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CLASS     :^^9%Z.     BOOK^H-^;:^^- 

THE  LIBRARY 


HAVERFORD   COLLEGE 


(HAVERFORD,  PA.) 


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THE  GIFT  OF 


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THE 
HAVERPCRDIAN 

VCLUKE  36 


fiAVERPORD  COLLEGE 
1916^1917 


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Contents^ 

A  Song  of  Spring Albert  H.  Stone,  '16 

Christ's  Attitude  Towards  War W.  H.  Chamberlin,  '17  1 

A  Fragment  from  Sappho J-  W.  Spaeth,  Jr.,  '17  5 

Isabella  (A  Gothic  Fragment) Donald  Galbraith  Baird  6 

Horace  IV:  7 W.  S.  Nevin,  '18  7 

Peace H.  P.  Schenck,  '18  9 

Roses  (A  Play) Jack  LeClercq,  '18  12 

Hotel  Stuff Colby  Van  Dam,  '17  22 

Indoors  At  Night W.  S.  Nevin.  '18  28 

MILITARY  TRAINING   CAMPS 29 

Sonnet Donald  Galbraith  Bah-d  33 

A  Woman's  Argument Russel  N.  MUler,  '19  34 

Alumni Donald  H.  Painter,  '17 


1916 


36 


M 


arceau 


Photographer 


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Officars 

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HUGH  McILVAIN.  I  at  Vice-President. 
WILLIAM  BRADWAY.  2nd  Vice-President, 

Trust  OflSccr  and  Treajurer. 
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SAILOR  SUITS 
a  Specialty 

No  Agencies      Made  to  Order  Only 

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TAILOR 

— TO— 

Men,  Women  and 
Children 


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for  Spring 

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The  Haverfordian 


EDITORS 

Robert  Gibson,  1917  Edilor-in-Chief 

W.  H.  Chamberlin,  1917  Donald  H.  Painter,  1917 

C.  D.  Van  Dam,  1917  J.  G.  C.  LeClercv,  1918 

Walter  S.  Nevin,  1918 

BUSINESS  MANAGERS 
Arthur  E.  Spellissy,  1917  (Jl/gr.)  H.  Beale  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  transmissioa  through  the  mails  as  second-class  matter 

Vol.  XXXVIII  HAVERFORD,  PA.,  APRIL,  1916,  No.  1 


ilnnouncement 

On  page  29  of  this  issue  will  be  found  a  com- 
munication on  "MILITARY  TRAINING  CAMPS" 
which  we  are  printing  with  the  hope  of  a  wider  pub- 
licity for  this  vital  question. 


Come  forth,  fair  lady,  let's  away, 

We'll  roam  this  April  day; 
By  footpaths  known  to  us  alone, 

O'er  hill  and  dale  we'll  stray; 
We'll  chase  the  flitting  butterfly 

And  gather  daffodils; 
Come  forth,  the  sun  is  in  the  sky 

And  shines  upon  the  hills. 


Come,  lady  fair,  the  moon  is  bright, 

And  silent  is  the  night. 
Tune  thy  guitar  to  yonder  star 

That  sheds  so  pale  a  light; 
Come  sing  to  me  a  love  song  old, 

And  I  will  tell  a  rhyme 
Of  maiden  true  and  lover  bold. 

Who  lived  in  olden  time. 


—Albert  H.  Stone,  '16. 


THE    HAVERFORDIAN 


Vol.  XXXVIII.  HAVERFORD.  PA..  APRIL,   1916  No.  1 


Ctrisft'fi!  attitube  (E:oUjarbs!  ^ar 

AT  this  time,  when  so  many  professedly  Christian  nations  are 
engaged  in  the  bloodiest  war  of  history,  the  question  of  Christ's 
own  attitude  towards  war  assumes  a  compelling  interest.  Serious 
thinkers,  alike  in  the  countries  at  war  and  in  those  which  are  still  at 
peace,  are  striving  to  reconcile  the  teachings  of  Jesus  with  the  apparent 
necessities  of  the  modern  world.  Now  it  is  obvious  that  a  satisfactory 
solution  of  this  problem  can  be  obtained  only  by  an  honest  and  im- 
partial study  of  the  life  and  teachings  of  Jesus,  as  revealed  in  the  Gospels, 
not  by  vague  and  arbitrary  conjectures  about  what  Christ  might  have 
said  and  done,  if  He  were  alive  to-day.  And  a  careful  examination  of 
the  Gospel  records,  without  preconceived  prejudice  in  either  direction, 
will,  I  think,  prove  beyond  reasonable  doubt  that  the  great  Teacher  of 
Galilee  was  an  unqualified  pacifist,  an  advocate  of  "peace  at  any  price." 
There  are  two  ways  in  which  we  may  determine  a  man's  attitude  towards 
a  problem:  first,  by  his  words;  and,  second,  by  his  actions.  Let  us 
first  consider  the  words  of  Jesus  Christ  which  bear  on  the  problems  of 
war  and  non-resistance. 

The  Sermon  on  the  Mount,  as  preserved  in  the  fifth  and  sixth 
chapters  of  Matthew  and  in  the  sixth  chapter  of  Luke,  is  universally 
regarded  as  one  of  the  most  decisive  and  significant  expressions  of  Christ's 
thought.  This  sermon  is  simply  filled  with  the  plainest  and  most  direct 
exhortations  to  passive  submission,  even  to  the  most  unprovoked  and 
outrageous  insults.  " Resist  not  evil;  but  whosoever  shall  smite  thee  on 
the  right  cheek,  turn  to  him  the  other  also."  "Whosoever  shall  compel 
thee  to  go  with  him  a  mile,  go  with  him  twain."  Moreover,  the  Be- 
atitudes, with  which  the  sermon  opens,  exalt  meekness  and  patience 
as  the  highest  virtues.  "Blessed  are  the  poor  in  spirit:  for  theirs  is  the 
kingdom  of  heaven."  "Blessed  are  the  meek:  for  they  shall  inherit 
the  earth."  Some  of  those  who  believe  that  Christ's  teaching  can  be 
reconciled  with  defensive  war  maintain  that  these  expressions  were  only 
meant  for  the  rude  and  quarrelsome  peasants  who  made  up  the  major 
part  of  His  audience.     But  the  dangerous  fallacy  of  this  contention  is 


2  The  Haverfordian 

almost  too  obvious  to  need  refutation.  Nearly  all  of  Christ's  sermons 
were  delivered  to  audiences  of  rude  and  uneducated  peasants  and  fisher- 
men. If  the  character  of  His  audience  is  to  rob  these  sermons  of  their 
universal  significance,  then  no  part  of  His  teaching  can  be  said  to  rest 
on  a  secure  foundation.  Another  objection  to  applying  the  principles 
of  the  Sermon  on  the  Mount  to  international  disputes  is  based  on  the 
assumption  that  principles  which  hold  good  for  individuals  are  not 
necessarily  valid  for  nations.  It  is  very  difficult  to  believe,  from  all  that 
we  know  of  Jesus  of  Nazareth,  that  He  ever  intended  to  sanction  any 
such  Machiavelian  distinction  between  individual  and  national  moral- 
ity. But,  laying  aside  this  consideration,  we  find  that  He  expresses 
himself  decisively  on  the  question  of  defensive  war  in  another  place. 
In  Matthew  22,  the  Pharisees  ask  Him  whether  it  is  lawful  to  pay  tribute 
to  Caesar.  If  Jesus  had  considered  the  ideal  of  national  freedom  worth 
fighting  for  He  certainly  would  have  expressed  Himself  against  sub- 
mission to  Rome.  If  any  war  is  justifiable,  it  is  a  war  for  the  preserva- 
tion of  national  freedom  and  integrity.  Yet  Jesus  said:  "Render  unto 
Caesar  the  things  that  are  Caesar's."  Certainly  this  answer  was  not 
based  on  considerations  of  cowardice  and  expediency.  Jesus  spared 
neither  His  own  life  nor  those  of  His  followers  when  principles  which  He 
considered  vital  were  at  stake.  Therefore  we  must  believe  that  He 
condemned  war,  even  when  waged  in  behalf  of  national  independence. 

A  great  deal  is  made  of  Christ's  statement  that  He  came  on  earth 
to  bring,  not  peace,  but  a  sword.  But,  in  this  passage.  He  goes  on  to  say 
that  families  shall  be  set  at  variance,  the  son  against  the  father,  the 
daughter-in-law  against  the  mother-in-law,  etc.  As  it  can  hardly  be 
supposed  that  Christ  wished  to  promote  domestic  pugilism,  we  can  only 
infer  that  He  meant  to  indicate  figuratively  the  disruption  of  families 
which  would  follow  the  advent  of  His  new  religious  idea.  There  are  only 
two  passages  which  have  even  a  faintly  militant  tone.  In  Luke  22: 
36-38,  He  advises  His  disciples  to  provide  themselves  with  swords;  and, 
when  told  that  there  are  only  two  swords  among  His  followers,  replies: 
"It  is  enough."  But,  when  we  weigh  against  these  two  sayings  alike 
His  own  conduct  during  His  trial  and  the  uniformly  pacific  attitude  of 
the  early  Church,  it  is  almost  impossible  to  associate  a  militaristic 
flavor  with  His  words.  Moreover,  in  all  the  four  Gospels,  we  have  in- 
numerable passages  which  impress  on  His  followers,  in  the  most  unmis- 
takable terms,  the  principles  of  forgiveness  of  injuries,  love  of  one's 
enemies,  and  passive  submission  to  wrong  and  injustice.  It  is  not  to  be 
understood,  from  this  last  phrase,  that  Jesus  ever  advised  His  followers 
to  acquiesce  in  or  compromise  with  wrongdoing.     On  the  other  hand, 


Christ's  Attitude  Towards  War  3 

He  exhorted  them  to  protest  against  evil  to  the  utmost,  nay,  even  to  lay 
down  their  lives,  as  He  Himself  did,  in  defense  of  truth  and  right.  It  is 
the  use  of  physical  force  and  violence  as  a  means  to  resist  wrong  that  He 
sweepingly  and  emphatically  condemns. 

The  actions  of  Christ  are  quite  as  decisive  as  His  words.  In  only 
one  case  can  He  be  accused,  by  the  wildest  stretch  of  imagination,  of 
using  aggressive  physical  force.  This  one  instance  is,  of  course,  the 
driving  of  the  moneychangers  out  of  the  Temple.  And  here  the  provo- 
cation was  certainly  great  enough  to  excuse  and  explain  His  departure 
from  His  ordinary  rule.  He  saw  the  Temple,  which  to  Him  doubtless 
represented  the  highest  spiritual  aspirations  of  the  Jewish  people,  turned 
into  a  paltry  business  house;  He  saw  the  worship  of  the  true  God  cast 
aside  for  the  worship  of  Mammon.  Certainly  this  one  example  of 
righteous  indignation  cannot  outweigh  the  lessons  which  we  must  draw 
from  the  rest  of  His  life,  and  still  more  from  His  death.  Attempts  have 
been  made  to  derive  a  justification  for  war  from  Christ's  bitter  denuncia- 
tion of  the  Pharisees.  But  these  attempts  lose  all  weight  when  we  stop 
to  consider  that  these  denunciations  are  never  accompanied  by  any 
exhortation  to  the  people  to  rise  up  and  overthrow  this  Jewish  spiritual 
oligarchy  by  force  of  arms.  On  the  other  hand,  even  when  Jesus  was 
being  condemned  by  the  foulest  judicial  murder.  He  made  no  attempt 
either  to  escape  or  to  stir  up  popular  feeling  in  His  favor ;  but  fell  a  pas- 
sive victim  to  the  bigotry  and  malice  of  His  enemies.  There  were  in- 
numerable reasons  by  which  Christ  might  have  justified  a  longer  con- 
tinuance of  His  stay  on  earth.  But  He  preferred  to  drink  His  bitter 
cup  to  the  dregs,  to  die  at  the  very  beginning  of  His  ministry,  rather 
than  to  violate  the  principles  of  non-resistance,  of  overcoming  evil  with 
good,  which  were  the  very  cornerstone  of  His  philosophy.  Can  any 
Christian  nation  claim  that  the  preservation  of  its  life  and  integrity  is 
more  important  to  humanity  than  was  the  preservation  of  the  life  of 
Jesus  of  Nazareth? 

In  a  case  where  the  interest  of  the  Christian  clashes  so  obviously 
with  his  duty,  we  have,  quite  naturally,  a  flock  of  arguments  to  prove 
that  Christ's  disapproval  of  war  was  conditional  and  local,  not  absolute 
and  universal.  One  of  the  most  specious  of  these  arguments  claims  that, 
while  a  Christian  has  no  right  to  avenge  his  own  personal  injuries,  he 
has  both  a  right  and  a  duty  to  avenge  those  of  his  friends  and  neighbors. 
Perhaps  this  argument  can  be  most  effectively  refuted  by  imagining, 
for  the  moment,  that  Christ  were  alive  to-day,  a  Frenchman  or  a  Belgian. 
We  can  well  imagine  Him  cheerfully  exposing  His  own  life  in  helping 
the  maimed  and  wounded  victims  of  the  war  by  every  sort  of  consola- 


4  The  Haverfordian 

tion,  spiritual  and  material.  But  can  we  imagine  Him  crouched  in  the 
trenches,  waiting  for  a  chance  to  kill  some  of  the  invaders,  His  face  dis- 
torted with  the  frenzy  of  battle,  His  heart  black  with  hatred  and  thirst- 
ing for  revenge?  Or,  perhaps,  leading  a  bayonet  charge,  consumed  with 
the  desire  to  hack,  thrust,  kill,  destroy?  The  bare  idea  is  so  incongruous 
with  every  picture  that  we  have  of  the  life  and  character  of  Jesus  that 
we  turn  away  from  it  in  horror  and  disgust.  We  have  already  con- 
sidered the  argument  that  Christ's  active  opposition  to  evil  lends  sanction 
to  a  righteous,  or  "defensive"  war.  Leaving  out  the  fact  that  the 
ultimate  responsibility  for  war  is  usually  fixed  after  all  the  participants 
are  dead  and  buried,  that  each  side  is  always  devoutly  convinced  that 
its  enemies  are  the  aggressors  and  that  it  is  waging  a  righteous  defensive 
war,  leaving  out  these  vitally  important  considerations,  we  still  find  that 
Christ  did  not  regard  war,  and  physical  violence  in  general,  as  legitimate 
weapons  in  His  warfare  against  evil.  Rightly  or  wrongly,  He  thought 
tihat  the  persistent  power  of  evil  could  only  be  overcome  by  the  more 
persistent  power  of  good;  and  His  professed  followers,  if  they  are  sin- 
cere, should  certainly  be  ready  to  accept  this  conclusion  and  abide  by 
the  consequences. 

Probably  the  most  convincing  argument  against  non-resistance,  in 
the  minds  of  many,  is  the  wonderful  spirit  of  devotion  and  self-sacrifice 
that  is  now  being  shown  on  every  battlefield  in  Europe.  It  seems 
preposterous  to  assert  that  men,  whose  nobility  and  strength  of  character 
are  so  obvious,  should  be  excluded  from  the  ranks  of  Christ's  followers. 
Certainly  no  honest  or  generous  pacifist  would  wish  to  detract  in  any  way 
from  the  credit  that  is  due  to  men  who  are,  every  day,  laying  down 
their  lives  for  a  cause  which  they  believe  to  be  just  and  sacred.  But, 
on  the  other  hand,  it  seems  suiificiently  evident  that,  while  Jesus  Christ 
would  have  applauded  the  courageous  loyalty  to  ideals  that  has  sent 
millions  to  fight  and  die  in  the  trenches.  He  would  have  bestowed  on 
the  whole  theory  of  war  His  unqualified  and  unsparing  condemnation. 
The  question  whether  Jesus  Christ  and  His  followers  dying  the  passive 
death  of  martyrs  or  Leonidas  fighting  to  the  last  breath  with  his  band 
of  devoted  Spartans  represents  the  highest  and  most  effective  sacrifice 
for  humanity  and  freedom  is  not  to  be  settled  lightly  or  hastily.  There 
is  much  to  be  said  on  both  sides.  But  for  a  man  to  profess  faith  in 
Christ  as  a  divine  and  infallible  Being  in  one  breath,  and  to  violate  one 
of  His  most  sacred  and  unmistakable  injunctions  in  the  next,  is  certainly 
gross  and  inexcusable  inconsistency.  Christianity  is  accepted  too  hastily 
and  thoughtlessly  by  many  of  its  advocates.  If  a  man  believes  that 
Christ's  doctrines  of  love,  unconditional   forgiveness  of   injuries,   and 


A  Fragment  From  Sappho  5 

non-resistance,  represent  the  highest  possible  ideal,  then,  and  only  then, 
does  he  have  the  right  to  claim  Christ  as  his  Lord  and  Saviour.  If, 
however,  he  comes  to  the  conclusion  that  these  doctrines,  however  beauti- 
ful in  theory,  are  impracticable  and  would  actually  promote  wrong- 
doing and  injustice  in  practise,  then,  however  much  he  may  revere  other 
phases  of  Christ's  life  and  teaching,  he  can  hardly  call  himself,  with 
justice,  a  Christian.  For  these  beliefs  are  almost  the  cornerstone  of 
Christ's  philosophy;  and  the  man  who  rejects  them,  in  theory  or  in 
practise,  not  only  rejects  Christ  as  an  infallible  divinity,  but  also  dis- 
claims faith  in  Christianity  as  a  power  that  is  destined  ultimately  to 
conquer  and  subdue  the  world. 

It  is  at  once  ludicrous  and  pathetic  to  observe  the  complacency 
with  which  some  advocates  of  religion  view  the  increase  in  devotional 
fervor  which  appears  in  time  of  war.  That  men  are  so  ready  to  express 
dogmatic  faith  in  Christ  at  a  time  when  they  are  about  to  violate  one  of 
His  most  solemn  spiritual  precepts,  should  be,  to  true  Christians,  a  source, 
not  of  satisfaction,  but  of  regret  and  shame.  The  issue  stands  out  with 
clearcut  vividness.  On  one  side  war,  patriotism,  revenge  of  injuries, 
satisfaction  of  national  honor ;  on  the  other  side  peace,  internationalism, 
forgiveness  of  injuries,  passive  endurance  of  wrong  and  injustice.  Only 
when  the  latter  principles  are  carried  out  to  the  fullest  extent  can 
Christianity  be  said  to  stand  forth  as  a  prevailing,  conquering  world- 
force. 

—W.  H.  Clmmberlin,  '17. 


m  Jfragment  from  ^appfjo 

Selene  has  left  the  heavens, 

The  Pleiades  too  are  gone: 

'Tis  night,  and  the  moments  hasten. 

While  I,  only  I,  sleep  on. 

—J.  W.  Spaeth,  Jr.,  '17. 


I 


SsiatJElIa 

(A  Gothic  Fragment) 

Note  to  the  reader :  The  following  is  based  on  an  old  Spanish  popu- 
lar superstition,  that  the  teeth  of  those  who  have  been  hanged  are  very  effica- 
cious in  bringing  luck,  which  was  illustrated  by  the  Spanish  artist  Goya  in 
his  series  of  pictures  entitled  "Los  Caprichos." 

SABELLA  lived  in  the  Httle  village  of  Torres  in  the  northern  part 
of  Spain.  Her  parents  were  of  the  peasant  class,  and  her  sweet- 
heart, Diego  Galanini,  told  Isabella  that  he  drove  his  mule  back 
and  forth  from  the  city  in  order  to  sell  the  vegetables  raised  on  his 
meagre  patch  of  ground.  Diego  was  wealthy  for  a  small  farmer,  so 
wealthy  that  the  fact  caused  comment  among  his  neighbors.  But 
whenever  Isabella  heard  any  of  this  gossip  she  would  merely  toss  her 
pretty  head  and  pass  on  without  believing  a  single  word  of  it. 

One  day  Diego  told  Isabella  that  he  would  be  gone  longer  than  was 
his  custom;  in  fact,  for  a  whole  fortnight.  Isabella  shed  many  tears  on 
hearing  this,  and  besought  him  to  be  very  careful  and  keep  out  of  all 
danger,  particularly  admonishing  him  to  keep  away  from  the  wine  shops, 
as  she  feared  that  one  of  those  dancing  girls  of  the  large  city  would 
ensnare  him,  and  then  surely  would  her  heart  be  broken. 

When  Diego  kissed  her  in  farewell  she  gave  him  a  white  rose  to 
wear  next  his  heart.  What  was  her  horror  on  seeing  it  turn  to  a  deep 
bloody  red !  Her  heart  beat  wildly,  but  she  did  not  say  anything  about 
it  to  Diego,  who  apparently  did  not  see  that  the  rose  had  changed  color, 
for  he  would  laugh  and  call  her  silly.  Isabella  was  like  a  child  in  many 
respects,  but  especially  in  one,  she  did  not  like  to  have  anyone  laugh 
at  her  fears  and  beliefs.  So  Diego  went  away  and  Isabella  went  sorrow- 
fully back  to  work  with  a  very  heavy  heart  and  a  mind  filled  with  fore- 
boding. 

Three  days  later  there  was  a  great  hanging  in  Torres.     A  number 
of    bandits     had    been     surprised  in  their   mountain   cave,   and    two 
of  them  had  been  captured  and  brought  to  the  village  for  trial.     They 
were  convicted  and  hanged  on  the  day  of  the  good  San  Sulpicio.     On 
|,  that  same  day  at  three  o'clock  (which  was  the  time  of  the  execution), 

i  when  Isabella  went  to  the  well,  two  huge  black  birds  flew  over  her  head 

and  the  water  which  she  drew  had  a  rusty  color  almost  like  blood.  Isa- 
bella was  frightened,  so  frightened  that  she  determined  to  do  some- 
thing desperate  in  order  to  dispel  this  shadow  over  her  life  and  to  bring 
Diego  and  herself  good  luck. 


Horace  IV:  7  7 

Old  Juan,  the  inevitable  oldest  inhabitant,  had  mumbled  many 
legends  and  superstitions  to  her  as  she  passed  and  repassed  him  on 
her  countless  trips  to  the  village  well.  One  thing  he  had  told  Isabella 
which  impressed  her  beyond  all  else.  "My  child,  if  thou  wilt  go  to  the 
tower  where  criminals  are  hung,  and  draw  a  tooth  from  the  mouth  of 
one  of  the  corpses  swinging  there,  thou  wilt  surely  have  good  luck  beyond 
all  hope.  There  is,  however,  one  condition;  the  deed  must  be  done  at 
midnight."     Isabella  had  shuddered  and  believed. 

