plain  Window  Glass.  Every 
variety  for  Architects'  and  Builders'  Use.    A  full  line  of  Glaziers'  Diamonds. 

Beniamin  H.  Shoemaker 

205-207-209-21   N.  Fourth  St.  PHILADELPHIA 


rj'   y    Clothing 
^   _-^'^    Haberdashery 
Headwear 


JACOB  REED'S  SONS 

Personally  selected 

Outfitters 
for  Thousands  of 
Well-Dressed 
Young    Men, 

1424-1426  Chestnut  Street 
Philadelphia 


HENRY  B.    WALLACE 


Caterer  and    Confectioner 


BRYN  MAWR,    PA. 


Telephone 


Both  Phones 

WILLIAM  A.  BENDER 

The  Best  and  Freshest 
BUTTER,  EGGS  AND  POULTRY 

Sixth  Avenue,  Reading  Terminal  Market, 

Twelfth  and  Arch  Streets,  PHIL.-iDELPHIA 

E.  M.  FENNER 
Co  nfe  ctioner 


BRYN  MAWR, 

Ardmore,   Pa. 


PA. 


When    Patronizing    Advertisers  Kindly  Mention  The  Haverfordian 


The  Haverfordian 


INSURANCE 

Fire  or  Burglary  Insurance  on  Students'  per- 
sonal effects  while  at  College  or  elsewhere. 

Tourists'  Floating  Insurance  on  personal  ef- 
fects against  all  risks  in  transit,  in  hotels, 
etc.,  both  in  this  country  and  abroad. 

Automobile  Insurance  covering  damage  to  car 
and  liability  for  damage  to  property  or  for 
injviries  to  persons. 

Longacre  &  Ewing 

Bullitt  Building       141   S.    Fourth  St. 

Philadelphia 

The  Colonial  Tea  Room  and  Shop 
Lancaster  Pike,        -         -        Haverford,  Pa. 

SUNDAES— ICE  CREAM 

Home-made  Cakes,  Candies.  Jellies,  Antiques 

Orders  Filled  for  Teas  and  Picnics 

C.  W.  Scott  Company 

Bryn  Mawr,  Pa. 

Carriages,  ^^a<fOll.s  and  Autoiiioitilcs 

"Careful  Handling  and  Quality  " 

Send  us  Your  Suitings  to  be 

Dry-Cleaned,   Scoured 
and    Pressed 

At   Reasonable  Rates 


Our  College  Agent 

Mr.  I.  Thomas  Steere 


S.  p.  Frankenfield  Sons 

Undertakers 
ARDMORE,  PA. 

Successors  to 
JOSIAH  S.  PEARCE 

120  E.    Lancaster  Avenue 

Phone,    Ardmore    9 

J.  OWEN  YETTER 
GENERAL  SHOE   REPAIRING 

will  collect  Shoes  Monday  evening  and 
deliver  Thursday  morning 
College  .Agent: 

E.  B.  Graves,  No.  2  Merion.  ARDMORE,  PA. 


Attractive  Wall   Paper 

At  Popular  Prices 

A.   L.   Diament  &  Co. 

1515  Walnut  Street  Philadelphia,   Pa. 


WILLIAM  S. 
YARNALL 

Manufacturing  Optician 

118  S.  15th  Street,  Philadelphia 

Phone   258 

C.  E.  Edwards 

Confectioner 

ICi£  CREAM    AND   FANCY  ICES, 

FANCY  CAKES 


Ramsey   Euilding 


BuYN  ]\r.\wn.   Pa. 


TELEPHONE 


Paper  Hanging 
Painting 


I.  B.   DUBELL 

8  South  Eighteenth  Street,       Philadelphia 
Interior   Decorations 


When    Patronizing    Advertisers    Kindly  Mention  The  Haverfordian 


The  Haverfordian 


The  Bryn  Mawr  Trust  Company 


Capital  Authorized,  $25o,ooo 


Capital  Paid,  $125,ooo 


Allows  inlertst  on  deposits.      Acts  as  Executor.  Administrator,  Trustee,  etc.       Insures   Titles  to  Real  Estate. 
Loans  Money  on  Mortgages  or  Collateral.      Boxes  for   rent   and   Valuables   stored    in  Burglar   Proof  Vaults. 


A.  A.  HIRST.  President 

W.  H.  RAMSEY.  Vice-President 


JOHN  S.  GARRIGUES,  Secretary  and  Treasurer 
P.   A.   HART,  Trust  Officer  and  Assistant  Secretary 


A.  A.  Hirst 
William  L.   Hirst 
J.  Randall    Williams 


DIRECTORS 

Elbridge  McFarland  Wm.  C.  Powell,  M.  D. 

John  S.  Garrigues  H.  J.  M.  Cardeza 

Jesse  B.    Mallack  Joseph   A.  Morris 


John  C.  Mellon 
W.  H.  Ramie/ 
Phillip  A.   Hart 


Aside  from  its  careful  work  in  filling  prescriptions 

HAVERFORD  PHARMACY 

has  become  known  as  a  place  where  many  of  the 
solid  comforts  of  life  may  be  obtained.  One 
worth  mentioning  is  the  famous  Lotion  for  sun- 
burn, chapped  hands  and  face,  and  other  irrita- 
tions of  the  skin.  Decline,  gently  but  firmly, 
any  other  said  to  be  "just  as  good." 

WILSON  L.  HARBAUGH. 


BELMONT 
IRON 
WORKS 


Main  Office  and  Works: 
PHILADELPHIA,    PA. 


New  York  Office: 
32  BROADWAY 


Bridge  Shops: 
EDDYSTONE,  PA. 


Get  Your 

Drawing 
Instruments 

Tee  Squares,   Triangles,    Scales, 
F.  Weber  &  Go's.  Indelible  India 

Ink  (none  better).  Drawing 
Boards  and  Fainting    Materials 


F.  WEBER  &  CO , 

1125  Chestnut  Street,        -         Philadelphia 


The  oldest  woman  in  Philadelphia  can  quote 
her  great  grandmother  as  an  authority  for  the 
high  quality  of 

Good  Old  MILLBOURNE  fw 

Al  AH  Dealers 

SHANE  BROS.  &  WILSON   CO. 

63rd  and  Market  Streets  Philadelphia.  Pa. 

Bryn  Mawr  Ardmore 

Established  1888 

JOHN  FISH  &    SON 

Maine  Line  Jewelers 

FINE  WATCH,  CLOCK 
and  JEWELRY  REPAIRING 

FRANK    MULLER 


Manufacturing  Optician 

1631  CHESTNUT  ST.,         PHILADELPHIA 

Invisible  Bifocal  Lenses 
Opera,  Field  Glasses  and  Lorgnettes 

No  cord  or  chain  required  with  our  Eye  Glasses