A  few  moments  before  midnight,  Isabella  left  the  house  unseen 
and  ran  quickly  to  the  ancient  execution  tower.  As  she  ran  she  heard 
an  owl  hoot  three  times ;  while,  in  a  far-off  section  of  the  village,  a  dog 
howled  dismally.  She  almost  stopped  as  a  shiver  seized  her,  but  for 
love  of  Diego,  ran  on  toward  the  tower.  Trembling,  she  climbed  the 
winding  stone  stairs,  where  the  moisture  on  the  walls  fell  in  sluggish 
drops. 

Isabella  vaguely  saw  two  dark  objects  swaying  slowly  in  the  gentle 
night  wind.  She  walked  toward  the  one  nearest  her,  with  eyes  lowered; 
then,  as  she  came  close  to  the  corpse,  she  put  her  handkerchief  before 
her  face  and  felt  for  the  gaping  mouth.  There  was  no  turning  back 
now;  it  must  be  done  and  done  quickly,  for  the  moon  had  slipped  from 
behind  the  clouds  and  some  late  wanderer  might  see.  Isabella  was 
now  tugging  at  a  tooth  in  the  dead  man's  upper  jaw.  Suddenly  an 
unusually  strong  gust  of  wind  drove  the  body  against  her,  the  handker- 
chief dropped  from  her  nerveless  grasp;  and  the  moonlight  shone  full 
on  the  distorted,  grinning,  swollen  face  of  Diego. 

— Donald  Galbraith  Baird,  '15. 


Horace  1^:7 

The  few,  faint  streaks  of  snow  have  slipped  away, 
And  sprouting  grass  repaints  the  meadows  grey. 

While  budding  trees 
And  Mother  Earth  slip  on  their  garments  new. 
The  pent-up  tarn  reflects  the  heaven's  blue 

And  lightly  flees. 


The  Haverfordian 

The  Graces  dare,  enraptured  hy  the  Spring, 

To  lead  the  Nymphs  in  lithesome  dance  and  fling 

Restraint  aside. 
But  seasons  fleet,  and  hour  that  clutches  fast 
This  sunny  day,  warn  us  that  life  glides  past 

And  ebbs  the  tide. 

The  chains  of  cold  are  loosed  by  zephyrs  warm. 
Now  spring  gives  up  her  flowers  to  summer's  charm; 

Time  conquers  all. 
Soon  autumn  pours  her  horn  of  ruddy  fruit. 
Then  winter — ah,  so  cold,  so  destitute — 

Holds  icy  thrall. 

The  moon  will  wax  and  wane  above  my  head, 
And  shine  upon  my  grave  when  I  am  dead. 

On  lifeless  dust. 
But  I  am  down  with  him  who  led  our  race. 
With  other  shades — a  dim,  mysterious  place 

Where  all  are  thrust. 

Have  gods  the  power  to  add  a  single  day 
To  our  allotted  span,  or  can  they  stay 

Time's  fleeing  feet? 
An  heir  will  scatter  all  the  goods  piled  high, 
And  give  to  friends  the  wealth  for  which  I  vie, 

This  my  defeat. 

The  court  of  Minos  sits  in  judgment  grave 

O'er  your  pale  corpse,  decked  in  its  trappings  brave, — 

Alas,  poor  soull 
Can  noble  blood  or  ringing  tones  of  voice, 
Or  worthy  life,  reverse  the  fated  choice 

When  death  takes  toll? 

Diana  could  not  free  her  loved  son 

When  once  the  shades  of  hell  his  soul  had  won, 

And  thus  the  end. 
Nor  Theseus,  though  he  strove  with  might  and  main. 
Could  break  the  coil  of  that  encircling  chain 

For  his  dear  friend. 

—W.  S.  Nevin,  '15. 


JOHN  SMITH,  President  of  the  International  Peace  Society,  sat  at 
his  desk  and  gnawed  his  finger  nails.  Now  and  then  he  spat  at 
the  brass  cuspidor  placed  near  his  arm-chair.  The  door  that  led 
to  the  exterior  was  locked.  The  two  windows  of  the  neat  office  gave  a 
view  of  fuming  stacks  and  tall  buildings.  Smith  picked  up  a  volume 
from  the  desk.  It  was  a  treatise  on  42  centimeter  guns.  He  gave  a 
grunt  of  disgust  and  the  book  fell  into  the  waste-basket.  A  key  rattled 
in  the  door  and  it  swung  open.  A  gray,  thin  person,  with  fur  overcoat 
buttoned  to  the  ears,  strode  in.  Smith  jumped  to  his  feet  and  an  expan- 
sive grin  spread  over  his  countenance. 

"Hello,  Fourd,  old  man.  Glad  to  see  you.  It's  absolutely  hope- 
less, isn't  it?" 

"Not  quite,"  chirped  the  gray  figure, 

"Eh — oh,  have  it  your  own  way,"  and  Smith  shrugged  his  expan- 
sive shoulders. 

"Just  ran  up  to  make  a  wager  with  you.  Have  to  catch  the  Four- 
fifty-four  for  Pittsburg.  The  war  ends  on  the  16th  of  this  month. 
If  it  don't  you  resign  and  I  am  elected  the  leader  of  this  movement." 

"Done,"  grinned  the  President  in  an  assured  voice. 

********** 

The  streets  were  empty  and  silent.  The  darkness  before  dawn 
was  intense.  A  shrieking  motor  whirled  into  the  boulevard  and  stopped 
abruptly  before  the  palatial  residence  of  the  President  of  the  Inter- 
national Peace  Society.  A  figure  dashed  from  the  motor  and  climbed 
the  steps.  By  alternate  ringing  of  the  bell  and  pounding  the  door  a 
sleepy  servant  was  brought  to  the  portal.  As  the  iron  and  brass  frame 
with  its  glass  swung  inward,  the  mysterious  figure  dashed  past  the  single 
guard  and  ascended  the  stairway  to  the  second  floor.  A  thunderous 
pounding  there  brought  Smith  to  his  waking  senses,  and,  minus  spec- 
tacles and  clad  only  in  pajamas,  he  hastened  out  into  the  hall. 

"Good  heavens,  man!" 

"  Not  a  word !     Not  a  word !     Read  that." 

A  pile  of  papers  were  thrust  into  Smith's  hands. 

"But  listen,  Fourd—" 

"Read  them.  Read  them,"  shouted  the  excited  figure  as  it  did  a 
fantastic  dance  about  the  dimly  lighted  hall. 

" New  York  Herald.  Ah!  April  16th.  Why,  that's  today!  Some 
headlines,  upon  my  word!  PEACE  DECLARED  BETWEEN  EURO- 
PEAN  NATIONS.      GERMAN   KAISER,   RUSSIAN   CZAR  AND 


10  The  Havertordian 

ENGLISH    KING    ASSASSINATED    BY    INFURIATED    MOBS. 
What's  this?    Wireless  from  Sayville." 

"'Kaiser  Wilhelm  was  assassinated  today  before  the  Imperial 
Palace  in  Berlin  as  he  emerged  after  having  made  a  personal  guarantee 
of  peace  to  the  Allies  agent.  The  English  King  was  assassinated  at 
almost  the  same  time  at  Dover,  whence  he  had  gone  to  send  a  royal 
guarantee  of  peace  to  the  Teutonic  Allies.  The  Czar  was  killed  about 
an  hour  later  by  a  bomb  throwTi  by  an  unidentified  officer.  The  Czar 
had  just  left  Petrograd  in  order  to  enforce  his  orders  for  an  instant 
demobilization  of  Russian  forces.'" 

Smith  sat  down  suddenly  upon  a  nearby  chair. 

"No  questions  necessary,"  cried  Fourd,  rubbing  his  hands.  "I  did 
all  that  myself.     Sit  still  and  I'll  tell  you  how." 

"But  how — why — where—" 

"Quiet  and  listen.  In  January,  1915,  I  bought  a  building  in  one 
of  the  Pittsburg  suburbs.  I  hired  four  of  the  most  brilliant  historians 
that  I  could  procure  and  set  them  to  work.  In  two  months  we  had 
gathered  together  more  information  about  the  living  rulers  of  Europe 
than  I  suppose  exists  anywhere  else. 

"I  had  the  country  scoured  for  men  whose  resemblance  to  the 
rulers  over  there  could  not  be  mistaken.  Two  were  old  actors,  three 
were  common  clerks,  and  one  was  a  business  man.  The  greatest  difficulty 
was  to  convince  them  that  the  game  was  worth  the  candle.  As  usual, 
enough  money  turned  the  trick.  We  started  then  to  teach  those  men 
the  most  minute  characteristics  of  their  future  selves.  To  teach  them 
the  respective  tongues  was  very  difficult.  By  limiting  the  number  of 
phrases  a  satisfactory  result  was  obtained.  These  phrases  were  pounded 
into  the  men  until  they  could  speak  them  fluently. 

"Among  other  men  that  we  engaged  was  a  former  barber  to  the 
Kaiser.  From  him  we  got  the  most  intimate  details  imaginable.  He 
was  able  to  give  us  all  the  data  necessary  in  that  direction.  Day  and 
night  our  charges  were  under  the  watchful  eyes  of  two  theatrical  man- 
agers imported  from  New  York.  Every  movement  they  made  was 
noted  and  criticized.  We  spared  no  expense.  To  illustrate  how  minute 
our  work  was  I  might  mention  the  fact  that  Harris,  the  man  chosen  to 
impersonate  the  Kaiser,  had  to  undergo  a  surgical  operation  in  order 
to  produce  the  shriveled  arm  and  fulfill  the  specifications  of  the  ex- 
barber.  A  bacteriologist  from  a  prominent  medical  school  produced 
for  us  wonderful  pigment  relations  in  the  skin. 

"Meanwhile  the  most  carefully  organized  movement  that  ever 
was  attempted  was  moving  steadily  onward  in  Europe.      My  agents 


Peace  11 

were  better  informed  of  the  movements  of  the  Czar  and  the  Kaiser  than 
were  their  own  staff  officers.  I  had  two  men  in  the  personal  staff  of 
the  French  President  directly  under  my  thumb.  In  order  to  conceal 
my  real  purposes,  I  chartered  the  Ozcar  II  and  loaded  it  with  peace 
propagandists.  I  sailed  as  far  as  Copenhagen,  and,  having  scattered 
my  picked  men  successfully,  I  returned  to  America. 

"Almost  impossible  as  it  seemed,  the  plan  was  successful.  A 
week  ago  the  real  rulers  of  the  nations  at  war  were  replaced  by  my 
men.  We  disfigured  the  captured  and  placed  them  in  asylums,  where 
their  insistence  upon  their  real  identity  only  made  them  seem  the  more 
insane  to  their  attendants.  My  men  remained  as  much  secluded  as 
possible.  We  had  allowed  a  few  days  to  cover  the  delay  accidents 
might  have  occasioned.  On  the  appointed  day  universal  peace  was 
made  by  the  apparent  rulers." 

Fourd  stopped  and  his  face  gradually  lost  its  excited  flush.  He 
leaned  forward  upon  his  hands.  The  lines  in  his  face  deepened.  Smith 
watched  him  in  an  awestruck  silence. 

"After  all  we  are  human  beings  and  we  err  sooner  or  later.  We 
were  clever.  We  did  a  marvelous  task,  but  three  of  our  fellows  have 
paid  with  their  lives.  A  ruler  safely  starts  a  conflict,  but  human  savag- 
ery, once  aroused,  cannot  be  quenched  in  a  moment.  They  have  suf- 
fered for  their  fellow  men.  All  that  was  in  their  power  have  they  done 
for  their  fellows.  It's  up  to  you.  Smith,  to  go  ahead  now.  If  we  are 
ever  to  have  international  peace  it  must  come  now.  I  have  spent  all 
that  I  had  and  can  do  no  more." 

Smith  sighed  and  walked  toward  a  small  writing  table.  He  scribbled 
out  a  few  words  and  handed  the  slip  of  paper  to  Fourd.  It  was  his 
resignation.  Below  his  signature  was  the  brief  statement,  "  Recommend- 
ing as  my  successor  Henry  Fourd." 

—H.  P.  Schenck,  '18. 


(A  Play) 

"...  .Un  baiser,  mats  d.  tout  prendre  qu'est-ce? 

Un  point  rose  qu'on  met  sur  I'i  du  verbe  aimer." — Cyrano. 

Characters 

Count  Robert  du  Gar  d'Eschelonnes,  a  Norman  knight. 

Imogen,  his  wife,  niece  of  Duke  Robert  of  Normandy. 

Ermintruda,  a  maid  of  Falaise. 

Francois  Villon,  the  poet. 
Place.     The  garden  of  the  Inn  of  the  Purple  Dawn  at  Falaise  in  Normandy. 
Time.     Evening. 

The  scene  is  laid  amid  a  mass  of  roses.  On  the  left  a  plot  of  grass  and  a 
portion  of  the  path  which  surrounds  the  garden:  narcissi,  lobelias,  heliotropes 
and  dahlias.  On  the  right,  roses  and  roses.  Near  them  stands  Francois 
Villon.  He  is  seen  looking  up  at  the  balcony,  walking  to  and  fro  and 
absent-mindedly  pidling  petal  after  petal  from  a  rose  in  his  hand,  murmur- 
ing, "Amat,  non  amat,"  as 

The  curtain  rises. 

Francois.   Come,  my  Lady !  In  the  garden,  with  the  flowers  and  the  night, 

I  am  holding  sweet  communion.     Many  stars  are  beaming  bright; 

In  her  haven  in  the  heavens  palely  shines  a  lovers'  moon; 

Fraught  with  fragrance,  fresh  the  flowers,  this  perfumed  night  of  June. 

Stars  are  sprinkling    silver    Stardust — round    my    head  their   halo 
gleams — 

And  the  music  of  the  fountain,  plashing  to  mute  mermaids'  dreams. 

Adds  a  sentimental  something,  soft  and  soothing.    Hear  it  sing! 

Nature  kindly  looking  on  us,  generous  gives  everything 

Which  she  thinks  may  help  her  children,  make  men  mad  and  women 
coy, 

Add  more  zest  to  the  slow  zephyr,  add  more  pleasure  to  our  joy. 

Red  the  roses,  Ermintruda,  yet  your  lips  are  redder  still; 

Bluer  than  the  sky  the  blue  is  which  your  beauteous  eyes  doth  fill. 

Come,  I  pray  you  .  .  . 
Ermintruda  (appearing  on  the    balcony  and  leaning  over  the  rose-colored 

balustrade) . 

Is  it  Francois? 
Fraticois  (bowing).  Yes,  he  waits  on  you  below. 

Ermintruda  (tridy  feminine) .     Have  you  been  here  long? 


Roses  13 

Francois  (gallant) .  Not  very ;  I  came  here  an  hour  ago. 

Ermintruda  (ideni).     Really? 

Francois  (idem).  Since  then  I've  been  waiting  ... 

Ermintruda  (idem).  Really  .   .   . 

Francois  (idem).  For  you  to  appear, 

Praying  that  you  would  not  fail  me,  waiting  for  the  lady  dear. 
Who  has  caused  me  wide  to  wander,  wending  my  way  to  Falaise. 
Now  again — dear  heart! — I  see  her.     Happy  day!    O  day  of  days! 

Ermintruda.     Really? 

Francois.     In  the  city's  turmoil,  of  my  sweetheart  I  have  thought; 

In  death's  danger,  in  dire  duels,  your  name  on  my  lips,  I've  fought, 
And,  with  that  name  as  an  armor,  not  a  sword  in  France  could  touch 
My  poor,  love-sick  heart  .  .  . 

Ermintruda.  Oh,  really?     Do  you  really  love  me  much? 

Francois.     Love  you,  Lady?  Who  could  help  it?  Love  you.  Lady!  Let 
me  tell 
How  I  love  you  .  .  . 

Ermintruda.  Francois,  tell  me  .  .  . 

Francois.  As  a  yellow  asphodel 

Shines  the  moon.  Mother  of  lovers,  beam  benignant  on  our  bliss, 
Whilst  narcissi  sweetly  slumber.     What's  the  rhyme  I  seek  in-is? 

Ermintruda  (sweetly).     Really,  Francois,  I  can't  tell  you,  for  no  rhyme 
you  want,  I  wis. 

Francois.    Then  perhaps  I  have  forgotten,  for  I'm  careless  and  remiss. 
Such — we'll  say — my  love  is,  that  I,  though  master  of  the  rhyme, 
Cannot  find  words  to  express  it — this  most  tender  love  of  mine. 
Words  fit  to  bespeak  thy  beauty  too  big  are  to  leave  my  mouth, 
But  my  thoughts,  too  deep  for  verses,  seek  the  soft,  sweet  winds  of 

South ; 
Both  contain  the  rich  aroma  of  the  garden  where  I  stand. 
And  the  wings  of  words  unspoken  to  the  fairest  in  the  land 
Fly,  and  love  the  iiying  so  they  check  their  ardor  and  their  heat, 
Gaining  grandeur,  soaring  up,  they  lie  submissive  at  thy  feet. 

Ermintruda  (fingering  the  roses  on  the  balustrade,  coyly). 

Do  you  think  for  you  I  came  out,  or  to  see  how  yon  bush  grows? 
Mayhap  I  ignored  your  beauty  and  prefer  that  of  the  rose. 

Francois.  "  Crede  quod  habes  et  habes  " :  think  you  have  it  and  you  will. 
Hear  the  Latin  phrase  I've  quoted,  which,  methinks,  is  not  too  ill 
Suited  to  your  question  .  .  . 

Ermintruda  (a  trifle  serious).  Francois? 

Francois.  Yes,  my  Lady,  at  your  nod. 


14  The  Haverfordian 

Ermintriida  {grave  and  naive).    Tell  me,  Francois,  do  you  pray  much; 

have  you  made  your  peace  with  God? 
Francois.     I'm  a  godless  waght,  my  Lady,  scatter-brained,  vain,  quick 

and  rash; 
For  a  word  I'd  write  a  rondel,  for  a  look  a  valet  thrash. 
I  love  drinking  toasts  to  friendship,  lover,  husband,  son  or  wife, 
{Rather  sadly).     Ever-drinking,  ever-loving,  ever-singing:     Villon's  life. 
{In  a  tone  of  badinage) .     Here  I  am  melodramatic !  Silly,  sentimental  fool  1 
Francois  Villon  sentimental!    It  must  be  the  garden  cool 
And  the  perfume  of  the  flowers,  conjuring  the  past's  perfume. 
What!  art  crying,  Villon?    Never — get  thee  gone,  disturbing  gloom! 
As  I  spoke — will  you  excuse  me — childhood  memories  arose. 
Please  forget  it  .  .  .  Sentimental !   Really,  it  is  but  a  pose ! 
Cares  are  mine  no  longer,  for  my  only  worry  is,  I  fear, 
What,  good  heavens!  can  have  happened  to  the  snows  of  yesteryear? 
Ermintriida.     Cher  Francois!   Still,  what  you  tell  me  is,  I  fear  me,  very 

bad. 
Francois.     But  a  king  of  future  poets  will   call   me   "sad,  bad,    glad, 

mad." 
Sad  I  am  with  satiate  sadness:   saddened  soon  by  Spanish  wine; 
Bad — I  brag  not  of  my  badness — if   I'm  bad  the  blame's  not  mine; 
Glad  with  good,  gay  gladness  ever — glad  I  sing  and  glad  I  dance; 
Mad  with  madness  of  meridian:    Gascon  heart,  O  life  of  France. 
{In  a  lyrical  outburst). 

Thus  shall  sing  a  future  poet. 

All  the  world  shall  hear  and  know  it, 

Writ  in  letters  living  longer  than  the  roses  at  my  side  .  .  . 

All  my  shame:   they  shall  forget  it. 

And  my  fame:    I  shall  have  met  it — 

Met  my  mistress:  Song  that  soothes  me;  met  my  meet,  melodious 

bride. 
Hard,  hurt  heart,  with  lewd  loves  broken. 
Sad  tears  shed  and  wise  words  spoken. 

All  to  end  in  shameful  scorn  and  sorrow'd  sighs  and  sombre  strife, 
Sweetest  songster  of  all  ages, 
"Plume-plucked  jail-birds,"  wines  and  rages, 
This,  alas !  poor,  priceless  poet,  was  your  sad  and  misspent  life. 
{A  silence). 
Ermintruda   {ardently).     Fair  Francois!    forget  your  failings,  leave  the 

tavern's  boorish  brawl. 
Come  to  me  for  help  and  leave  the  joyless  jails  and  gallow's  gall. 


Roses  ^  15 

Come,  the  past  shall  be  forgotten! 

Come,  adieu  to  all  that's  rotten 

In  this  world.     I'll  be  your  mother,  lover,  sister,  sweetheart:  all  .  .  . 
Francois  {sadly).     Sweetest,  kindest,  fairest  Lady,  would  that  I  could 
but  accept, 

But  I've  tried  to  do  it  often  .  .  .  Promises  are  made,  not  kept  .  .  . 

Oh,  my  Lady  .  .  . 
Ermintnida.     Francois,  Francois,  I  will  live  with  you  and  do 

Anything  you  ever  ask  me:    faithfully  I'll  go  with  you 

Anywhere  ...  I  love  you,  Francois  .  .  . 
Francois  {in  the  same  tone  as  Ermintruda  used  earlier:    out  of  pleased 

curiosity). 

Really? 
Ermintruda.  Yes. 

Francois.  Dear  Lady,  say  .  .  . 

Ermintruda.     I  have  ever  loved  you,  Francois,  since  that  dear,  delightful 
day 

When  I  saw  you  first.  One  day  when  on  my  way  to  grand'messe  I 

Stooped  to  sniff  the  radiant  rose,  while  you,  singing,  passed  me  by. 

Oh!    the  love  when  you  came,  Francois!     But  I  quickly  hurried 
thence 

And  I  saw  you  near  the  roses,  as  I  leant  against  a  fence. 

Hot  and  red  and  shamed  I  was — yet  happy  that  of  interest 

I  had  been  to  Francois  Villon — sire  of  songsters,  bard  most  blest. 

You- — you  looked  at  the  red  roses,  then  at  me,  then  at  the  ground, 

Drew  your  smooth,  short  sword  and  struck  it:   the  whole  bush  that 
grew  around, 

In  your  arms  you  gaily  brought  them,  leaving  unadorned  the  tall 

Tree  beside  it:    Roses,  rosebuds,  rose-leaves,    twigs,  branch,  thorn 
and  all. 
Francois  {with  winning  protest).     But  your  lips  had  touched  one.  Lady, 
and  the  petals  met  your  face; 

To  prevent  its  profanation,  I  removed  all  from  the  place. 

{A  pause). 

I  can  love  you  from  a  distance,  reflex  of  your  lovely  soul, 

And  the  light  of  that  soul's  beauty,  will  make  me  an  aureole 

Round  my  head  to  wear,  and  light  me.     I'll  think  that  I  am  sublime 

Since  your  sacrifice  I  took  not — and  made  a  little  good  mine. 
A  voice  from  within  the  house.     Ermintruda  ... 
Ermintruda.  I  am  coming. 

The  Voice.  Ermintruda  .  .  . 


16  The  Haverfordian 

Ermintruda.  I  must  go. 

Francois.  Oh!  my  Lady! 

Ermintruda.  Farewell,  Francois. 

Francois.  Will  you  have  me  leave  you  so? 

Ermintruda.     Well,  dear  lover? 

Francois.  Just  a  token  of  this  blessed  night  of  bliss; 

Just  let  my  lips  meet  yours,  Lady— now  the  rhyme  I  sought  you  wis. 
Ermintruda.     No,  dear  Francois.     {She  pulls  a  branch  toward  her  and 
brings  a  rose  to  her  lips). 

But  full  gladly  from  my  balcony  above 

I  will  throw  this  rose  I've  kissed,  and  you  will  keep  it  for  our  love. 

Short  but  sweet-lived  it's  been,  dearest.    Take  it;   I  throw  it  to  you. 

Keep  it  by  you  alway,  darling;  have  it  whatso'  er  you  do. 

Good-bye,  foolish,  dearest  lover — farewell,  mad  but  loving  knight . . . 
Francois.     Farewell,    Lady!     Splendid,   beauteous   vision   in   the   pale 
moonlight  .  .  . 

{She  waves  her  hand  and  disappears.     Villon  walks  around  the  garden: 
thinking  Ermintruda  is  looking  at  him  from  behind  the  lattice-window 
and  he  affects  a  serious  attitude.     In  reality  he  is  gay — madly  gay  as  ever. 
His  lackadaisical  attitude  is  charr..  it  \     Enter  Imogen  du  Gar  d'  Esche- 
lonnes,  who  stands  in  the  centre  of  .,te  stage,  waiting  for  him  to  see  or  speak 
to  her.     If  he  sees  her  he  makes  no  movement  or  shows  no  sign  of  it) . 
Imogen  {angrily).     Francois  Villon. 
{Stamping  her  foot).     Villon! 
Francois.  Lady,  pardon,  prithee,  pardon  me. 

As  you  passed  by  me  I  saw  not;  see,  I'm  down  on  bended  knee, 

Begging  for  forgiveness,  Lady;  your  displeasure  I'll  dispel.   .   . 
Imogen  {fiercely) .    Silence,  traitor!  Silence,  villain!  Silence,  horrid  hound 

of  hell! 
{Without  giving  him  an  opportunity  to  speak). 

Francois,  I  am  a  lady  of  high  caste ; 

Normandy's  noblest  blood  boils  in  my  veins, 

And  I  came  here  to  warn  you  that  your  pains 

To  hide  that  I'm  the  one  before  the  last 
{Fiercely) .     Are  lost.     Ah !   I  can  see  your  bondsman  brow 

Flushed  with  fell  fervor  of  a  snappish  serf. 

And  in  your  acts  I  see  the  bobbing  bow 

Of  a  cute  courtier,  face  foul  with  scurf, 

Kissing  his  liege-lady's  beautiful  hand, 

The  whilst  he  looks  for  others  he  can  squirm 

Before  and  love.    Ah !  not  alone  in  land 


Roses  17 

Of  fiction  do  we  find  within  a  worm 

Lodg'd  beauty,  kindness,  gallantry  and  love. 

And,  sorry  knave!  the  whilst  you  kiss'd  my  glove 

You  lov'd  the  silly  servant  Ermintrude. 

Low  fellow,  churl,  immoral,  base  and  lewd! 
Francois.     Not  so.    You  have  not  seen  that  faery  face 

Which  e'en  your  viper's  claws  would  have  disarmed, 

And  as  you  mention  her  you  do  disgrace 

To  her.     My  love,  woman,  you  have  not  harmed. 
(Enter  Count  Robert.    He  stands  to  the  right,  arms  akimbo,  listening). 

And  when  you  speak  of  her!   Oh!  every  time 

It  seems  as  if  upon  a  glorious  rose 

A  snail  had  left  its  sickly  sperm  and  slime. 

So  when  I  hear  you  speak,  my  wildest  woes  ... 
Imogen.    Silence,  shrewd  serf!   Hark  well  unto  my  speech, 

Low  sycophant !  dull  dog!   cross-canker 'd  leech! 

Myself,  the  highest  lady  in  the  land, 

Deceived  the  one  who  had  received  my  hand  (Robert  starts). 

In  wedlock.     Fool!    I  gave  myself  to  you. 

Thinking  you  loved  and  understood  and  knew. 

Instead — the  gold  for  which  your  love  you  sold, 

Rotten  and  old  your  body '11  turn  to  mould. 

And  healthy,  you —  my  bounty  rots  you  now. 

Avaunt!  Be  gone.     I  loathe  your  liar's  brow. 
Francois.     Lady,  forgive.     Love  cometh  down  from  God 

And  is  the  holy  heritage  of  clod 

Or  lord.     I  loved  you  dearly  for  a  while. 

But  who  could  face  fair  Ermintruda's  smile 

And  fall  not,  he  must  devil  be  on  earth. 

Or  sexless  popinjay  of  little  worth. 

Good-bye,  my  Lady.    Think  not  of  me  so, 

For  with  a  fair  Godspeed  I'm  fain  to  go. 

God  bless  your  Grace,  God-den,  God  bless  your  Grace!       (Exit). 
Imogen  (casting  all  her  self-control  to  the  winds) . 

Lord  J6su!   how  I  love  the  villain's  face! 
Robert.     Francois  Villon !  You  love  the  gutter's  child  .  .  . 

My  blue  blood  boils — my  name's  defiled ! 

To  think  that  my  wife  our  love  should  pollute! 

Woman,  tell  me  why  thou  did'st  .  .  . 
Imogen.  Persecute 

Me  not. 


18  The  Haverfordian 

Robert.  Because  a  comely  churl's  tricks  cute 

She  fancied,  she  gave  herself  to  the  brute! 
Imogen.     Robert! 

Robert.  But  why  with  such  a  hang-dog  low? 

Imogen.     It  was  not  very  many  years  ago 

That,  as  the  sun  bathed  with  its  ruddy  rays 

This  rude,  rough  rock  of  flowery  Falaise, 

A  tanner's  daughter,  sitting  on  the  grass. 

Her  washing  did.     Duke  William  came  to  pass. 

And  as  this  lusty  young  maiden  he  saw — 

For  Norman  gossip  caring  not  a  straw — 

He  looked  and  loved  and  lived  with  her  through  life. 

And  from  this  tanner-minx,  not  e'en  his  wife, 

"William  the  Bastard"  was  bom.     'Twas  not  long 

Before,  having  his  mother's  temper  strong, 

This  lad  which  common,  lowly  huzzy  bore, 

From  "Bastard"  came  to  be  "The  Conqueror" 

Anon.     {She  moves  toward  the  door). 
Robert.     But  why  was  thus  my  Lady's  sentiment  .  .  . 
Imogen.     Nobility  must  needs  return  the  compliment.         {Exit). 
Robert  {beating  the  inn-door).     Mistress  Ermintruda,  come.     For  I 

Would  fain  speak  two  words  with  .  .  . 
Ermintruda  {appearing  on  her  balcony).  My  Lord  and  why? 

Robert  {brutally).     We're  both  hoodwinked  and  in  his  matter  rife 

Francois  Villon  deceives  you  with  my  wife. 
Ermintruda  {speechless  at  first,  then  furious) . 

What! 
Robert.  Hist!  they  come  here  to  converse  a  while. 

Hide  thee  on  thy  balcony  quick  and  I'll  .  .  . 

{His  words  are  lost  as  they  disappear.      Enter  Imogen  and  Villon). 
Imogen.     No  doubt  Robert  is  planning  how  to  slay 

You,  Francois. 
Francois.  Ah!  at  last  I've  found  a  way  .  .  . 

Imogen.     A  way? 
Francois.  The  way,  Lady,  to  finish  all 

My  lurid  life's  ill-luck,  and,  back  to  wall, 

I'll  fight  thy  husband  with  but  half  my  breath 

And  fleet,  flags  flying,  flounder  to  my  death. 
Imogen.     Francois,  I  understand  not.     Bitter  bliss 

Was  ours,  but  e'er  we  part  .  .  . 
Francois.  Lady? 


Roses  19 

Imogen  (shy).  A  kiss. 

{Francois  does  as  she  asks.  Ennintriida  has  not  heard  anything,  hut 
sees  this  conclusive  proof  of  his  guilt.  She  signals  to  Robert.  Imogen  sees 
him  coming  and  exit). 

Robert  {sword  in  hand).     Stand,  villain!    Draw  thy  sword,  I'll  run  thee 
through. 

So  then  to  love,  as  well  as  life,  adieu ! 

En  garde!   Coward!  ha!  you'll  not  run  from  me. 
Francois.  Poor  fool!  Think  you  Villon  would  ever  flee? 

{Robert  is  en  garde  without  having  saluted). 

Francois  {saluting  and  getting  en  garde).      No  doubt  you  do  not  know, 
ill-mannered  brute. 

When  gentleman  one  meets,  he  should  salute. 
{They  begin  sparring.     The  fight  is  even  and  very  fast). 
Francois.     Ermintruda,  as  I'm  fighting,  tenderly  I  think  of  you. 

While  this  doughty  dolt  is  trying  your  poor  lover  to  run  through. 

Ne'er  in  battle  ever  beaten,  gay  and  glad  I  greet  me  end. 

In  death-duel  I  salute  you.     Good-bye,  kindest,  sweetest  friend. 

Though  this  villain  I  could  thrash  quite  thoroughly  in  but  a  trice, 

I  prefer  to  act  as  you  did  and  to  make  a  sacrifice ; 

Yours  I  can't  accept,  so.  Lady,  the  best  way  to  solve  all  this 

Is  to  die  and  in  death  dream  of  having  had  your  lover's  kiss. 

Ah,  farewell,  dear  Ermintruda  .  .  . 
{Robert  lunges  and  runs  Francois  through.     The  blood  spurts  out,  staining 
his  frayed,  sky-blue  cloak).  I'm  hit  .  .  .  No!  Why  should  I 

die! 

'Twould  be  sacrificing  honor.     Look  out,  villain,  you  will  lie 

Under  turf.     Shall  Francois  Villon  let  a  nincompoop  and  knave 

Send  him  to  his  death?   No,  never!    my  light  life,  by  God,  I'll  save. 

Shall  I  let  him  slay  me?     Never!    Shall  I  let  him  even  try  .  ,  . 

No,  it  needs  a  better  man  than  he  to  kill  a  man  as  I. 

No,  no,  no,  a  million  noes!     Ha!  villain,  take  care.    I  guard  .  .  . 

Flushed  my  face  is  .  .  .  Heart  fast  flutters  ...  in  my  hair  I  have 
the  nard 

Which  the  Muses  use  full  freely  their  dear  poet  to  anoint.  .  . 
{He  leans  against  a  post  near  the  right  end  of  the  stage). 

Ah!   I'm  fainting  .  .  .  Parry  .  .  .  Quarta  .  .  .  now  I'll  run  my 
tested  point 

Through   your   heart  .  .  .  Sixte  .  .  .  Tierce  .  .  .  Secunda  .  .  . 
Watch  me,  ladies  .  .  .  See,  I  thrust 


20  The  Haverfordian 

This  man  back  .  .  .  Bon  voyage,  fellow  .  .  .  Just  before  you  die, 

a  trust 
I  have  for  you:    Love  to  Peter!    No,  you'll  go  the  other  way  .  .  . 
So,  I'll  meet  you  soon  .  .  . 

{He  lunges.  Robert  falls  back,  run  through  by  Francois,  who  sheathes 
his  sword,  and  leans  back,  rubbing  his  hands  together  with  huge  glee.  But 
he  is  very  pale,  and  the  blood  still  flows  freely) . 

.  .  .  By  Jove,  it  has  been  a  successful  day. 
Ha!  the  villain's  dying  now,  and  why?  No  doubt  because  he  knows 
That  the  poet  Francois  Villon  on  his  heart  aye  has  a  rose! 
(Enter  Ermintruda).     Ermintruda,  have  I  fought  well?     If  I  have,  it 

was  for  you  .  .  . 
Ermintruda.     Devil  take  thee,  perjured  lover!     Craven  death  was  but 

your  due. 
Francois.     What?   Come  back,  my  Lady. 

Ermintruda  {crossing  the  stage).     Never:   so,  farewell,  I  wish  you  joy. 
God  protect  some  other  maiden  whom  you  will  no  doubt  decoy 
As  you  tried  on  me  .  .  .  {Exit). 

Francois  {clutching  his  breast).     My  Lady,  oh!  .  .  .  I'm  wounded  .  .  . 
here  .  .  .  yes,  thrice. 
Once  by  sword-thrust,  twice  by  love-thrust.      What  a  silly  sacri- 
fice 
I  have  made  .  .  .  Perhaps  'tis  deadly.   .   . 
Imogen  {coming  in  from  right).  Hell-hound!  coward,  you  have  slain 

My    dear    husband  .  .  .  God    forgive    me!    .  .  .  Mater    Sancta, 

heal  my  pain! 
O,  you  villain! 
Francois.  Lady ! 

Imogen.    Silence!   In  four  hours  get  you  hence 

Or  my  uncle.  Lord  Duke  Robert,  will  make  you  the  consequence 
Bear,  and  hang  you,  bastard  craven.    .    .         {Exit). 
Francois  {ash-pale,   bespattered  with  blood,  swaying  right  and  left  as  if 
drunk). 

Ha !  listen !  this  woman  grieve ! 
When,  while  he  lived,  her  great  object  was  her  husband  to  deceive. 
No!    the  only  decent  women  .  .  .  come  from  Paris  .  .  .  from  the 

Seine  .  .  . 
Oh,  my  breast!  .  .  .  I'm  bleeding  freely  .  .  .  Oh,  excruciating  pain! 
Ah!  I  hope  indeed  I'm  dying  .  .  .  I  pray  this  be  my  last  breath, 
Though  it's  often  been  predicted  that  on  gallows  I'd  face  death. 


Roses  21 

Deep  night  comes  ...  I  cannot  see  you  .  .  .  Lady  dear,  what  did 

you  say? 
That  you  loved  me  .  .  .  Ermintruda  .  .  .  think,  dearest,  'twas  but 

to-day 
That  I  almost  kiss'd  you  .  .  .  Lady  .  .  .  H61^ne  .  .  .  Jeanne  .  .  . 

Arsino6  .  .  . 
Juliette  .  .  .  Marie  .  .  .  Laure  .  .  .  Erdingoute  .  .  .  Lewd  lurid 

loves  I've  known. 
Me  all  women  loved  so  dearly  .  .  .  but  to-night  I  am  alone. 
I  feel  cooled    and    calm   and    quiet  .  .  .  Peaceful  freshness  I  have 

found. 
Never  had  such  soundless  slumbers  .  .  .  Shining  peace  and  sleep 

profound  .  .  . 
I  am  well  ...  I  pray  I'm  dying — that  I  never  shall  awake 
From  this  dream  .  .  .  Misericordia !  Angels  my  poor  soul  do  take 
Up  to  Heaven — then  I  know  that  I  must  be  stark  raving  mad ! 
Angels  for  me!    Why,  I'm  crazy  .  .  .  crazy  .  .  .  Sad  .  .  .  bad  . ,. 

mad  and  glad.  .  . 
Ermintruda  .  .  .  you  have  left  me  .  .  .  Your  lips  are  not  here,|l 

fear  .  .  . 
(As  he  topples  over,  a  blood-sodden  rose  falls  from  beneath  his  cloak. 
He  tries  to  snatch  it  and  falls  heavily  to  the  ground) . 

What  .  .  .  Madre  de  Dios!  .  .  .  happened  ...  to  the  Snows  of 

Yesteryear? 

Curtain. 

— Jack  Le  Clercq,  '18. 


BARBARA  BELL  lay  slouched  in  one  of  the  large  leather  chairs 
of  the  exchange,  with  her  slim  legs  stretched  before  her  in  a 
way  that  her  mother  had  often  condemned  as  unbecoming  in 
a  young  lady  of  thirteen  years.  But  Bab  was  thinking,  and  mothers, 
and  public  opinion,  and  manners,  and  legs  were  all  equally  far  from  her 
mind.  It  was  August,  and  all  summer  her  bubbling  spirits  had  been 
slowly  but  surely  sagging,  first  under  her  mother's  kind  but  terribly 
intellectual  companionship,  and  then  under  the  smiles  and  caresses  of 
the  "old  men"  and  "old  women"  in  which  the  hotel  abounded.  To 
be  sure,  many  of  them  were  of  the  younger  married  set,  but  they  might 
as  well  have  been  knitting  grandmothers,  and  decrepit  grandfathers  as 
far  as  Bab  was  concerned.  They  could  not  play  with  her,  or  laugh  and 
cry  with  her,  over  the  problems  of  her  young  but  very  keen  little  life. 
They  tried  so  hard,  especially  the  older  ones,  to  come  down  to  her  level 
and  be  "chums,"  but  the  efTort  which  they  spent  at  it  was  too  pitifully 
obvious  to  Bab,  and  she  would  usually  slip  away  to  the  backyard  and 
talk  to  the  Italian  stable  boy,  or  feed  the  chickens  and  the  old  pet  crow 
who  hopped  moodily  about  his  big  cage,  always  hunting  for  a  hole  to 
escape  through.  She  liked  the  crow  because  he  looked  so  weatherbeaten 
and  wise.  He  seemed  to  be  eternally  thinking  about  something  serious. 
Bab  would  stand  with  her  little  fingers  clutching  the  wire  cage,  in  a 
vain  endeavor  to  break  through  his  cold,  strutting  indifference,  and 
make  him  take  some  notice  of  her.  She  finally  had  to  give  him  up  as 
hopelessly  unsociable.  The  stable  boy  wasn't  very  promising  either. 
He  could  not  speak  English,  but  she  would  hold  weighty  conversations 
with  him,  just  imagining  what  his  answers  were,  from  the  eloquent 
expression  of  his  beaming  face  and  the  few  English  words  sandwiched 
in  here  and  there.  He  was  so  big  and  brown  and  strong :  it  was  wonder- 
ful the  way  he  pushed  the  horses  aside,  when  he  entered  their  stalls; 
his  nonchalant  manners  with  the  mighty  bull  fairly  made  Bab  gasp  in 
admiration.  He  could  do  things,  this  Pedro  could ;  he  didn't  sit  around 
and  smoke  and  read  and  eat  the  way  the  men  in  the  hotel  did. 

"If  you  could  only  talk  to  me!"  Bab  would  murmur,  gazing  de- 
spairingly up  at  his  smiling  white  teeth  and  handsome  Italian  eyes. 

But  it  was  not  Pedro  who  held  her  thoughts  this  day.  It  was  a 
new  cavalier  who  had  arrived  the  night  before,  and  of  whom  she  had 
caught  one  fleeting  but  all-sufficient  glimpse.  He  was  wonderful! 
His  hair  was  light  and  brughed  straight  back  from  his  broad,  manly 
forehead.      He  was  ruddy-cheeked,  with  an  easy,  careless  look  about 


Hotel  Stuff  23 

him;  yet  there  was  a  suggestion,  in  the  square  chin,  the  firm  mouth, 
and  in  his  sturdy  figure,  that  he  was  master  of  himself  and  of  situations. 

He  had  just  gone  upstairs  with  his  mother  and  the  trunks,  leaving 
Bab  in  a  distinctly  unsettled  frame  of  mind. 

"I  wonder  if  he'll  like  me,"  she  pondered  deeply.  "He  must: 
I'll  make  him:  mother  can  stand  a  rest  from  me,  I  guess,  and  you,  and 
you,  and  you,  will  have  to,"  she  meditated,  glancing  alternately  at 
several  of  her  "would-be"  chums,  who  were  sitting  about  the  lobby. 

At  dinner  that  night  she  discovered  him  with  his  mother,  at  the 
table  just  inside  the  door.  Hers  was  at  the  farther  end !  But  she  managed 
to  give  him  a  casual  look  as  she  passed  by — and  saw,  to  her  delight, 
that  he  was  suddenly  all  attention.  Bab  wore  her  best  hair  ribbon,  a  pink 
dress,  white  silk  stockings,  and  carefully  whitened  pumps — a  sight 
pretty  enough  to  make  any  normal  boy  of  fifteen  hesitate  and  look  up, 
with  his  soup  spoon  half-way  to  his  mouth. 

During  dinner  Mrs.  Bell  gave  her  small  daughter  several  surprised, 
inquiring  looks  for  her  self-absorbed  silence.  This  far-away  look  in  her 
eyes  was  unusual. 

"Why  so  quiet  tonight,  Barbara?"  she  inquired  at  length. 

"Why — I'm  hungry,"  lied  Bab,  attacking  fiercely  some  fish  which 
she  did  not  want. 

She  was  really  contriving  how  to  meet  with  the  least  possible  delay 
this  "cavalier"  who  had  come  to  rescue  her  from  depressing  old  age. 
In  the  brief  time  during  supper  she  had  mentally  been  on  two  long 
walks  with  him, — told  him  fully  of  her  loneliness,  and  received  his  un- 
conditional and  complete  sympathy. 

"But  suppose  he  isn't  like  that  at  all!"  she  thought  tragically,  as 
she  arose  from  the  table. 

She  didn't  dare  look  at  him  on  the  way  out,  for  she  could  feel  his 
eyes  on  her.  His  name  was  David  Wells  and  his  room  was  No.  65, 
according  to  the  register.  She  caught  the  clerk's  eye  on  her  while  she 
was  looking  at  it,  and  turned  away  blushing.  Then  she  sat  off  in  a  far 
comer  and  pretended  to  read  a  book. 

When  she  looked  up  again  her  heart  began  to  thump,  and  sent 
the  color  surging  to  her  cheeks.  David  was  walking  slowly  towards  her, 
hands  in  his  pockets,  looking  as  unconcerned  as  though  she  were  an 
infant  and  beneath  his  notice.  He  sat  down  almost  beside  her,  crossed 
his  legs,  folded  his  arms,  and  said  calmly: 

"How  long  have  you  been  in  this  place?" 

Barbara  opened  her  mouth,  but  no  sound  came,  so  she  shut  it 


24  The  Haverfordian 

ain  and  simply  stared  at  him.     She  had  not  dreamed  that  she  would 
be  embarrassed. 

"Aren't  you  going  to  talk  to  me?"  he  demanded, with  a  kind  of 
injured  surprise. 

"Why, yes!"  replied  Bab  desperately. 

"'Cause  if  you're  not,  I'm  not  going  to  sit  here  and  watch  you 
quietly  like  a  boob.  I  told  mother  this  place  was  an  old  ladies'  home! 
The  fellers  at  school  all  said  so,  but  she  said  it  was  'healthy.'  I  told 
her  I  wasn't  sick,  but  would  be  if  I  stayed  here  long.  I  wanted  some 
fellers  to  go  round  with  this  summer.  Mother's  all  right,  but  she  can't 
play  ball,  an'  she  can't  swim,  nor  scrap — 'cept  with  her  tongue." 

"There  aren't  many  young  people  here,"  Bab  agreed  timidly. 
Somehow  this  boy  took  her  breath  away. 

"Many?    There's  two,  I  think!" 

"You  mean  you  and  me!"  murmured  Bab,  uncertainly. 

"That's  right!"  he  retorted  in  a  half-disgusted  tone,  which  wounded 
her  already  humiliated  feelings. 

"  I  was  afraid  that  you  might  be  horrid.  Who  told  you  you  could 
talk  tome?" 

Then  she  bit  her  lip,  blushed  angrily,  and  left  her  surprised  com- 
panion to  meditate  in  peace  over  his  lack  of  tact,  and  ignorance  of  the 
ways  of  women's  hearts:   for  he  had  not  meant  to  make  her  angry. 

Bab  sought  refuge  with  her  mother,  whom  she  found  in  her  room. 
Without  a  word  she  flopped  on  the  bed  and  burst  out  crying. 

"Why,  Barbara,  what's  the  matter?"  exclaimed  her  mother. 

"I  hate  this  place,"  she  sobbed.  "I  want  someone  to  play  with, 
besides  homely  old  men." 

"But  why  this  sudden  outburst?" 

"  It's  been  this  way  all  summer.  I  can't  stand  it  any  longer.  There's 
nothing  to  do,  nowhere  to  go,  no  fun  of  any  kind!" 

She  was  seizing  excuses  at  random,  for  she  was  far  too  proud  to  tell 
the  truth.  Her  emotions  had  conquered  her  all  of  a  sudden  without 
the  usual  palpitating  warnings.  She  had  been  merely  angry  when  she 
left  David,  but  once  in  her  room,  her  crushed  hopes  became  too  heavy 
for  her  sensitive  young  temperament.  However,  the  causes  for  her  • 
grief  could  not  bear  maternal  probing,  and  the  tears  were  rapidly  dis- 
appearing when  her  mother  finally  answered  the  plea. 

"Darling,  it  has  been  lonely  for  you  this  summer.  I've  realized  it: 
but  you're  on  the  go  so  much  during  the  winter,  it  won't  hurt  you. 
There's  a  nice-looking  boy  who  has  just  arrived  here  today.     I  shall 


Hotel  Stuff  2S 

try  and  have  you  meet  him:  I'll  speak  to  his  mother  tonight.  Don't 
cry  any  more,  dear!" 

"O — er — thank  you,  mother!"  stuttered  Bab. 

Then,  stung  by  the  hypocrisy  of  her  remark,  she  took  a  hurried 
leave  before  her  guilty  conscience  could  betray  her.  It  was  impossible 
to  tell  her  mother  that  she  already  knew  David,  without  confessing  the 
disastrous  conclusion  of  this  impromptu  relationship,  so  she  retreated  to 
the  backyard  and  talked  in  doleful  tones  to  Pedro,  whom  she  found 
washing  the  hotel  bus.  He  would  at  least  keep  quiet  and  not  say  mean 
things.  He  was  the  best  "cavalier"  after  all:  ignorance  had  its  advan- 
tages; talking  at  him  was  more  pleasing  than  talking  to  some  people, 
because  he  at  least  could  keep  quiet  and  smile;  and  that  was  better 
than  cold-blooded  answers. 

David,  in  the  meantime,  was  grinding  his  teeth  and  pacing  the  floor 
in  a  torment  of  self-accusation  for  having  been  such  a  fool  as  to  queer 
himself  with  the  only  girl  in  the  place.  As  soon  as  she  left  him,  he 
realized  two  things,  that  he  was  distinctly  the  loser,  and  that  she  was 
extremely  attractive  even  when  angry. 

"I'm  a  fool  with  strange  girls!"  he  muttered  disgustedly  as  he 
marched  up  and  down  in  front  of  the  stairway,  hoping  that  she  would 
come  down.  Then  he  remembered  her  words,  "I  was  afraid  you  might 
be  horrid."  She  had  thought  about  him  previously,  anyway.  Perhaps 
there  was  still  some  hope! 

After  supper  that  night  the  climax  came — the  beginning  of  the  end. 
David,  hair  slicked  back,  shoes  shined,  clothes  carefully  brushed,  sat 
so  peacefully  beside  his  mother,  that  she  half  suspected  something  un- 
usual was  going  to  happen.  The  exchange  was  filled.  All  the  "old" 
people  were  on  parade,  reading,  talking,  laughing,  and  digesting  their 
dinner.  Bab  was  still  in  the  dining-room,  and  David  was  watching  the 
door,  wandering  what  she  could  find  in  there  that  was  fit  to  eat.  It 
was  his  appetite  that  was  gone  this  evening. 

At  last  she  emerged,  looking  so  adorable  that  it  made  him  sick  to 
look  at  her.  He  crouched  back  in  his  chair  like  a  guilty  thing,  afraid  of 
the  public  gaze.     His  eyes  followed  her  with  a  hungry,  hopeless  stare. 

"What  a  nice  little  girl!"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Wells. 

David  was  too  undone  for  words.  If  he  had  said  anything  it  would 
have  been  a  tragic,  monotonous,  "Hell!    Don't  I  know  it?" 

She  passed  by  him  without  so  much  as  a  turn  of  the  head,  and 
David  sighed  bitterly.  The  change  in  him  had  been  rapid.  First  he 
saw  her  and  admired  her  looks,  then  she  got  angry  at  him  and  he  re- 
spected her,  and  finally,  she  ignored  him  and  he  worshipped  her. 


26  The  Haverfordian 

As  for  Barbara,  it  was  no  diplomacy  on  her  part  that  made  her 
adopt  this  plan;  she  could  not  have  done  otherwise.  Her  previous 
hopes  about  him  had  been  very  high  indeed;  then  he  had  come  up  to 
her  so  suddenly  that  her  presence  of  mind  deserted  her.  She  had  let 
him  go  too  far  in  his  blunt  ill  manners,  before  squelching  him.  But 
she  could  squelch,  if  she  had  to,  which  fact  was  admirably  demonstrated 
by  her  exit  from  the  dining-room. 

She  was  so  careful  to  keep  her  eyes  before  her  that  she  passed  by 
him  into  the  waiting-room,  without  noticing  that  her  mother  had  stopped. 
Her  heart  began  to  thump  fearfully  when  she  turned  around,  and  recol- 
lected the  promise.  She  peeked  carefully  out  the  door,  and  saw  her 
mother  chatting  quietly  with  Mrs.  Wells,  while  David  watched  her 
with  the  eyes  of  an  escaped  criminal. 

"Barbara,  come  here,  dear!" 

"Oh!"  muttered  Bab,  clenching  her  Uttle  fists.  "Why  didn't  I 
stay  out  of  sight!" 

There  was  nothing  to  do  but  face  the  music! 

"I'll  show  him  I'm  not  afraid  of  him  anyway!"  she  thought  deter- 
minedly, and  tripped  out  to  her  mother  with  a  gaiety  which  was  all  on 
the  surface. 

David,  pale  and  shrinking,  arose  and  stood  before  her,  head  bowed. 

Mrs.  Bell  introduced  them.  Barbara  grasped  his  limp  hand 
firmly,  and  immediately  felt  that  she  was  mistress  of  the  situation. 

"How  do  you  do?"  she  said  sweetly.  "I'm  so  glad  someone  my 
age  has  come  here  to  stay.     I'd  been  longing  for  someone  to  play  with." 

"Have  you?"  gasped  David  eagerly.      "And  you're  not  angry?" 

"Me?   Angr>'?   What  about?   Who  with?"  she  answered  calmly. 

The  mothers  looked  at  each  other. 

Barbara  gave  him  a  glance  that  put  new  life  in  him.  He  rose  to 
the  occasion  finally. 

"You — you  looked  furious  when  you  came  out  of  the  dining-room," 
he  patched  up;  "I — I  thought  I  never  was  going  to  meet  you." 

The  mothers  smiled  at  each  other, — the  wise,  superior  smile  of 
those  who  understand  children  and  their  simple  but  vital  affairs. 

Mrs.  Bell  took  her  daughter's  hand  tenderly. 

"Now  I  hope  you'll  be  contented,  dear.  I  know  you've  been  lonely 
here.     I  didn't  realize  it  at  first." 

"And  5'ou  too,  David!"  chimed  in  Mrs.  Wells;  "take  the  grouch 
and  throw  it  in  the  ocean.  You've  been  unbearable  since  we  arrived 
yesterday." 

Barbara  had  fought  hard  for  self-control.      The  color  came  and 


Hotel  Stuff  27 

went  from  her  cheeks.  It  was  frightful  to  be  pitied  for  loneliness  in  front 
of  David  who  had  treated  her  so. 

They  were  standing  sheepishly  beside  each  other — David  humble, 
Bab  with  a  sickly,  worried  look — while  the  two  mothers  beamed  upon 
them. 

"I  think  they  make  a  good  pair,  don't  you?"  said  one  to  the  other. 

Bab  tried  to  laugh,  but  David,  knowing  what  a  poor  specimen 
one  half  the  pair  was,  could  not  even  smile. 

And  still  they  stood!  "Something  must  be  done!"  thought  Bab 
nervously.     David  showed  no  signs  of  intelligence. 

"Let's  go  and  play  shufifieboard ! "  she  said,  impulsively  turning 
to  him. 

"Yes,  take  him  away,  Barbara;  he's  been  an  awful  nuisance  to 
me,"  laughed  Mrs.  Wells. 

Then,  scarce  knowing  what  she  was  doing,  she  seized  him  by  the 
hand  and  pulled  him  down  the  corridor,  away  from  the  staring  crowd. 
When  they  were  well  out  of  sight  Bab  stopped,  dropped  his  hand,  and 
leaned  wearily  against  the  wall. 

"Guess  I'm  too  tired  to  play  shufHeboard,"  she  murmured,  half 
trembling  with  nervousness. 

Then  suddenly  the  boy  was  on  his  knees  before  her,  with  her  hand 
pressed  to  his  lips. 

"I'm  sorry  for — for  being  a  fool,"  he  mumbled,  "and  you're  a — a 
darling!" 

"I  thought  you  didn't  like  me  at  all!"  said  Bab  tensely,  with- 
drawing her  hand. 

"Why  did  you  pull  me  out  here  then?"  inquired  David  wretchedly. 

"I  was  going  to  make  you,"  she  answered  in  a  low  voice. 

"Make  me!  Good  night!"  he  cried,  and  caught  her  in  his  arms, 
with  a  new-born  enthusiasm. 

"I  didn't  think  it  would  be  this  easy!"  she  blushingly  confessed  as 
he  released  her. 

"Now  don't  get  angry  again,  because  I'm  not  really  a  boob,  and  I'll 
prove  it  to  you,"  he  earnestly  declared. 

"  I'm  not  angry,  but  you  were  mean  at  first." 

"Why,  I  only  just  met  you  tonight,"  he  ventured  uncertainly. 
"Let's  pretend  that  anyway!    They  think  so." 

"Who?" 

"Our  mothers." 

"I — I  almost  lied  about  it  too,"  said  Bab  guiltily. 

"You  couldn't  lie!"  returned  the  boy  worshipfully.      "Come,  let's 


28  The  Haverfordian 

go  out  for  a  walk.     I  hate  this  Hotel  Stuff.     It's  the  same  everywhere. 
Old  hens  sittin'  round  the  walls  an'  watchin',  like  glooms!" 

"I'll  take  you  out  and  show  you  the  crow  if  you'll  promise  not  to 
wake  him." 

Hand  in  hand  they  slipped  out  by  the  side  door.  They  stood  to- 
gether before  the  cage  and  watched  him, — still  dark,  and  half  hidden  in 
the  shadows.  They  did  not  wait  long,  but  turned  around,  arms  about 
each  other,  and  walked  slowly  away  into  the  cool  night,  while  the  crow 
unfolded  his  head  from  his  battered  clipped  wing,  and  watched.  Crows 
are  wise  old  birds,  and  tell  no  tales.  He  knew  what  was  up,  and  said  to 
himself, 

"I  won't  be  bothered  with  her  any  more  this  summer." 

— Colby   Van  Dam,   '17. 


Snboorg  at  ^igfjt 

Indoors  at  night,  when  drifts  the  snow, 
And  winds  in  moaning  pine  trees  blow, 
A  fragrant  pipe,  an  easy-chair, 
An  oft-read  book  at  hand — I'll  swear 
No  god  can  further  joy  bestow. 

The  shadows  quiver  to  and  fro 
As  gleams  the  fire  with  fitful  glow. 
There  are  enchantments  in  the  air 
Indoors  at  night. 

Faint,  misty  shapes  from  darkness  grow. 
And  melodies  sound  soft  and  low. 
As  poets  sing  of  sad  despair, 
Or  chant  a  lay  of  maiden  fair. 
While  nightingales  repeat  their  woe — 
Indoors  at  night. 

~W.  S.  Nevin,  '18. 


The  Alumni  29 

The  undersigned  Alumni  desire  to  call  the  attention  of  the  under- 
graduates to  the  appended  extracts  from  the  Bulletin  of  the  Military 
Training  Camps,  Eastern  Department,  U.  S.  Army,  1916,  Plattsburg, 
New  York. 

We  wish  to  take  this  opportunity  to  bring  these  camps  to  your 
attention,  as  we  are  heartily  in  favor  of  the  movement  of  which  they  are 
a  part.  We  feel,  too,  that  though  Haverford  is  essentially  a  Quaker 
College,  it  is  but  fair  to  the  men  there  who  are  not  Friends,  to  form 
their  own  individual  opinions  of  the  value  of  these  camps  and  to  attend 
them,  if  conscientiously  approved. 

Furthermore,  in  Europe,  training  and  organization  have  proved 
to  be  absolutely  necessary  for  efficiency,  whether  in  the  fighting  line 
itself  or  in  that  branch  of  service  which  the  Friends  themsehes  have 
been  willing  to  undertake.  These  camps  provide  training  for  such 
service,  as,  for  example,  a  hospital  corps. 

Additional  and  complete  details  can  be  had  from  J.  B.  Drinker, 
1420  Chestnut  Street,  Philadelphia,  Pa.  Correspondence  and  expres- 
sion of  opinion  are  solicited. 

W.  P.  Morris,  '86  F.  M.  Eshleman,  '00 

P.  H.  Morris,  '87  S.  W.  Mifflin,  '00 

J.  W.  Sharp,  Jr.,  '88  E.  H.  Boles,  '02 

L.  J.  Morris,  '89  J.  B.  Drinker,  '03 

A.  M.  ColHns,  '97  H.  N.  Thorn,  '04 

A.  C.  Maule,  '99  A.  H.  Hopkins,  '05 
H.  S.  Drinker,  Jr.,  '00 

MILITARY  TRAINING  CAMPS 

EASTERN  DEPARTMENT,  U.  S.  ARMY 

1916 

Plattsburg,  N.   Y. 

SECOND  CAMP   JUNIOR    DIVISION— JULY  5  TO  AUGUST  8 

QU.^LIFICATIONS 

The  Junior  Division  comprises:  (a)  undergraduates  of  colleges  and 
universities;  (b)  graduates  in  1916  of  colleges  and  universities;  (c) 
students  in  public  or  private  schools  who  have  reached  a  grade  equiva- 
lent to  senior  class,  high  school;  (d)  graduates,  under  twenty-one,  of 
such  schools  with  above  grade. 


30  The  Haverfordian 

Objects 

The  objects  of  these  camps  are: 

To  help  equip  properly  qualified  men  to  fill  the  great  deficiency  in 
commissioned  officers  that  would  immediately  arise  in  case  of  national 
emergency,  by  giving  them  four  or  five  weeks  of  intensive  military 
instruction  in  the  field  under  officers,  and  with  troops,  of  the  Regular 
Army ; 

To  foster  a  patriotic  spirit  and  spread  among  the  citizens  of  the 
country  some  knowledge  of  military  history,  military  policy  and  mili- 
tary needs; 

To  instil  in  four  or  five  weeks  of  healthy  outdoor  life  the  habits  of 
obedience,  discipline,  command  and  self-control  that  are  the  prerequi- 
sites of  efficienc>'  in  every  business  or  profession,  and  to  send  men  back 
from  the  camps  better  prepared  to  take  care  of  themselves  and  of  others. 

Expense 
S22.50  for  Junior  Di\ision,  exclusive  of  uniform,  which  costs  about 
$10,  and  railway  fare. 

Obligation 

The  obligation  to  defend  the  country  in  case  of  need  already  rests 
on  all  male  citizens  of  military  age.  Attendance  at  a  military  training 
camp  neither  increases  nor  diminishes  this  existing  obligation. 

History  and  Value 

In  July,  1913,  the  first  training  camp  of  the  Regular  Army  for 
college  and  high  school  students  was  held  on  the  field  of  Gettysburg. 
In  the  same  year  a  students'  camp  was  also  held  at  Monterey,  Cali- 
fornia, and  in  1914  and  1915  similar  camps  were  held  in  various  parts  of 
the  countr\'. 

In  June,  1915,  a  corresponding  movement  was  started  among  the 
younger  professional  and  business  men,  and  resulted  in  the  Plattsburg 
training  camps  for  business  and  professional  men  of  1915,  with  an 
attendance  of  1800  men. 

Like  the  student  camps,  these  camps  were  held  with  the  approval 
of  the  War  Department,  and  under  officers  and  in  conjunction  with 
troops  of  the  Regular  Army.  A  high  standard  of  morale  and  substantial 
military  results  were  attained. 

Indirectly  the  Plattsburg  idea    brought    about  a  similar  camp  at 


Military  Training  Camps  31 

Fort  Sheridan,  Illinois,  attended  by  over  500  men,  and  similar  move- 
ments in  various  parts  of  the  country. 

Plans  are  being  made  for  sectional  camps  on  a  large  scale  in  the 
summer  of  1916.  Unquestionably  the  "  Plattsburg  idea"  has  had  great 
influence  throughout  the  nation  in  developing  a  sense  of  military  obliga- 
tion among  the  young  men  of  the  country,  and  the  present  indications 
are  that  at  least  30,000  men  will  attend  these  camps  this  summer. 

The  aim  is  to  give  men  of  average  physique  four  or  five  weeks  a 
year  of  intensive  military  instruction  under  officers  of  the  Regular  Army, 
so  that  at  the  end  of  that  time  men  of  no  previous  military  experience 
will,  at  least,  have  learned  the  rudiments  of  military  organization  and 
discipline,  and  use  of  the  military  rifle,  and  become  somewhat  familiar 
with  the  equipment,  feeding  and  sanitary  care  of  an  army  in  the  field, 
and  the  handling  and  control  of  men  in  maneuvers. 

No  examinations  are  held,  but  at  the  completion  of  the  training 
recommendations  are  made  by  the  company  commanders  as  to  the 
efficiency  of  the  attendant,  and  certificates  of  competency  are  issued 
by  the  commanding  officer  and  filed  with  the  War  Department. 

Your  attendance  will  not  only  help  equip  you  to  discharge  with 
greater  efficiency  an  existing  obligation,  but  your  example  by  deed  will 
be  of  inestimable  value  in  arousing  your  community  to  the  need  of  mili- 
tary preparedness. 

These  camps  also  bear  the  endorsement  of  Major-General  Leonard 
Wood,  and  of  the  Advisory  Committee  of  University  Presidents,  con- 
sisting of 

President  John  C.  Hibben,  Chairman,  Princeton  University. 

President  A.  Lawrence  Lowell,  Harvard  University. 

President  Arthur  Twining  Hadley,  Yale  University. 

President  John  H.  Finley,  University  of  the  State  of  New  York  and 
Commissioner  of  Education. 

President  H.  B.  Hutchins,  LIniversity  of  Michigan. 

Superintendent  E.  W.  Nichols,  Virginia  Military  Institute. 

President  Benjamin  Ide  Wheeler,  University  of  California. 

President  J.  G.  Schurman,  Cornell  LIniversity. 

President  Edmund  I.  James,  University  of  Illinois. 

Chancellor  J.  H.  Kirkland,  Vanderbilt  LIniversity. 

President  A.  C.  Humphreys,  Stevens  Institute  of  Technology. 

President  H.  A.  Garfield,  Williams  College. 

President  George  H.  Denny,  LIniversity  of  Alabama. 

President  Henry  Sturgis  Drinker,  Lehigh  University,  Secretary. 


32  The  Haverfordian 

Qualifications 

Applicants  must  be  (1)  citizens  of  the  United  States  or  have 
taken  out  their  first  papers,  (2)  of  sound  physical  condition,  capable 
of  the  severe  physical  work  of  drill,  and  maneuvers  with  full  infantry 
equipment;   eyesight  normal  or  corrected  by  glasses. 

In  addition,  applicants  for  the  Junior  Division,  must  be  at  least 
eighteen  years  of  age  and  qualify  in  one  of  the  following  classes: 

(a)  Undergraduates  of  colleges  and  universities. 

(b)  Graduates  in  1916  of  colleges  and  universities. 

(c)  Students  in  public  or  pri\ate  schools  who  have  reached  a  grade 
equivalent  to  senior  class,  high  school. 

(d)  Graduates  under  twenty-one  of  such  schools  with  above  grade. 

Location 
The  camp  will  be  held  near  Plattsburg,  New  York,  on  the  shore 
of  Lake  Champlain,   adjoining  the  military  reservation  of   Plattsburg 
Barracks,  now  garrisoned  by  the  30th  Infantry. 

Transport.\tion 
Plattsburg  is  on  the  Delaware  and  Hudson  R.  R.  between  Albany 
and  Montreal.      It  may  also  be  reached  by  boats  of  the  Lake  Cham- 
plain  Transportation  Compan)-.      Special  rates  will  be  made  for  those 
attending  the  camps. 

Expense 

Junior  Division.  A  deposit  of  S22.50  (to  be  made  on  reporting) 
for  mess,  and  S5.00  to  cover  loss  or  damage  to  Government  property. 

If  there  is  no  such  loss  or  damage  the  S5.00  deposit  will  be  returned 
at  expiration  of  camp. 

Inoculation  ' 
It  is  strongly  recommended  that  the  typhoid  prophylaxis  inocula- 
tion be  taken  at  the  camp  or  before,  if  preferred.      (No  charge  for  this 
treatment  at  the  camp  or  for  approved  applicants  at  Governors  Island, 
N.  Y.).     Not  obligatory. 

Instructions 

The  instructors  are  officers  of  the  Regular  Army.  Each  Com- 
pany will  have  attached  to  it  one  or  more  sergeants. 

The  purpose  of  the  camp  will  be  to  give  each  attendant  as  much 
of  the  fundamental  education  of  an  officer  as  can  be  imparted  in  the 


Sonnet  33 

duration  of  the  camp.     A  certain   definite  outline  will  be  prescribed  for 
all,  including  infantry  training  and  rifle  practice. 

Special  opportunities  will  be  olifered  for  training  in  various  branches 
of  the  service,  Cavalry,  Artillery,  Engineers,  Signal  Corps,  First  Aid, 
Camp  Sanitation,  etc. 

,  Organi7.\tion 

Attendants  at  the  camp  will  be  divided  into  war  strength  com- 
panies of  Infantry  commanded  by  officers  of  the  Regular  Army,  whose 
duties  cover  not  only  those  of  instruction,  but  also  supcr\-ision  and 
the  health  and  general  welfare  of  their  commands.  Attendants  are  on 
a  Cadet  basis. 

EXAMIN.\TI0NS 

No  examination   is  required,   but   the  regular  officers  on  duty  at 
the  camp  will  make  such  recommendations  as  to  individual  qualifica- 
tions as  they  may  deem  proper,  to  be  filed  with  the  War  Department. 
For  further  information  apply  to 

Officer  in  Ch.^rge, 

Military  Training  Camps, 

Governors  Island,  N.    Y, 


bonnet 

Like  as  the  ship  that  bravely  puts  to  sea. 
And  tossed  by  many  gales  yet  holds  her  way, 
With  stormy-petrels  crying  on  her  lee 
And  decks  a-wash  with  flying  foam  and  spray. 
One  time  approaching  near  Earl  Godiviris  sands, 
Her  'wildered  compass'  needle  madly  twirls 
And  she  is  lost,  if  that  her  pilot  stands 
On's  course,  and  does  not  quickly  shun  the  swirls. 
One  time  on  homeward  voyage  gladly  bent. 
She  meets  the  wild  North-easter's  angry  blast, 
And  when  his  Must' ring  wrath  is  fully  spent, 
Within  the  haven's  calm  she  sails  at  last. 
Thus,  like  the  ship  that  sails  upon  the  main, 
Man's  life  is  checkered  o'er  with  joys  and  pain. 

— Donald  Galbraith  Baird,  '15. 


in  l^oman's!  Argument 

JOHN  BRADSHIRE  strode  down  the  street  leading  to  the  home  of 
his  fiancee,  with  quick,  nervous  steps.  He  went  deHberately 
ahead,  looking  neither  to  the  right  nor  to  the  left.  He  heard  two 
people  mutter,  "Slacker,"  as  he  passed,  and  his  face  grew  hot.  A  girl 
stepped  up  to  him  and  handed  him  a  white  feather.  Bradshire  cringed 
and  brushed  by.  Two  men  in  uniform  looked  at  him  with  eyes  full  of 
scorn.  His  petty  temper  was  almost  at  a  white  heat.  Why  should  he 
go  to  war?  He  was  going  to  enter  the  ministry,  and  his  soul  shrank 
from  the  idea  of  fighting.  Was  war  not  against  all  Christian  principles? 
Why  could  not  these  people  who  called  themselves  Christians  realize 
that?  Even  Marian  had  urged  him  to  go,  and  when  he  had  tried  to 
argue  and  explain,  she  had  grown  cold  and  scornful.  In  the  past  few 
days  their  relations  had  become  quite  strained. 

He  mounted  the  steps  and  rang  the  bell.  Miss  Mercer  was  at 
home  and  would  see  him.  He  had  been  waiting  but  a  few  minutes  when 
Marian  entered  the  room.  Her  dark  eyes  and  black  hair  formed  a  beauti- 
ful contrast  with  her  dress  of  pale  pink  and  lace.  Her  girlish,  inviting 
mouth  was  straight  and  firm.  She  greeted  John  without  a  smile.  John 
looked  admiringly  at  the  enchanting,  womanly  figure  and  said, 

"You  look  adorable,  my  dear.     Pink  is  very  becoming  to  you." 

She  looked  squarely  and  defiantly  at  him  and  answered, 

"Khaki  would  be  more  becoming  to  you." 

John  winced,  clenched  his  teeth,  and  grew  red.  "Listen,  Marian, 
why  will  you  not  see  things  from  my  point  of  view?  You  know  that 
war  is  wrong — " 

"No,"  she  interrupted,  her  soft  eyes  flashing  an  expression  of  pride 
and  rising  anger.  "Sometimes  it  is  right.  Anger  is  also  wrong,  but 
righteous  indignation  is  right." 

Thoroughly  exasperated,  John  began  to  argue  with  her.  "But 
can't  you  see  that  war  is  against  all  Christian  teachings?" 

"No,"  she  flung  back  at  him,  shaking  her  pert  head.  "You  may 
as  well  argue  that  the  punishment  of  a  thief  who  would  attack  you  or 
your  home,  is  contrary  to  the  commandment,  'Thou  shalt  love  thy 
neighbor  as  thyself.'  You  claim  that  you  are  a  Christian," — the  derision 
in  her  eyes  made  him  flinch.  "To-day  Christianity  is  being  attacked, 
and  men  would  destroy  it.  Isn't  Christianity  worth  fighting  for?  Is 
it  wrong  to  fight  for  what  is  right?  If  it  is  wrong  and  unchristian  to 
protect  women  and  children  from  being  barbarously  murdered ;  if  it  is 
wrong  to  protect  honor;   if  it  is  right  and  Christian  to  leave  the  women 


A  Woman's  Argument  35 

of  your  country  open  to  the  raids  of  savage  beasts," — her  bosom  rose  and 
fell  excitedly — "then  I  renounce  Christianity!" 

The  veins  in  John's  temples  stood  out  like  cords,  for  what  she  had 
said  cut  him  to  the  quick. 

"Marian!  you  don't  realize  what  you  are  saying.  You  don't 
understand  what  you  are  talking  about.  Let  those  who  believe  in  war 
fight,  and  those  who  believe  in  peace  be  men  enough  to  say  so." 

"Men!"  Marian's  full  red  lip  curled  in  scorn.  "If  those  creatures 
are  meii  who  refuse  to  fight  when  the  honor  of  their  country  is  at  stake; 
who  refuse  to  protect  their  womenfolk" — she  paused,  and  spoke  slowly, 
so  that  the  full  significance  of  her  words  might  not  be  lost — "  I  will  never 
marry  any  'man.'  " 

John  was  taken  aback  with  her  statement.  He  burst  out  excitedly, 
"Marian,  you  don't  mean — " 

The  glitter  in  her  eye  as  she  drew  herself  up,  stopped  him. 

"I  mean  exactly  what  I  have  said."     She  turned  and  left  the  room. 
******** 

Private  Kilroy,  after  a  very  strenuous  day  in  the  trenches,  was 
crouching  over  a  fire  with  a  frying  pan  in  one  hand,  from  which  issued 
a  cheering,  appetizing  odor  of  bacon  and  beans.  With  his  back  to  the 
fire.  Sergeant  Bradshire  was  warming  his  hands  by  the  blaze.  The  lines 
about  his  mouth  were  drawn  and  hard.  The  flames  cast  deep  shadows 
in  his  cheeks.  But  about  his  thinly-drawn  mouth,  there  was  something 
of  a  free,  careless  air;  an  expression  we  see  on  men  who  dare  anything 
and  fear  nothing,  nor  take  account  of  what  the  results  may  be.  Only 
a  few  weeks  in  the  trenches,  he  had  been  made  a  sergeant  on  account 
of  his  fearless  courage.  He  was  admired  by  all  the  men  for  his  daring, 
and  seemed  to  fight  with  a  religious  enthusiasm. 

Kilroy  turned  to  him,  and,  shielding  his  face  from  the  heat  of  the 
fire  with  his  hand,  said,  "A  terrible  thing  is  this  war.  When  it's  over, 
and  I've  got  settled,  and  my  son  William  has  grown  up,  I'm  going  to 
make  a  minister  out  of  him,  so  that  he  won't  have  to  go  to  war." 

Bradshire  smiled  grimly,  and  said,  "I  was  going  to  enter  the  min- 
istry before  the  war." 

Kilroy  handed  him  a  sliver  of  bacon.     "Well,  what  stopped  you?" 

"This  damn  war,  of  course." 

—Russell  N.  Miller,  '19. 


JLUMNI 


DECEASED 

'76 
Chas.  A  Longstreth,  of  Bryn 
Mawr,  Pa.,  died  of  pneumonia  on 
March  9th.  He  was  treasurer  of 
Haverford  Monthly  Meeting  and 
Preston  Reading  Room  Associa- 
tion. He  was  active  in  many 
charitable  enterprises,  and  his  loss 
will  be  deeph'  felt. 

By  the  beguest  of  Edith  and 
Walter  Scull,  of  London,  the  estate 
of  their  father,  Gideon  Scull.  '43, 
will  at  the  end  of  one  year  come 
into  the  possession  of  Haverford 
College.  The  value  of  the  estate 
is  about  SIOO.OOO.  The  only  con- 
dition to  the  bequest  is  that  Haver- 
ford establish  a  course  in  English 
constitutional  history. 

The  estate  of  Anna  Yarnall, 
which  was  left  to  the  Haverford 
College  library  about  one  year  ago, 
consists  largely  of  real  estate  near 
69th  Street  Station,  West  Philadel- 
phia, and  is  valued  at  a  sum  be- 
tween 850,000  and  8100,000. 

The  second  Alumni  Quarterly  for 
the  year  1916  will  contain  the 
following : 

An  article  by  President  Sharpless 
about  the  new  College  buildings  to 
be  built,  and  other  College  affairs. 

Reviews  of  books  by  W.  S. 
Hinchman,    '00;    W.    R.    Dunton, 


'89;  Jas.  Whitall,  '10;  Hinch- 
man, '00,  and  Stork,  '02;  and  E. 
Shaffer,  '15. 

A  letter  from  Lawrence  J.  Mor- 
ris, '89,  on  the  "Value  of  Summer 
Military  Camps  for  College  Stu- 
dents." 

A  letter  from  John  L.  Scull,  '05, 
discussing  the  place  at  which  the 
Alumni  dinner  should  be  held. 

A  resume  of  College  activities 
since  the  appearance  of  the  past 
Quarterly,  by  D.   C.  Wendell,  '16. 

We  ciuote  from  the  Haverford 
News:  "An  address  by  President 
Sharpless  on  '  Military  Training  in 
Schools  and  Colleges'  appears  in 
the  proceedings  of  the  Association 
of  Colleges  and  Preparatory  School 
of  the  Middle  States  and  Mary- 
land, 1915." 

At  a  meeting  of  the  Philadelphia 
Society  for  the  Promotion  of  Lib- 
eral Studies,  held  at  the  Hotel 
Adelphia  March  25th,  Geo.  A. 
Barton,  '82,  spoke  on  the  "Value 
of  Latin  for  Oriental  Studies." 
H.  J.  Cadbury,  '03,  took  part  in 
the  discussion. 

R.  M.  Gummere,  '02,  is  chair- 
man of  the  program  committee  of 
this  society. 

The  following  Alumni  were  pres- 
ent at  the  banquet  of  the  Joint 
Athletic  Committee  at  the  College 


The  Alumni 


37 


on  February  25th:  J.  Sharp,  '88 
A.  G.  Priestman,  '05;  C.  C.  Mor 
ris,  '04;  H.  H.  Lowry,  '99;  A.  C 
Wood,  Jr.,  '02;  R.  M.  Gummere 
'02;  H.  N.  Thorn,  '04;  J.  L.  Scull 
'05;  W.  Rossmaessler,  '07;  E.  N 
Edwards,  '10;  A.  M.  Collins,  '97 
President  Sharpless  was  also  pres- 
ent. 

President  Sharpless  spoke  before 
the  West  Chester  Branch  of  the 
League  to  Enforce  Peace  on  Feb- 
ruary 29th. 

The  Haverford  Association  of 
New  York  held  its  annual  banquet 
March  22nd  at  the  Columbia 
University  Club,  Grammercy  Park, 
New  York.  David  Bispham,  '76, 
presided.  President  Isaac  Sharp- 
less was  one  of  the  speakers  of  the 
evening.  Musical  selections  were 
rendered  by  two  of  Mr.  Bispham's 
friends.  Thos.  M.  Osborne,  war- 
den of  Sing  Sing  Penitentiary,  who 
was  present  as  a  guest,  gave  a  most 
interesting  talk  on  the  new  methods 
of  convict  treatment  in  operation 
at  Sing  Sing.  Leonard  C.  Van- 
Noppen,  '93,  who  is  Lecturer  on 
Dutch  Literature  at  Columbia  Uni- 
versity, read  a  number  of  his 
sonnets.  The  title  of  one  of  these 
sonnets  was  "The  Kaiser's  Mus- 
tache." W.  W.  Comfort,  '94, 
spoke  on  "The  Desire  for  a  Ration- 
al Religion  among  College  Men." 
R.  M.  Gummere,  '02,  explained 
the  work  of  the  Haverford  Exten- 
sion Committee.  Christian  Brin- 
ton,    '92,    spoke   about   decorative 


art  at  Haverford  and  the  influence 
of  the  Haverford  atmosphere  on 
Maxfield  Parrish,  '92. 

It  was  decided  at  this  meeting  to 
offer  a  Haverford  scholarship  of 
S200  per  year  to  a  boy  from  New 
York  City  or  vicinity,  the  money 
being  raised  by  subscription  from 
the  New  York  Alumni. 

The  Baltimore  Alumni  banquet 
was  held  March  the  31st  at  the 
University  Club.  The  president 
of  the  Baltimore  Association  is  H. 
M.  Thomas,  '82;  Secretary,  Hans 
Froelicher,  '12. 

'65 
A  new  edition  of  the  Yiddish 
translation  of  Professor  Allen  C. 
Thomas'  History  of  the  United 
States  is  in  press  and  will  soon  be 
issued.  This  translation  was  first 
published  in  1902  by  the  Jewish 
Press  Publishing  Co.  of  New  York. 

'70 
Charles  Wood,  a  minister  of  the 
Church  of  the  Covenant  in  Wash- 
ington, D.  C,  published  in  1915  a 
book  entitled,  Some  Moral  and 
Religious  Aspects  of  the   War. 

'92 
Christian  Brinton  has  presented 
the  College  library  with  a  copy  of 
his  illustrated  book  entitled,  Im- 
pressions of  Art  at  the  Panama- 
Pacific  Exposition.  Mr.  Brinton 
served  as  a  member  of  the  Inter- 
national Art  Jury  at  the  exposi- 
tion last  summer. 


38 


The  Haverfordian 


'96 
Douglas  H.  Adams  has  been 
appointed  coach  for  the  Haverford 
Baseball  Club  for  the  coming 
season.  Mr.  Adams  is  the  head- 
master of  the  Winchester  School 
at  Longport,  N.  J. 

Paul  D.  I.  Maier  has  recently 
been  recorded  as  a  minister  by 
the  Society  of  Friends. 

Arthur  F.  Coca  is  editor  of  a 
new  medical  journal  on  "immu- 
nology'" published  in  Baltimore, 
Md.  and  London,  England. 

•97 

Alfred  M.  Collins  lectured  at 
the  University  of  Pennsylvania 
Museum,  March  15th,  on  his 
journey  across  South  America. 
Many  of  the  ethnological  speci- 
mens obtained  on  this  expedition 
have  been  added  to  the  University 
collection. 

'98 
W.  W.  Cadbury  is  author  of  an 
article,  which  appeared  in  the 
December  issue  of  the  Alumni 
Register  of  the  University  of  Penn- 
sylvania, entitled,  "The  Mission 
of  American  Universities  to  the 
Chinese." 

On  February  26th  Dr.  W.  W. 
Cadbury  lectured  at  Brown  Uni- 
versity on  "The  Christian  College 
of  Canton,  China."  Dr.  Cadbury 
is  a  member  of  the  faculty  of  that 
institution. 


'00 

Grayson  Mallet-Prevost  Mur- 
phy has  been  made  one  of  the 
vice  presidents  of  the  Guaranty 
Trust  Co.  of  New  York,  the  largest 
trust  company  in  the  United  States. 

Walter  S.  Hinchman,  master  of 
English  in  Groton  School,  Groton, 
Mass.,  is  author  of  a  book  on  the 
History  of  English  Literature. 

'02 
C.  W.  Stork  has  gone  west  on  a 
lecturing  trip,  being  scheduled  to 
speak  on  subjects  relating  to  Scan- 
dinavian literature  in  Minneapolis, 
Minn.  From  there  he  will  go  to 
California,  not,  however,  for  the 
purpose  of  lecturing. 

A.  G.  H.  Spiers  has  accepted  a 
position  as  head  of  the  Collegiate 
Department  of  Romance  Languages 
at  Columbia  LTniversity. 

Doctor  Spiers  has  recently  re- 
edited  with  D.  C.  Heath  &  Co.  his 
text  of  Eugenie  Grandet. 

A  son  was  born  March  22nd  to 
Mr.  and  Mrs.  A.  S.  Cookman. 

'03 
A  son  was  born  to  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
H.  M.  Hoskins  on  February  23rd 
at  McMinnville,  Oregon.  The 
boy  has  been  named  Lewis  Ma- 
loney. 

Dr.  H.  J.  Cadbury  has  written 
several  book  reviews  for  the  TIar- 


The  Alumai 


39 


vard    Theological    Review    and   the 
Theologische  Literatiirzeitimg. 

'08 
The  annual  dinner  of  the  Class  of 
'08  was  held  Friday  evening,  March 
the  3rd,  at  Haverford.  Those 
present  were  Brown,  Burtt,  Bush- 
nell,  Edwards,  Elkinton,  Emlen, 
Giienther,  Hill,  Leonaid,  Long- 
streth,  Pearson,  Strode,  and 
Wright. 

'13 
Richard  Howson  has  given  up 
his  position  with  the  Philadelphia 
Electric  Co.  to  take  one  with  the 
firm  of  Howson  &  Howson,  Patent 
Attorneys.  Mr.  Howson  is  living 
in  Wayne,  Pa. 

'15 
E.  R.  Dunn  has  accepted  a 
position  as  assistant  in  Biology 
at  Smith  College  beginning  next 
fall.  Moreover,  he  has  been  ap- 
pointed a  member  of  the  Board  of 
Governors  of  the  Icthyological 
and  Herpetological  Society  which 
was  recently  organized  at  the 
American  Museum  of  Natural  His- 
torv  in  New  York. 


She  will  "simply  adore' 


ims. 


Eyeglasses 


IICDaniel  E.WestonJI 


1623  CHESTNUT  STREET 
KLHil  L  A5D;EtL;E.H  I.A 


with  your  card  inside 
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Special  course   Courses    lead    to    the 
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sylvania Practice. 

For  full  particulars  address 

B.  M.  SNOVER 

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Contents^ 


JWap 

1916 


A  Thought  at  Evening Edwin  F.  Lawrence,  '17  42 

Shalcespeare  and  Human  Nature Albert  H.  Stone,  '16  43 

At  the  Zoo W.  S.  Nevin,  '18  48 

Konrad  Von  Wallenrod:   A  Dramatic  Slietch, 

W.  H.  Chamberlin,  '17  49 

The  Ghost  of  the  Mountain  Pine H.  P.  Schencls,  '18  54 

Hennery H.  P.  Schenck,  '18  55 

Horace  (Booli  2,  Ode  10) W.  S.  Nevin,  '18  58 

Louis  Pasteur:  A  Tribute T.  P.  D.,  '19  59 

At  the  Grave  of  Schopenhauer Edvrin  F.  Lawrence,  '17  60 

The  Psychology  of    "Roughing  It".   Kenneth  W.  Webb,  '18  61 

College  Pests Albert  H.  Stone,  '16  64 

Stormy  Sunbeams D.  C.  Wendell,  '16  64 

The  Seasons  and  the  Life  of  JMan.  .Charles  Hartshorne,  '19  65 

Uneasy  Chair 72 

Alumni Donald  H.  Painter  76 


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EDITORS 
Robert  Gibson,  1917  Editor-in-Chief 
W.  H.  Chamberlin,  1917  J.  G.  C.  LeClerco,  1918 

C.  D.  Van  Dam,  1917  Walter  S.  Nevin,  1918 

Donald  H.  Painter,  1917  Henry  P.  Schenck,  1918 

BUSINESS  MANAGERS 
Arthur  E.  Spellissy,  1917  (.Mgr.)  H.  Beale  Brodhead,  1917  {Sub.  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  Haveiford  Post-Office,  for  txanamission  through  the  maile  a<  tecond-dasi  matter 


Vol.  XXXVIII 


HAVERFORD,  PA.,  MAY,  1916. 


No.  2 


.:t 


l9nnouncement£; 

We  take  pleasure  in  announcing  the  election  of 
Henry  Paul  Scbeack,  '18  to  the  board  of  editors. 


Mr.  Stone  has  kindly  permitted  us  to  use  his 
oration  delivered  in  the  Senior-Junior  Oratorical  Con- 
test on  April  28th. 


^  tEtougbt  at  €bentng 

In  the  fragrant  dusk  of  a  springtime  eve,  I  paused  on  the  crest  of  a  hill, 
Calmed  by  the  myriad  voices  of  spring,  lulled  by  a  rippling  rill, 
For  Nature  was  speaking  around  me,  and  everything  else  was  still. 

From  the  high  hill's  crown,  I  could  look  far  down  on  a  city  that  lay  below: 
As  the  light  of  day,  turned  to  darker  grey,  I  watched  its  first  lights  glow 
With  an  amber  light,  through  the  gathering  night,  as  they  lent  it  a  soft  halo. 

And  the  lights  looked  gaily  inviting,  but  the  lights  they  told  a  lie, 

For  the  gold  of  the  city  is  tarnished  gilt,  and  its  laugh  is  often  a  sigh. 

And  its  very  air  is  filled  with  filth  that  pollutes  God's  pure,  clean  sky. 

So  at  break  of  day,  I  shall  make  my  way  to  the  country's  streams  and  fields, 
In  Nature's  church,  in  a  grove  of  birch,  I  shall  pray  to  the  Power  she  wields, 
And  lie  at  night,  'neath  the  stars'  dim  light,  and  know  the  rest  she  yields. 

— Edwin  F.  Lawrence,  '17. 


THE    HAVERFORDIAN 


Vol.  XXXVni.  HAVERFORD,  PA..  MAY,   J916  No.  2 


S^f^aktiptart  anb  ^uman  .Mature 

THERE  are  few  men  to  whose  memory  the  whole  world  unites  in 
doing  honor.  The  homage  of  a  nation  is  usually  confined  to 
its  own  heroes.  Few  are  the  men  whose  services  have  ex- 
tended directly  beyond  the  confines  of  nationality.  Mention  the  name 
of  Washington,  and  the  American  nation  rises  with  one  accord;  Nelson 
and  Wellington,  and  the  Englishman  is  flooded  with  memories  of  Trafal- 
gar and  the  bloody  fields  of  Waterloo;  Bismark,  and  the  German  knee 
bows  in  reverence  to  that  giant  whose  mighty  arm  welded  a  group  of 
hostile  states  into  a  world  empire;  Napoleon,  and  the  Frenchman 
recalls  the  story  of  the  little  Corsican  who  waded  through  the  blood  of 
his  fellow  countrymen  to  the  throne  of  France,  and  from  this  pinnacle 
shook  the  foundations  of  Europe.  But  breathe  the  name  of  that  spirit  of 
Avon,  gentle  Will  Shakespeare,  and  nationality  is  forgotten,  prejudices 
fade  in  the  sunlight  of  universal  admiration,  and  in  every  comer  of  the 
globe  where  the  torch  of  civilization  throws  its  beam  of  light,  the  human 
heart  and  knee  are  humbled. 

Wherein  lay  the  power  of  this  man  whose  memory  is  universally 
revered,  the  force  of  whose  genius  has  permeated  succeeding  generations 
and  dissolved  the  spiritual  boundaries  of  nationality — whose  three 
hundredth  anniversary  we  are  now  commemorating?  "I  am  a  m  n," 
said  Terence:  "aught  that  pertains  to  man  is  not  foreign  to  me."  Human 
nature  is  fundamentally  the  same,  and  has  been  throughout  the  history 
of  the  human  race.  Those  forces  that  stirred  the  feelings  of  the  ancient 
Greek  on  the  billowy  main  of  Ionia  awake  similar  emotions  in  our  breasts ; 
the  religious  ecstasies  that  thrilled  the  hearts  of  the  Hebrews,  thrill  our 
hearts;  and  the  cold,  calculative  logic  of  the  Roman  lawgiver  appeals  to 
our  intellects  as  keenly  as  it  did  to  those  of  his  listeners  in  the  Forum. 
The  barbarian  is  moved  by  the  same  fundamental  emotions  that  move 
the  civilized  man.  The  emotions  of  fear,  anger,  hate,  love,  joy  and  sorrow 
are  as  firmly  implanted  in  his  nature.  The  poet  Keats  unconsciously 
expressed  this  idea  perfectly  in  his  "Ode  to  a  Nightingale": 

"/  hear — perhaps  the  self -same  song  that  found  a  path 
Through  the  sad  heart  of  Ruth,  when  sick  for  home, 
She  stood  in  tears  amid  the  alien  corn." 


44  The  Haverfordian 

Shylock,  in  the  "Merchant  of  Venice,"  speaks  a  universal  truth, 
applicable  to  any  nationality  or  any  race,  when  he  asks:  "Hath  not  a 
Jew  eyes?  hath  not  a  Jew  hands,  organs,  dimensions,  senses,  aflfections, 
passions?  fed  with  the  same  food,  hurt  with  the  same  weapons,  subject 
to  the  same  diseases,  healed  by  the  same  means,  warmed  and  cooled  by 
the  same  winter  and  summer  as  a  Christian?  If  you  prick  us  do  we  not 
bleed?  If  you  tickle  us  do  we  not  laugh?  If  you  poison  us  do  we  not 
die,  and  if  you  wrong  us  do  we  not  revenge?" 

Nations  may  be  divided  by  language  and  customs,  racial  antago- 
nism, geographical  boundaries,  commercial  interests,  hereditary  and  en- 
vironmental influences,  but  through  every  individual  of  any  race  or  clime 
runs  the  common  thread  of  human  nature.  Human  nature  is  a  universal 
language,  and  when  one  speaks  in  that  language  he  is  speaking  a  tongue 
that  the  whole  human  race  will  understand.  Of  this  language  Shake- 
speare was  a  master.  Through  this  language  he  appeals  directly  to  all 
men.  This  common  element  in  man  rises  to  majestic  proportions. 
Aught  else  beside  it  is  of  an  epherheral  nature.  The  empires  of  the 
earth  are  but  the  outward  signs  of  its  activity,  and  compared  with  it  in 
a  temporal  sense  are  but  the  structures  of  a  day.  Greece,  Rome,  and 
Carthage  abode  their  destined  hour  and  sank  into  ruins,  but  this  eternal 
pulse  of  humanity  has  throbbed  on  through  the  ages. 

In  order  that  a  man  may  be  fully  equipped  to  do  his  best  service  in 
life,  it  is  essential  that  he  should  have  a  very  complete  understanding 
of  his  fellowmen.  To  do  this  he  must  be  able  to  read  human  character 
accurately.  In  order  that  the  wheels  of  everyday  life  run  smoothly 
and  the  maximum  amount  of  friction  be  eliminated,  it  is  necessary  for 
one  to  adjust  himself  to  the  other  man's  point  of  view,  to  sympathize 
with  him  in  his  sorrows,  overlook  his  weaknesses,  share  in  his  joys. 
The  man  with  broad  sympathies  and  a  deep  understanding  of  human 
nature,  has  it  in  his  power  to  teach  his  fellowmen  who  lack  the  power 
of  insight,  these  fundamental  truths.  This  is  the  calling  of  the  true  poet 
and  dramatist — to  broaden  the  sympathetic  imagination  of  man.  The 
dramatist  who  has  the  power  to  delineate  human  character  accurately 
and  truthfully,  can  render  an  invaluable  service  to  humanity,  for  that 
power  is  given  to  but  few.  The  more  a  man  understands  of  human  nature, 
the  richer,  fuller  and  wider  is  his  own  personal  life.  It  becomes  easier 
to  adjust  himself  to  other  men,  his  life  is  more  useful,  and  his  influence 
broader.  Limited  as  most  men  are  to  a  comparatively  small  sphere, 
they  are  denied  the  opportunity,  the  power  of  insight  and  of  observation 
essential  to  the  development  of  a  well-rounded  personality.  But  from 
the  riches  of  the  drama  one  is  able  to  supply  this  deficiency,  and  his  own 


Shakespeare -AiTp^uMAN  Nature  AS 

character  is  the  richer  for  it.  In  this  field  Shakespeare  is  the  supreme 
master.  With  prophetic  insight  he  has  analyzed  the  character  of  all 
types  of  men  under  the  stress  of  the  whole  gamut  of  human  emotions. 
His  characters  live,  breathe,  move.  They  are  not  puppets  or  marionettes. 
Given  a  situation,  a  set  of  circumstances,  and  the  result  is  not  a  hap- 
hazard or  arbitrary  outcome  due  to  the  dramatist's  caprice.  It  is  the 
logical  and  inevitable  end  of  such  a  character  under  such  a  set  of  cir- 
cumstances. "The  fault,  dear  Brutus,  is  not  in  our  stars,  but  in  our- 
selves, that  we  are  underlings." 

Let  us  turn  for  a  few  moments  and  glance  at  some  of  the  different 
types  of  characters  which  -Shakespeare  has  so  admirably  drawn.  Say 
that  you  have  a  friend  with  a  bluff,  sturdy  manhood,  fearless  and  plain- 
spoken,  impatient  to  the  point  of  rashness,  to  whom  honor  is  dearer  than 
life.  Do  you  not  better  understand  and  appreciate  the  fine  qualities 
of  that  friend  when  Shakespeare  brings  before  you  the  energetic,  daring 
Hotspur,  who  finds 

"it  were,  an  easy  leap 
To  pluck  bright  honor  from  the  pale-fac'd  moon, 
Or  dive  into  the  bottom  of  the  deep, 
Where  fathom-line  could  never  touch  the  ground, 
And  pluck  up  drowned  honor  by  the  locks"  ? 
Such  a  character  is  not  the  cobweb  of  the  master's  imagination,  but 
a  faithful  portrayal  of  a  type  that  passed  under  his  keen  observation,  and 
that  lives  today  as  surely  as  then. 

In  Hamlet,  Shakespeare  has  sounded  the  very  depths  of  human 
nature.  Into  a  network  of  circumstances  he  has  placed  a  man  with 
delicate  sensibilities  who  ieels  it  his  duty  to  avenge  the  murder  of  his 
father,  but  who  lacks  the  moral  will  to  execute  his  revenge.  In  touching 
the  philosophy  of  life,  Shakespeare  sounds  a  universal  note.  It  is  not 
an  isolated  instance  where  Hamlet,  weary  with  the  sordidness  of  life, 
its  barrenness,  his  soul  wrenched  upon  the  rack  of  hard  duty,  cries  out 
in  his  perplexity: 

"  To  be,  or  not  to  be:  that  is  the  question: 
Whether  'tis  nobler  in  the  mind  to  suffer 
The  slings  and  arrows  of  outrageous  fortune, 
Or  to  take  arms  against  a  sea  of  troubles. 
And  by  opposing  end  them?" 
In  this  soliloquy  Shakespeare    has    raised  a  question  that  baffles  the 
intellect,  and  though  the  human  mind  will  never  find  a  solution  for  it, 
its  appeal  will  continue  to  be  as  universal. 

Shakespeare  is  never  a  mere  moralist.     He  never  comes  down  to 


46  The  Haverfordian 

the  footlights  and  preaches  a  sermon.  But  in  so  far  as  the  tragedies 
of  Hfe  point  out  that  the  way  of  the  transgressor  is  hard,  just  so  far  does 
Shakespeare  show  the  inevitable  results  of  evil.  Macbeth,  the  ambitious 
man,  with  remorse  gnawing  at  his  very  soul,  is  the  victim  of  his  own 
weakness.  Therein  lies  the  tragedy.  What  is  life  to  a  man  who  has 
spoiled  its  sweetness,  and  tastes  but  the  bitter  dregs?  A  barren  moor, 
a  desert  sand,  a  worthless  bauble.  For  Macbeth  the  game  is  played 
and  lost,  and  despair  wrings  from  him  his  bitter  estimation  of  life: 

"Out,  out,   brief  candle! 
Life's  but  a  walking  shadow,  a  poor  player 
That  struts  and  frets  his  hour  upon  the  stage, 
And  then  is  heard  no  more;  it  is  a  tale 
Told  by  an  idiot,  full  of  sound  and  fury, 
Signifying  nothing." 
In  the  character  of  King  Henry  the  Fourth,  Shakespeare  depicts 
the  scheming,  wily  politician, — clever,  cold,  deceitful,  relentless  in  his 
undertakings,  but  withal  efficient,  and  master  of  the  situation.      Yet 
Henry's  wrongful  seizure  of  the  crown  was  a  constant  thorn  in  his  very 
soul,  and  as  he  feels  the  hand  of  death  settling  upon  him  he  cries  in 
remorse: 

"How  I  came  by  the  crown,  0  God,  forgive." 
"Lear"  is  perhaps  the  greatest  of  all  tragedies,  because  it  deals 
with  a  condition  of  life  that  is  common  to  all  men — old  age  and  its  at- 
tendant infirmities.  An  aged  king  foolishly  divides  his  realm  between 
two  ungrateful  daughters  and  reaps  the  reward  of  their  ingratitude. 
The  strength  of  Shakespeare's  tragedy  lies  in  the  fact  that  it  is  not  a  thing 
imposed  from  without,  not  the  result  of  an  overmastering  fate,  but  the 
result  of  a  weakness  in  character.  "The  gods"  do  not  "kill  us  for  their 
sport,"  but  "of  our  pleasant  vices  make  instruments  to  plague  us." 
There  are  no  scenes  in  all  literature  so  pathetic  as  those  in  which  the  old 
gray-haired  king,  who  has  banished  the  one  daughter  who  really  loved 
him,  begins  to  see  the  true  character  of  Goneril  and  Regan.  With 
consummate  skill  Shakespeare  by  degrees  brings  the  horrible  truth  to 
a  climax,  where  it  bursts  upon  Lear  with  brutal  force,  leaving  him 
stunned  and  bewildered.     Heartbroken,  he  cries: 

"  You  see  me  here,  you  gods,  a  poor  old  man. 
As  full  of  grief  as  age;  wretched  in  both! 
If  it  be  you  that  stir  these  daughters'  hearts 
Against  their  father,  fool  me  not  so  much 
To  bear  it  tamely;  touch  me  with  noble  anger; 


Shakespeare  and  Human  Nature  47 

And  let  not  women's  weapons,  water-drops, 

Stain  my  man's  cheeks.  .  .  .Ofool!  I  shall  go  mad." 
lago  is  unquestionably  the  prince  of  villains  in  all  literature, — 
cunning,  intellectual,  dissembling  and  subtle.  His  villainy  is  all  the 
more  hideous  for  being  executed  behind  a  smiling  mask  and  under  the 
cloak  of  friendship.  "Who  steals  my  purse,"  says  lago  behind  his 
smiling  mask,  "steals  trash;  but  he  who  filches  from  me  my  good  name, 
steals  that  which  not  enriches  him  and  makes  me  poor  indeed."  Once 
his  subtle  insinuations  have  poisoned  the  open  mind  of  the  credulous 
Othello,  we  see  the  hidous  face  of  the  real  monster,  and  feel  the  venom 
in  those  terrible  words : 

"Not  poppy,  nor  mandragora. 

Not  all  the  drowsy  syrups  of  the  world. 

Shall  ever  medicine  thee  to  that  sweet  sleep 

Which  thou  owedst  yesterday." 
The  jovial  FalstafT,  whom  Coleridge  so  aptly  characterized  as  being 
not  "a  degraded  man  of  genius,  but  a  man  of  degraded  genius,"  with  his 
rogueries,  his  lying,  cheating,  bragging,  and  tippling  of  sack,  is  a  familiar 
character  in  life.  His  congenial  philosophy  and  wit  are  contagious,  and 
with  all  his  faults  he  solicits  our  sympathy.  Shakespeare  shows  that 
even  this  degraded  man  has  a  spark  of  the  divine;  that,  intermingled 
with  all  his  coarseness  and  sensuality,  there  are  lovable  and  manly  traits 
in  his   character. 

Among  the  many  points  which  substantiate  Shakespeare's  title  as 
the  greatest  modem  poet  and  dramatist,  are  two  in  particular  in  which 
he  has  few  rivals.  These  are  his  treatment  of  minor  characters  and  his 
faithful  portrayal  of  women.  Shakespeare  brings  upon  the  stage  no 
minor  character  who  is  not  stamped  with  a  personality  and  individuality 
that  mark  him  from  all  others.  This  all  the  more  clearly  shows  his  deep 
and  penetrating  understanding  and  appreciation  of  the  richness  of 
human  nature.  Bardolf,  Pistol,  Dogberry,  and  Verges  are  as  clearly 
differentiated  as  Othello,  Hamlet,  Macbeth,  and  Lear.  Shakespeare's 
wonderful  galaxy  of  women  are  a  charm  in  themselves  and  a  credit  to 
the  master's  genius.  Portia,  the  wife  of  Brutus,  is  a  splendid  type  of 
matronly  womanhood,  as  is  expressed  in  her  speech  to  Brutus: 

"/  grant  I  am  a  woman,  but,  withal, 

A  woman  that  Lord  Brutus  took  to  wife." 
Portia  of  Belmont  is  the  charming,  cultured  woman  of  high  society; 
and  the  romantic  Rosalind,  the  lovable  Viola,  the  witty  Beatrice,  and 
the  high-spirited  Kate  are  true  types  of  women  who  pass  under  our 
daily  observation. 


48  THE  Haverfordian 

The  widespread  interest  that  is  being  shown  in  the  commemoration 
of  the  three  hundredth  anniversary  of  Shakespeare's  death,  clearly  indi- 
cates the  power  his  genius  holds  upon  the  minds  of  civilized  lands.  It 
would  be  an  impossible  task  to  attempt  to  estimate  his  influence  upon 
the  life  of  the  world.  His  worth  has  been  tested  in  the  crucible  of  time 
for  three  hundred  years,  and  he  has  enriched  every  mind  that  has  drunk 
at  his  fountain.  Shakespeare's  imagination  has  fructified  all  fields  of 
modem  literature.  He  is  an  inspiration  to  youth  and  a  solace  to  age. 
By  his  power  of  insight  he  has  explored  the  darkest  recesses  of  the  human 
soul  and  has  enabled  us  to  see  an  element  of  good  in  all  men.  He  has 
broadened  our  sympathetic  imagination  and  taught  us  to  appreciate 
those  hidden  human  qualities  that  lie  beneath  the  surface.  His  gentle 
humor  has  sweetened  the  well-springs  of  life,  and  the  world  is  better 
because  Shakespeare  passed  through  it.  Time  has  not  withered  the 
laurel  wreath  that  binds  his  brow,  but  the  passing  years  have  all  the 
more  contributed  to  its  freshness.  The  dust  of  the  ages  will  not  bedim 
his  fame,  but  carved  in  the  white  marble  of  immortality  it  will  pass 
through  the  succeeding  generations,  each  of  which  will  rise  in  its  turn 
to  crown  him  anew,  the  immortal  poet. 

—Albert  H.  Stone,  '16. 


Macaws  that  flash  their  colors  gay. 
And  cockatoos  that  scream  dismay, 
Attract  the  few  who  slowly  stray 
With  listless  gaze. 

Oh  shama,  that  with  swelling  throat 
Above  the  din  trills  a  sweet  note 
And  sings  of  India  far  remote 
And  endless  spring. 

Fate  can  no  harm  to  thee  impart, 
These  bars  will  never  brand  thy  heart, 
Still  wilt  thou  act  thy  meagre  part — 
So  too  can  I. 


—W.  S.  Nevin,  '18. 


ilonrab  ^on  ^allenroti:  ^  dramatic  dbetci) 

{One  of  the  most  interesting  and  little  known  conflicts  of  the  Middle 
Ages  was  the  struggle  for  supremacy  between  the  kingdom  of  Poland  and 
the  Teutonic  Knights,  a  German  military  order,  which,  under  the  pretext 
of  spreading  Christianity,  attempted  to  conquer  and  Germanize  Poland 
and  other  Slavic  territory.  This  struggle,  which  was  terminated  by  the  de- 
cisive victory  of  the  Poles  at  Grunwald,  in  1410,  produced  the  story,  true  or 
legendary,  of  Konrad  von  Wallenrod.  True  or  false,  the  story  has  been 
immortalized  by  Adam  Mickiewicz  in  a  great  dramatic  poem,  from  which 
Chopin  derived  the  inspiration  for  his  G  Minor  Ballade.) 

Dramatis  Personae 
Konrad  von  Wallenrod. 

Ulrich  von  Jungingen:  Grand  Master  of  the  Teutonic  Order. 
Siegfried:  a  young  Knight  of  the  Order. 
Pan  Yan  Krechovski:  a  Polish  nobleman. 
Helena:  his  daughter. 

Time:    The  fourteenth   century. 

Scene  I.  A  mild  spring  evening.  The  garden  of  Pan  Krechovski' s 
castle.    Enter  Konrad  and  Helena. 

Konrad:  Helena,  it  is  hard  for  me  to  put  my  feeling  for  you  in  blunt, 
clumsy  words.  I  am  a  plain,  rough  soldier,  more  used  to  fighting  than 
talking.  I  can  only  tell  you,  in  the  simplest  way,  that  I  love  you  as  I  have 
never  loved  anyone  before.  When  you  are  near,  I  know  neither  father, 
nor  brother,  nor  kinsman — no,  not  even  our  own  Poland.  In  your 
beauty  and  goodness  I  have  found  the  inspiration  for  everything  that 
I  have  done,  and  tried  to  do,  for  our  motherland.  This  is  a  poor,  awk- 
ward wooing,  I  know;  I  must  hope  that  your  own  love  and  sympathy 
will  supply  the  many  things  that  I  have  left  unsaid. 

Helena:  Konrad,  the  finest  speeches  that  ever  were  made  could  never 
sound  as  sweetly  in  my  ears  as  the  story  of  your  battles  and  victories 
over  the  cruel  Teutonic  Knights,  who  are  striving  to  enslave  our  country. 
I  would  be  a  degenerate  daughter  of  Poland,  indeed,  if  I  should  let 
the  soft  words  of  a  flatterer  compare  with  the  manly  deeds  of  a  hero! 
I  am  only  too  proud  and  happy  that  yoy  have  chosen  me  as  a  partner 
and  helpmate  in  your  great  work  of  Polish  liberation. 

Konrad:  My  Helena!  My  sweet  dove!  (They  embrace).  I  would 
rather  enjoy  one  hour  of  your  love  than  crush  the  Teutonic  Knights 
to-morrow ! 


so  The  Haverfordian 

Helena:  It  is  only  by  crushing  these  German  invaders  of  our 
country  that  you  can  win  my  fullest  and  highest  love. 

Konrad:  For  that  prize  I  would  go  through  the  flames  of  hell  itselfl 

Helena:  Only  save  our  beloved  Poland  from  these  tyrants,  Konrad ; 
and  my  love  for  you  will  go  beyond  that  of  Isolde  for  Tristan. 

Konrad:  Why  do  you  hate  these  Knights  so  bitterly?  They  have 
never  come  into  this  part  of  Poland,  have  they? 

Helena:  No,  it  is  not  a  personal  hatred  that  I  feel  against  them. 
I  wish  to  see  them  crushed  and  destroyed,  because  they  are  now  crush- 
ing and  destroying  our  Poland,  because  they  are  stifling  that  Polish 
national  life  of  ours,  which,  to  me,  is  the  most  sacred  thing  in  the  world. 
To  defend  that  consciousness  of  national  life  we  must  give  up  everything: 
life,  honor — yes,  the  hope  of  eternal  salvation  itself! 

Konrad:  Life,  honor,  salvation!  I  had  never  thought  of  it  in  those 
words,  Helena;  but  now  I  see  that  you  have  expressed  exactly  what  I 
feel  about  Poland.  Our  motherland  is  dearer  to  me  than  life,  or  honor, 
or  salvation ;  dearer  than  everything — except  our  love. 

Helena:  Even  that  must  yield  to  our  greater,  nobler  love  of  a 
common  land,  a  common  ideal.  I  would  die  this  instant,  if  we  should 
be  threatened  with  eternal  separation;  but,  if  our  love  should  be  required 
as  a  sacrifice  on  our  country's  altar,  we  must  be  prepared  to  make  that 
sacrifice. 

Konrad:  No  such  terrible  conflict  will  take  place.  Our  marriage, 
the  accomplishment  of  our  love,  shall  be  celebrated  by  the  joyous  pealing 
of  the  bells  that  proclaim  the  final  liberation  of  our  countrymen  from 
the  German  yoke.  I  will  depart  to-morrow,  Helena,  not  to  return 
until  the  pride  of  the  Order  is  crushed  in  the  dust. 

Helena:  And  I  will  bestow  on  you  the  reward  of  victory  in  advance. 
{She  places  on  his  head  a  garland  of  roses,  which  she  has  been  plaiting. 
They  embrace  as  the  curtain  falls). 

Scene  II.  The  same  evening.  A  room  in  Krechovski's  castle.  Enter 
Konrad  and  a  strange  knight). 

Konrad:  What  is  the  pressing  business  that  you  have  with  me? 
(The  strange  knight  throws  off  his  heavy  cloak,  revealing  his  white  mantle, 
marked  with  the  red  cross  of  the  Teutonic  Knights). 

Konrad:   A  Knight  of  the  Cross! 

The  Strange  Knight:  Not  merely  a  knight,  but  the  Grandmaster 
of  the  Order.     I  am  Ulrich  von  Jungingen. 

Konrad:  Since  the  rules  of  your  Order  forbid  you  to  fight  duels,  I 
cannot  think  of  any  other  business  between  us. 


KoNRAD  Von  Wallenrod:   A  Dramatic  Sketch  51 

Jungingen:  I  know  that  you  have  always  hated  our  Order  with 
the  blind  rage  of  a  pagan  barbarian.  We  have  been  trying  to  bring 
civilization  and  Christianity  into  Poland ;  and  it  is  only  your  senseless, 
fanatical  opposition  that  has  thwarted  our  purpose.  Surely  you  must 
see  that  your  desperate  courage  can  only  postpone  our  inevitable  tri- 
umph. Even  if  we  relied  on  human  means  alone,  we  should  have  little 
trouble  in  conquering  this  savage  country.  But  the  cause  of  our  Order  is 
also  the  cause  of  Christ. 

Konrad:  Do  not  blaspheme  that  holy  Name  by  calling  on  it  to 
justify  your  attacks  on  our  free  country.  This  high-sounding  talk  about 
Christ  and  civilization  is  nothing  but  a  hollow  sham,  a  pitiful  lie  to 
cover  your  greed  and  selfishness.  I  have  seen  too  much  of  your  Order 
not  to  be  convinced  that  it  is  nothing  but  a  pack  of  hypocritical  robbers. 

Jungingen:  Look  at  the  question  more  sanely,  Wallenrod.  You 
know,  as  a  soldier,  that  we  have  better  discipline,  better  arms,  and 
more  military  experience  than  your  bands  of  Polish  peasants.  It  is 
only  your  remarkable  military  genius  that  stands  in  the  way  of  our 
complete  victory.  If  you  will  come  over  to  us  the  cause  of  Poland  will 
be  lost :  and  we  will  bestow  on  you  the  richest  gift  in  our  power. 

Konrad:  Say  one  word  more,  and  I  will  run  you  through  where 
you  stand ! 

Jungingen:  Don't  play  the  chivalrous  fool,  Wallenrod.  Think 
over  the  chance  that  is  being  offered  you  before  you  reject  it.  I  am 
an  old  man  now,  certain  to  die  within  the  next  few  years.  You  need 
only  join  the  Order  to  be  assured  of  the  next  Grandmastership.  Look 
at  your  narrow,  circumscribed  life  here,  exposed,  as  you  are,  to  the 
jealousy  of  a  sovereign  and  the  envy  of  hundreds  of  equals.  As  Grand- 
master of  the  Order,  your  power  and  resources  will  be  practically  un- 
limited. You  will  be  the  most  powerful  man  in  eastern  Europe.  The 
most  efficient  military  organization  in  the  world  will  be  absolutely  at 
your  disposal. 

Konrad:  You  mean  that  I  will  have  complete  control  of  the  Order? 

Jungingen:    Your  authority  will  be  absolute  and  unquestioned. 

Konrad:  Then,  I  accept! 

Jungingen  {in  a  loud  voice):  I  receive  thee,  Konrad  von  Wallenrod, 
as  a  soldier  of  Christ,  into  the  Order  of  the  Knights  of  the  Cross.  {Enter 
Pan  Krechovski  and  Helena) . 

Krechovski:    What  mummery  is  this? 

Jungingen  {triumphantly):  Your  strongest  champion  has  decided 
to  abandon  the  sinking  cause  of  Poland  and  to  join  our  Order. 


52  The  Haverfordian 

Krechovski:  Konrad !  Surely  this  is  a  base  lie,  a  slander!  You  cannot 
think  of  deserting  us ! 

Konrad:  My  decision  has  been  taken.  I  am  now  one  of  the  Brother- 
hood of  Teutonic  Knights. 

Krechovski:  Only  think,  Konrad,  of  the  battles  that  we  have  fought 
together,  of  the  blood  that  we  have  both  lost — for  Poland. 

Konrad:   You  can  say  nothing  that  will  change  my  determination. 

Krechovski:  Farewell,  then,  Konrad.  If  my  own  daughter  had 
stabbed  me  to  the  heart,  I  would  not  have  suffered  as  I  suffer  now; 
but  I  will  not  visit  you  with  any  theatrical  curses  or  vows  of  revenge. 
The  cries  of  the  thousands  of  Polish  widows  and  orphans  that  will  be 
the  offspring  of  your  treachery,  the  thought  of  the  heroes,  dead  and 
living,  who  have  devoted  their  lives  to  our  country,  the  voice  of  your 
own  conscience,  these  will  be  the  proper  avengers  of  your  unnatural 
treason. 

Helena:   Traitor!    (Pan  Krechovski  and  Helena  depart). 

Konrad:    Life,  honor,  salvation!    {Departs  with  Jungingen). 

Scene  III.  A  vast  plain,  near  Grunwald.  Enter  the  army  of  the 
Teutonic  Knights,  marching.  At  the  head  of  the  army  rides  Konrad  von 
Wallenrod,  accompanied  by  Siegfried,  a  young  Knight  of  the  Order. 

Siegfried:  At  last  the  great  day  of  glory  and  triumph  is  at  hand. 

Konrad:   It  is  at  haiid,  indeed. 

Siegfried:  There  can  be  no  doubt  of  the  result? 

Konrad:    None  whatever. 

Siegfried:  Ever  since  I  have  joined  the  Order,  I  have  been  hoping 
and  praying  that  I  might  fight  the  last  great  battle  for  Christ  and  His 
faith  at  your  side. 

Konrad:  At  my  side!  But  I  had  intended  to  send  you  back  to  the 
reserve  division,  with  a  message. 

Siegfried  {smiling):  I  knew  you  would  do  everything  in  your  power 
to  keep  me  out  of  danger.  But  surely  you  remember  the  promise  you 
made  me,  after  I  saved  your  life,  to  grant  any  request  I  might  make. 

Konrad:    And  your  request? 

Siegfried:  To  fight  in  the  first  rank  of  the  battle,  at  your  side! 

Konrad:  But  think  of  the  danger,  the  likelihood  of  death. 

Siegfried:  Dear  master,  I  can  never  express  my  gratitude  for  your 
constant  love  and  care  for  my  life  and  happiness.  But  surely  you  must 
see  that  the  danger  of  my  request  is  nothing  compared  with  the  dishonor 
of  being  in  the  rear,  like  a  coward  or  a  traitor,  when  our  cause  is  about 
win  its  final  victory. 


KoNRAD  Von  Wallenrod:   A  Dramatic  Sketch  53 

Konrad  (aside):  My  God,  my  God,  must  I  drink  this  cup  also? 
(Aloud).  If  you  must  come  with  me,  Siegfried,  remember  the  solemn 
warning  that  I  am  now  giving  you:  not  to  go  into  this  battle. 

Siegjried  (surprised):  You  speak  as  if  you  were  not  confident  of 
victory.  Have  we  not  always  beaten  these  Poles,  even  when  our  forces 
were    much    smaller? 

Konrad:  A  battle  is  always  in  doubt  until  it  is  won. 

Siegfried:  We  are  Christ's  soldiers;  and  under  His  banner  we  can- 
not fail.  How  my  dear  mother  will  rejoice  when  she  learns  that  I  have 
had  a  part,  however  humble,  in  the  great  work  of  establishing  our  holy 
faith  in  this  pagan  land! 

Konrad  (aside):  I  must  make  my  heart  harder  than  my  breastplate. 
(Aloud).  I  must  leave  you  now,  Siegfried.  If  anything  unexpected 
should  happen,  remember  that  it  is  no  disgrace  to  flee  from  the  field  that 
is  hopelessly  lost.  (The  army  has  now  advanced  into  a  huge  valley,  or 
ravine,  surrounded  by  hills.  Suddenly,  without  the  slightest  warning,  a 
large  Polish  army  appears,  occupying  all  the  heights.  The  Knights  cry  out, 
in  anger  and  astonishment) 

Konrad  (riding  to  an  eminence,  in  a  loud  voice):  You  pious  robbers, 
you  hypocrites,  you  bloodthirsty  tyrants,  at  last  your  punishment  is 
prepared.  Not  one  of  you  will  escape  from  this  field;  and  it  is  I  who 
have  brought  this  destruction  upon  you — I,  Konrad  von  Wallenrod,  the 
Pole.  (He  tears  the  Grandmaster's  cross  from  his  mantle  aitd  casts  it  on 
the  ground.     The  Knights  rush  upon  him  in  a  frenzy  of  hatred  and  terror). 

Scene  IV.  The  battlefield,  several  hours  later.  Huge  heaps  of  corpses, 
streams  of  blood,  piles  of  broken  armor  and  weapons.  Konrad  lies  on  the 
field,  mortally  wounded;  near  him  Siegfried,  also  breathing  his  last. 

Siegfried  (as  he  sees  Konrad):  Traitor!  Judas!  To-day  you  have  mur- 
dered fifty  thousand  soldiers  of  Christ.  Never,  since  our  Saviour  Him- 
self was  betrayed,  has  there  been  such  a  deed  of  infamous  treachery. 
If  I  had  only  known  what  was  in  your  mind  before  the  battle!  O,  mother, 
mother,  what  news  will  they  bring  thee  of  this  day!  Pray  for  the  soul 
of  thy  poor  son,  murdered  by  the  most  accursed  villain  that  ever  walked 
the  earth.    (Dies). 

Konrad:  So  my  life  ebbs  out.  Deserting  the  noblest  woman  in  the 
world',  betraying  the  most  devoted  friend  that  ever  lived,  cursed  as  a 
traitor  by  friend  and  foe  alike,  the  sooner  I  leave  this  wretched  world 
the  better.  My  throat  is  parched,  my  head  grows  dizzy — well,  I  have 
heard  that  the  worst  pangs  of  hell  are  reserved  for  traitors.  This  life  a 
slow  crucifixion,  the  next  life  a  hell,  my  grave  despised,  my  memory  dis- 


54  The  Haverfordian 

honored,  and — for  what?    (He  sinks  down  in  utter  despair.   Gradually, 
slowly,  the  strains  of  the  Polish  national  hymn  become  clearer  and  clearer) . 

Konrad  (raising  himself  and  speaking  in  a  tone  of  exalted  pctssion): 
And  yet  I  rejoice  in  the  torments  that  I  have  suffered;  I  exult  in  those 
that  I  am  about  to  undergo :  for  I  have  freed  thee,  my  PoHsh  motherland ! 

(As  he  sinks  down  in  death  the  Polish  anthem  rings  out  triumphant 
over  the  bloodstained  battlefield). 

—W.  H.  ChamberUn,  '17. 


Wf}t  ^i)osit  of  tfie  idountatn  $tne 

/  grew  in  a  crevice 

Near  a  lonely  mountain  top — 

In  a  crevice. 
And  the  wind  tore  my  arms 
Till  I  wept  with  dripping  sap — 

In  the  wind. 
The  smiling  summer  sun 
Baked  the  rocks  about  my  roots — 

In  the  sun. 
The  rain  and  frosty  nights 
Made  an  armor  round  my  form — 

In  the  night. 
Then  the  spring's  thawing  winds 
Loosed  the  mountain's  load  of  snow — 

In  the  spring. 
Oh,  I  was  in  the  spot 
That  the  slide  must  needs  pass  o'er — 

In  that  spot. 
And  the  crevice  where  I  grew 

Split  and  quivered  as  I  fell — 

Into  space. 

—H.  P.  Schenck,  '18. 


THE  wind  howled  around  the  hitching  posts  outside.  The  stove, 
red  and  sizzling,  formed  the  nucleus  of  a  very  select  gathering. 
In  other  words,  the  evening  mobilization  of  all  the  males  in 
Simm's  Crossing  was  completed.  Old  man  Simm  stood  complacently 
behind  the  counter  and  with  unerring  aim  struck  the  sawdust  cuspidor 
at  frequent  and  regular  intervals,  a  feat  only  accomplished  after  much 
practice  and  one  that  drew  admiration  from  the  younger  male  population 
of  the  village.  A  silence  of  several  minutes  had  produced  a  marked 
eflfect  upon  old  Hicks.  He  gazed  at  the  bunch  of  over-ripe  bananas  sus- 
pended from  a  hook,  then  at  a  row  of  canned  goods  whose  labels  were  in 
a  precarious  condition,  and  finally  at  a  talking  machine,  the  latest  addi- 
tion to  the  stock  of  "Simm's  Emporium."  Old  Hicks'  goatee  moved 
tremulously  and  his  head  went  back  until  the  prominent  Adam's  apple 
protruded  above  the  red,  woolen  muffler.  He  played  with  a  lock  of  the 
gray  hair  which  curled  from  under  his  heavy  fur  cap,  looked  first  over 
and  then  under  his  spectacles  and  then  loudly  cleared  his  throat.  The 
silent  circle  became  immediately  attentive,  as  evidenced  by  the  careful 
perusal  of  their  respective  feet. 

"Yaas,  yaas,  yaas,"  murmured  old  Hicks,  "things  ain't  what  they 
used  to  be." 

Universal  silence  betokened  general  assent  to   these  sentiments. 

"Now  you  take  back  when  I  was  young  and  kept  company  with 
the  gals,  a  feller  had  to  amount  to  something.  I  'member  how  us  young 
fellers  back  in  '71  had  a  wrastlin'  match  over  at  Jake's  barn  an'  I'll 
tell  yu  the  gals  wudn't  hev  much  to  do  with  a  feller  that  couldn't  do 
anything  at  all  in  that  kind  uv  a  thing." 

Everybody  nodded  their  approbation.  It  was  the  weekly  sentiment 
of  old  Hicks.  The  assembly  always  felt  relieved  when  this  ordeal  was 
safely  passed.  Hicks  waited  until  a  fresh  bite  of  plug  tobacco  could  be 
taken  by  his  audience  and  then  proceeded. 

"Nowadays  they  harp  on  books  and  larnin',  but  'way  back  things 
was  different.  These  here  colleges  an'  things  is  what  spoils  everything. 
Si  Cook  over  by  the  old  dam  sent  his  son  Hennery  to  one  of  these  here 
fool  places  where  they  teach  yu  to  smoke  cigyrettes  an'  where  they  show 
yu  how  to  wear  Sunday  clothes  every  day  en  talk  so  a  body  can't  make 
out  head  nor  tail  what  you're  talkin'  about.  Hennery  gradyated  all 
right,  but,  Jimminy,  how  he  did  carry  on  when  he  got  back!  Why,  he 
well-nigh  ruined  the  whole  blamed  place  with  his  fool  notions. 

"First  thing  he  does  when  he  gets  home  is  tu  teach  all  the  fool  gals 


56  The  Haverfordian 

a  new  way  tu  dance  an'  dum  ef  those  fool  women  would  dance  any  other 
way  after  that.  The  young  fellers  just  had  to  stand  around  an'  look 
clumsy.  Well,  you  bet  that  made  them  fellers  awful  sore  an'  they  laid 
fer  him  out  back  of  old  William's  Grove.  Four  or  five  of  them  jumped 
out  on  him.  He  took  it  as  some  kind  uv  a  joke  an'  dumed  ef  he  didn't 
clean  up  that  bunch  in  no  time  at  all.  Some  way  they  got  from  the 
heathen,  they  say.    A  feller  what  knows  how  kin  tie  yu  all  up  in  a  knot. 

"The  worst  thing  Hennery  did  was  to  argue  with  the  parson.  Yes, 
sir,  the  parson  didn't  know  whether  he  was  comin'  or  goin'.  They  was 
goin'  to  have  a  spellin'  bee  over  in  the  schoolhouse.  Hennery  said 
spellin'  bees  was  no  use ;  since  people  had  typewriters  they  didn't  have  to 
know  how  to  spell.  He  said  that  the  only  thing  to  do  was  to  give  a  play. 
The  parson  got  terrible  sore  an'  the  Temperance  Union  held  a  special 
meeting,  but  Hennery  told  the  gals  how  nice  they'd  look  in  their  costooms 
an'  other  things  what  most  on  us  had  never  heard  of.  Well,  sir,  do  yu 
know,  them  there  gals  just  carried  on  until  they  got  the  parson  to  let 
them  go  ahead.  Squire  Hawkins,  who'd  been  judge  fer  the  spellin'  bees 
fer  years,  was  mighty  sore  at  first,  but  Hennery  said  he  could  be  stage 
manager  an'  then  the  squire  was  tickled  nigh  to  death.  Hennery  made 
the  Sewin'  Circle  sew  a  lot  of  blankets  together,  an'  thendurn  ef  he  didn't 
take  the  old  man's  'lectric  motor  what  he  got  when  the  ram  busted  that 
pumped  the  water  to  the  bam.  He  rigged  up  a  curtain  an'  run  it  up 
an'  down  with  that  there  motor. 

"Such  carryin's-on  as  was  around  that  place  fer  a  month!  The  gals 
what  was  in  the  show  wanted  new  duds  to  show  off  in  the  show,  an' 
the  gals  what  wasn't  in  the  show,  they  wanted  new  duds  to  show  how 
nice  they'd  have  looked  ef  they  was  in  the  show.  Jake  Williams  was 
tellin'  me  as  how  he  spent  almost  five  dollars  on  that  there  red-haired 
daughter  of  his,  fer  clothes  en  things.  Guess  he  was  sorry  afterwards 
he  spe'nt  so  much  on  her,  because  she  got  scared  an'  forgot  all  her  part. 

"What  made  things  worse  was  the  fact  that  Hennery  said  the  gals 
would  hev  to  wear  paint  an'  powder  on  their  faces  to  make  'em  look  all 
right.  The  parson's  wife  got  sore  at  that,  but  Hennery  was  sure  clever. 
He  told  her  as  how  she  had  dramatic  ability  and  what  not,  an'  dum  ef 
the  parson's  wife  didn't  go  over  to  Hennery's  side  too ! 

"Well,  the  night  of  the  show  all  the  buggies  in  the  county  was 
drawn  up  around  the  Masonic  Hall.  Hennery  was  at  the  door  in  some 
kind  of  a  rig  with  a  shirt  that  stretched  down  almost  to  his  pants  an' 
long  tails  on  his  coat  an'  a  smile  all  over  his  face.  Such  a  buzzin'  an' 
talkin'  as  was  in  that  hall  I  never  heard  in  all  my  bom  days.  Well, 
they  had  the  town  band  there,  an'  they  started  up  with  the  'Conquering 


Hennery  57-. 

Hero  Comes,'  but  the  audience  thought  it  was  'America'  an'  everybody 
stood  up  an'  began  to  sing,  '  My  Country  'Tis  of  Thee.' 

"  By-an'-by,  when  Hennery  had  got  his  motor  to  workin',  the  cur- 
tain riz  right  up.  Everybody  just  gasped.  They  had  the  stage  fixed 
just  like  a  regular  room.  Josh  Reynolds'  son  was  the  villain.  Hen- 
nery had  him  all  fixed  up  with  a  big  black  mustache  an'  Josh  wouldn't 
believe  it  was  his  son.  He  had  an  argyment  right  out  in  the  hall  there 
with  me  about  it.  I  couldn't  convince  him  nohow.  In  the  first  act  the 
gal  got  lured  from  home  by  the  villain.  That  made  Josh  so  sore  that  he 
said  if  it  was  his  son  he  was  goin'  to  'tend  to  him  when  he  got  him  home 
for  cuttin'  up  that  way  right  in  front  of  all  the  neighbors.  In  the  second 
act  Sadie  Smith  stepped  right  on  Mary  Perkins'  dress  an'  tore  it.  They 
ain't  spoke  since,  to  my  knowledge.  Squire  Hawkins  kept  peepin'  out 
from  one  comer  of  the  stage  all  the  time  to  see  if  he  could  find  his  wife 
in  the  audience.  He  got  too  close  to  the  wires  what  led  to  Hennery's 
motor  an'  got  a  shock.  He  yelled  out,  'Fire!'  Everybody  made  a  run 
for  the  door. 

"By  the  time  everybody  got  back  in,  it  was  time  for  the  third  act. 
Right  off  as  soon  as  the  curtain  went  up  the  villain  started  in  to  worry 
the  gal  what  he  had  lured  from  home.  The  gal  she  got  down  on  her 
knees  an'  begged  for  mercy  an'  said  she  wanted  to  go  back  to  home  an' 
mother.  Some  of  the  women  bellered  right  out  loud  an'  took  on  some- 
thin'  awful  so  you  could  hardly  hear  what  was  said  on  the  stage.  Hen- 
nery had  Spike  Leonard  tied  on  a  rope  over  the  stage  where  you  couldn't 
see  him.  Spike  had  a  big  tub  full  of  tom-up  newspapers  an'  he  dropped 
a  handful  at  a  time  down  an'  it  looked  just  like  snow.  Widow  Haines 
thought  it  was  snow  an'  went  right  home  to  cover  up  her  strawberry 
beds.  Pretty  soon  the  villain  pulled  the  gal  around  by  the  hair.  The 
gal  shrieked  somethin'  terrubul.  Two  women  out  in  the  hall  fainted  an' 
such  a  commotion  you  never  saw.  Spike  heard  the  racket,  but  he  was 
tied  up  with  the  rope  to  the  ceiling  an'  couldn't  see  nothin'.  He  wriggled 
around  until  he  dropped  the  tub  full  of  snow.  The  tub  hit  the  villain 
right  on  his  head  an'  he  fell  right  where  he  was.  The  people  thought  it 
was  all  in  the  show  an'  started  to  cheer  and  clap.  Hennery  started  the 
motor  an'  the  curtain  came  down.  It  took  them  about  five  minutes 
to  bring  the  villain  around  an'  then  he  an'  Spike  had  a  set-to  an'  both 
on  'em  got  black  eyes. 

"Hennery  went  out  an'  made  a  speech,  an'  everybody  staid  while 
the  band  played  somethin'  or  other.     When  the  band  stopped  playin' 


58  The  Haverfordian 

an'  they  put  the  horns  an'  things  in  their  boxes,  everybody  got  up  an' 
drove  home.  Yas,  sir,  Hennery  sure  did  play  hob  with  folks  around 
here." 

—H.  P.  Schenck,  '18. 


Horace  (Poofe  2,  (0tie  10) 

A  tranquil  voyage  of  life  you'll  have,  my  friend. 

If  you  don't  sail  where  dim  horizons  bend 
O'er  restless  waves,  nor  yield  to  fear  of  gale 

And  hug  the  shores  that  wait  the  ship  to  rend. 

Whoever  cherishes  the  golden  mean 

Is  free  from  life's  vain  cares,  he  lives  serene, 
For  neither  hut  nor  palace  bears  his  name. 

Untouched  by  sordid  want  or  envy's  spleen. 

The  tallest  pine  receives  the  tempest's  blast, 

And  towering  walls  crash  down  in  ruin  vast, 
While  rugged  cliffs  and  mountains  soaring  high 

Are  reft  when  lightnings  hold  the  world  aghast. 

A  heart,  iron-bound,  can  stand  a  losing  game, 

And  knows  when  fortune  smiles,  that  luck's  a  name 

That  vanishes  when  just  within  our  reach, 
As  winter's  snow  before  the  sun's  hot  flame. 

If  hard-luck  now  is  following  your  track. 

Some  day  the  gods  will  cease  the  cards  to  stack. 

One  hour  Apollo  aids  my  lyric  muse. 

The  next — he  has  me  on  the  sick-bed's  rack. 

So  in  your  voyage  let  not  your  courage  fail 

When  all  is  dark  and  rages  loud  the  gale. 
Or  if  you  scud  along  with  breezes  kind, 

Take  my  advice — go  furl  the  swollen  sail. 

—W.  S.  Nevin,  '18. 


Houiss  ^agteur:  ^  Zribntt 

To  determine  the  greatness  of  a  man  it  is  essential  to  consider,  not 
only  the  time  and  circumstances  in  which  he  lived,  but  also  the 
motives  which  actuated  his  deeds. 

We  hear  much  of  men  who  sacrifice  themselves  to  destroy  others — - 
they  are  called  brave  and  their  deeds  noble;  but  let  us  consider  a  man 
who  sacrificed  himself  for  the  alleviation  of  human  suffering. 

In  the  sixth  and  seventh  decades  of  the  last  century,  when  Europe 
was  in  turmoil,  Pasteur  was  prosecuting  his  researches  in  Paris;  he  was 
laboring  with  the  fever  bacillus  in  the  dingy  cellars  of  that  city.  There 
in  seclusion,  unknown  and  unappreciated,  he  started  his  work  for  man- 
kind. Strangely  enough,  Pasteur  began  his  research  by  a  study  of  the 
micro-organism  in  the  plebeian  drink,  beer.  His  vision  was  gratified 
by  a  view  of  the  unwelcome  visitor  that  was  threatening  the  beverage, 
and  he  found  that  in  its  extermination,  which  he  effected,  the  brew 
could  be  restored  to  its  pristine  perfection. 

Next  his  attention  was  called  to  the  silk  industry,  which  had  been 
threatened  by  a  disease  among  the  silkworms.  There  again  he  found 
the  micro-organism  the  causp  of  disease.  Now  he  argued  that  since  in 
his  researches  the  disease  of  the  beer  and  the  disease  of  the  silkworm 
had  been  directly  ascribed  to  micro-organisms,  why  not  all  disease? 
He  proceeded  to  investigate  cattle  plagued  with  the  horrible  disease, 
anthrax.  Here  the  bacillus  was  again  found  to  be  the  cause.  Thus  the 
outcome  of  his  labors  was  the  science  of  bacteriology;  it  showed  that 
disease  was  not  the  wrath  of  God;  that  it  was  not,  as  the  venerable 
Grecian  physician,  Hippocrates,  suggested,  due  to  "Divine  Air " ;  but  that 
it  was  a  tangible  proposition,  workable  by  humans. 

Louis  Pasteur  must  stand  in  history  with  a  glory  that  is  almost 
transcendent.  He  is  the  author  of  the  Gospel  of  the  Body.  He  brought 
to  focus  that  old  idea  that  cleanliness  is  next  to  godliness;  he  has  raised 
mankind  from  the  suppliant  to  the  corrector,  from  ignorance  to  confi- 
dence; and  his  personal  life,  characterized  by  the  simple  word  "purity," 
is  exemplary  of  the  highest  in  man.  His  conception  of  his  responsibility 
to  the  world  was  notably  expressed  when  he  said,  "God  grant  that  by 
my  persevering  labors  I  may  add  a  little  stone  to  that  frail  and  ill- 
assured  edifice  of  our  knowledge  of  those  deep  mysteries  of  Life  and 
Death  where  all  our  intellects  have  so  lamentably  failed." 

And  is  it  not  pleasant  to  reflect,  amidst  the  din  and  strife  that  to-day 
permeates  Europe,  upon  a  man  who  worked  quietly,  persistently,  and  so 
successfully  for  us?    How  much  more  glorious  is  the  humanitarian  genius 


60  The  Haverfordian 

of  Pasteur,  laboring  to  dispel  the  maladies  that  have  led  so  many  astray 
in  their  religious  conceptions,  than  the  military  genius  of  a  general  in 
a  carnal  strife,  bowling  over  civilization  and  wrecking  artistic  Europe 
beyond  reparation! 

All  of  us  have  heroes,  but  who  is  there  that  is  more  worthy  of  our 
deepest  devotion  than  Louis  Pasteur?  When  we  consider  the  ravages 
of  disease,  does  it  not  strike  us  supremely  to  feel  that  human  genius  is 
surmounting  it  all — that  the  mysteries  of  Life  are  not  closed  to  us,  but 
that  we  have  not  disclosed  them?  His  labors  were  more  than  scientific; 
they  were  more  than  humanitarian;  they  possess  a  savour  of  religion  in 
their  healing  efTect  upon  the  human  mind. 

Nature  represents  the  wisdom  and  handiwork  of  God,  and  to  be 
blind  to  its  interpretation  is  a  form  of  skepticism.  Then  let  us  honor  in 
our  hearts  the  great  scientists  who  have  interpreted  nature  for  us.  As 
the  eminent  English  physician  Dr.  Osier  suggests,  "How  much  it  adds 
to  our  religion  to  know  and  to  really  understand  that  Newton  showed  us 
the  new  heavens;  that  Darwin  showed  us  the  new  earth,  and  that  the 
labors  of  Pasteur  have  led  to  the  physical  redemption  of  mankind!" 

— r.  P.  D.  1919. 


^t  tfie  <@rabe  of  ^ct)open|)auer 

Immortal  pessimist  who  dared  to  see 

The  pain  and  not  the  joy  in  life,  from  heights 

Of  lonely  intellecttiality! 

Repose  in  peace,  for  thou  hast  fought  thy  fights 

And  lived  thy  Hell  while  yet  upon  this  earth. 

Great  Scholar,  happiness  and  love  to  thee 

Were  hut  illusions  destitute  of  worth. 

Marriage  a  snare  and  life  hut  misery. 

Few  people  knew  thee;  yet  thou  did'st  hecome 

The  confidant  of  Goethe's  peerless  mind. 

While  many  still  mistrust  thee,  there  are  some 

Who,  reading  thy  plain  truths,  do  seem  to  find 

A  comfort  and  an  honest  sympathy, 

And  strange  relief  from  sham  philosophy. 

— Edwin  F.  Lawrence,  '17. 


Efje  ^gpcJjolosp  of  "i^ougfjing  it" 

A  VACATION!  What  does  a  vacation  do  for  man  but  give  him  a 
permit  to  break  away  from  the  beaten  path  and  try  for  a  while 
the  simple  life?  There  are  many  ways  in  which  this  can  be  done. 
Some  men  carry  this  "back  to  nature"  idea  to  the  limit  and  start  off 
on  their  trips  equipped  only  with  toothbrush  and  frying  pan,  while 
others  will  go  to  the  opposite  extreme  and  transplant  into  the  wilds  a 
veritable  little  palace,  which  they  laboriously  spend  their  time  fixing 
up — exulting  that  they  remembered  to  bring  the  napkins  and  toothpicks, 
but  raging  because  they  forgot  the  sheets  for  the  beds.  And  yet  even 
this  latter  type  have  been  known  to  enjoy  their  form  of  "roughing  it" 
when  they  have  gone  about  it  with  the  right  spirit. 

A  vacation  has  not  truly  begun  until  the  moment  a  wheezy  little 
two-car  has  dumped  us  and  a  few  duffle-bags  on  a  tiny  platform  and  then 
continued  on  its  staggering  way  back  to  the  civilization  we  have  just 
left.  Our  imagination  readily  pictures  it  pulling  into  the  gray,  grimy 
train-shed,  and  we  are  so  sickened  by  the  recollection  of  that  old  ferry- 
smell  and  the  uproar  from  clanging  chains  and  crashing  trucks  that  we 
involuntarily  throw  ourselves  into  the  reality  surrounding  us  in  order 
to  free  ourselves  from  our  illusions. 

Pitching  camp  is  always  one  of  the  most  interesting  incidents  on  any 
trip.  The  task  has  a  certain  novelty  about  it,  and,  besides,  we  are  always 
free  to  engage  in  a  lively  speculation  as  to  who  were  the  last  occupants 
of  our  site.  Our  first  guess  is  tramps,  since  we  reason  that  no  real  campers 
would  leave  such  eyesores  as  cans  and  paper  lying  around,  we  ignoring 
entirely  the  probability  of  our  leaving  it  in  even  a  worse  condition  during 
the  rush  of  a  last-minute  get-away. 

By  the  time  we  have  arranged  our  sleeping  bags  for  the  night  and 
have  gotten  in  a  stock  of  the  two  old  standbys — wood  and  water — night 
is  already  beginning  to  close  in  and  the  stomach  of  the  brute  rumbles 
eloquently  in  behalf  of  its  aching  void.  There  is  something  especially 
fine  about  the  first  meal  in  camp.  Nature  presents  the  first  and  sharpest 
of  those  keen  appetites  which  make  anything  taste  good;  the  dishes 
and  utensils  are  clean  for  once  and  not  embossed  with  fragments  from 
previous  meals;  and,  finally,  we  feast  on  those  delicacies  which  we  have 
brought  with  us  and  which  we  decide  will  surely  spoil  if  we  keep  them 
any  longer.  And  another  cause  for  the  success  of  the  first  meal  is  the 
fact  that  everybody  is  liable  to  turn  in  and  help  prepare  it  just  out  of 
mere  novelty,  while  afterwards — especially  when  there  is  a  pile  of  dirty 


62  The  Havekfordian 

dishes  looking  one  in  the  eye — desertions  take  place  with  remarkable 
alacrity. 

At  last,  when  we  have  heard  the  steak  broiling  in  the  pan  and  the 
old  can-opener  getting  in  its  deadly  work  on  everything  from  condensed 
milk  to  asparagus  tips,  then  our  "still  small  voice"  summons  us  to  squat 
informally  around  the  "table"  and  go  to  it.  We  speak  little;  grunts 
of  approval  nodded  in  the  direction  of  the  cook  and  curt  requests  for  more 
do  not  strain  our  vocabulary;  it  is  seldom  that  truly  complete  satisfac- 
tion has  to  be  expressed  vocally. 

And  now,  with  the  silencing  of  the  inner  man,  comes  the  period  of 
contentment  and  relaxation.  The  world  has  no  troubles  for  us;  we  lay 
aside  the  dishes  for  the  Geni  to  wash  over-night;  and,  stretching  our- 
selves before  the  fire,  we  lazily  kick  into  subjection  the  smouldering  logs. 

Many  times  has  it  been  noted  what  a  remarkable  power  the  camp- 
fire  has  to  draw  out  eloquence  from  the  backward  tongue.  Conversa- 
tion, however,  develops  but  slowly  and  is  started  by  modest  and  yet 
all-expressive  remarks  such  as,  "Isn't  this  the  life!"  and  "Think  of 
the  poor  devils  at  home!"  Yet  the  dizzy  heights  are  reached  eventually 
and  before  sleep  brings  on  that  groggy  feeling  we  have  discussed  all  the 
deep  mysteries  in  our  limited  category — even  down  the  long  path  from 
women  to  Heaven!  Of  course,  it  is  not  to  be  expected  that  we  keep  com- 
pletely clear  from  happenings  at  home,  and  we  find  ourselves  wondering 
perhaps  how  certain  social  functions  will  possibly  get  along  in  our  ab- 
sence. Again,  here  is  a  favorite  place  to  rake  mutual  acquaintances  over 
the  coals  and  analyze  them  as  one  would  a  "chem"  problem.  And  so 
the  thread  leads  on  until  each  vein  of  the  conversation  has  reached 
fields  never  dreamt  of  by  the  author. 

If  there  is  a  sufficient  number  in  our  party,  song  is  certain  to  break 
forth  spontaneously  in  one  form  or  other,  but  if  our  party  consists  merely 
of  a  few  we  are  aware  of  the  hollow  echo  which  our  voices  bring  from  the 
dark,  wide  expanse  surrounding  us.  Night  impresses  us  as  one  of  the 
most  impressive  and  awe-inspiring  phenomena  of  Nature,  and,  drawing 
together,  we  instinctivelj'  lower  our  voices  in  respect  to  this  vague  power. 
A  chorus  of  night  noises  is  topped  by  the  whistling  of  the  hylas,  and  this 
shrill  orchestra  accompanies  with  its  irregular  refrain  the  drama  which 
the  shadows  in  the  woods  are  playing  before  our  awakened  imagination. 
Under  the  awe  of  such  surroundings  a  compelling  force  leads  us  to  strip 
both  thought  and  speech  of  all  superficial  and  to  reconstruct  our  thoughts 
on  a  more  natural  level  which  we  feel  to  be  base-rock  in  truth. 

But  it  is  not  until  we  have  rolled  up  in  our  blankets  and  each  indi- 
vidual is  left  to  his  own  thoughts  that  the  transformation  becomes  com- 


I 


The  Psychology  of  "Roughing  It"  63 

plete.  The  fire  has  grown  as  weary  as  ourselves,  and,  relaxing  into  its 
own  slumbers,  leaves  on  the  surrounding  boughs  but  a  pale  yellow  sheen 
which  only  intensifies  the  surrounding  darkness.  At  such  a  time  the 
reflecting  man  feels  with  redoubled  conviction  the  helpless  position  of 
solitary  man  on  this  earth  and  his  unconsequential  position  in  Nature's 
great  scheme.  His  imagination  despatches  his  brain  on  the  wildest  of 
journeys.  He  suddenly  calls  to  mind  those  years  when  his  mother  used 
to  persistently  entreat  him  to  take  his  overshoes  and  umbrella  with  him 
in  order  to  protect  himself  against  such  terrible  possibilities  as  colds. 
He  smiles  to  himself  at  the  thought  of  his  recollecting  such  childish 
trifles;  what  had  ever  made  him  bring  up  this  memory?  Oh,  yes,  he  had 
been  thinking  of  it  in  comparison  with  the  bravery  he  was  now  showing 
in  sleeping  out  in  the  open  this  way.  In  such  a  manner  does  his  mind 
wander  at  will  amid  meditations  and  reflections  until,  tiring  of  its  own 
exertion,  it  permits  its  owner  to  fall  asleep  and  is  content  to  continue 
its  activities  at  low  power  through  the  medium  of  incongruous  dreams. 

Thus  goes  the  first  day  of  our  trip — as  do  also  probably  the  others — 
until  the  fateful  one  arrives  on  which  we  dig  out  our  stiffs  collars.  We 
receive  them  without  protest  as  a  very  fitting  symbol  of  the  bondage  of 
the  civilization  we  are  about  to  re-enter,  and  we  do  not  wonder  that  the 
first  act  of  a  so-called  "civilized"  Chinaman  on  the  approach  of  illness 
is  to  throw  away  this  article  of  dress. 

The  final  and  greatest  point  about  our  trip,  however,  is  that,  after 
our  return  from  a  stock  of  natural  and  unalloyed  pleasures,  we  have  many 
new  thoughts  around  which  to  build  for  a  lasting  happiness  in  the  future. 
We  fled  for  relief  from  artificiality  and  its  conveniences,  and  found  our 
joy  in  the  simplest  forms  of  Nature;  and  Nature,  in  return,  taught  us 
her  oldest  truth:  that  between  material  comforts  in  life  and  happiness 
in  life  there  is  a  vast  gap  which  m.ost  men  never  leap. 

—Kenneth  W.   Webb,  '18. 


CoUese  S^tdti 


THE  FRESH-AIR  FIEND 

I  fain  would  be  a  peaceful  guy,  and  start  no  fights,  but  always  try 
to  turn  the  other  cheek.  I  have  no  natural  thirst  for  blood,  I  don't 
enjoy  slinging  mud, — in  fact  I'm  very  meek.  But  then  there  is  an  ancient 
saw  which  says  it  is  the  final  straw  that  breaks  the  camel's  back;  and 
although,  as  a  general  rule,  I'm  patient  as  an  army  mule,  a  mule  will 
kick,  alack! 

When  mercury  falls  to  ten  below,  and  all  is  white  with  sleet  and 
snow,  and  I  am  almost  froze;  and  on  the  register  I  sit  to  coax  the  blood 
to  flow  a  bit,  and  thaw  my  frostbit  toes;  some  fresh-air  fiend  comes 
blowing  in;  jerks  up  the  windows  with  a  grin,  and  starts  to  reel  it  off 
about  the  microbes  and  the  germs,  bacteria  and  angle  worms,  that  in  the 
air  we  cough.  Sometimes  as  I  crawl  into  bed  (the  mercury  down  as  afore- 
said, and  snow  six  inches  deep),  this  pest  both  windows  opens  wide, 
the  transom  and  the  door  beside,  so  he  can  better  sleep.  And  I  lie 
shivering  all  alone,  as  cold  as  some  antarctic  stone,  and  those  deep 
thoughts  I  think  about  the  pesky  fresh-air  fiend,  if  from  my  mind  they 
could  be  gleaned,  would  not  look  well  in  ink. 

—Albert  H.  Stone,  '16. 


I  will  not  write  a  word  to  Spring; — 
/  will  not  to  her  chirping  sing, 
Of  birds  in  April  on  the  wing; 
I  will  not  write  a  word  to  Spring. 

The  dusty  swirl  of  winds,  in  Spring, 
The  green-tipped  btids  on  vines  that  cling. 
And  clouds  that  checkered  brightness  bring, — 
I  will  not  write  a  word  to  Spring. 

The  stray  white  flakes  a-whispering, 

Of  bloom  or  snow  down-idling. 

The  sun — then  sheets  of  sleet  that  sting; — 

/  will  not  write  a  word  to  Spring. 

—D.  C.  Wendell,  '16. 


^f)e  ^easions;  anb  tfje  %itt  of  itlan 

SWAYING  our  lives  from  without  are  two  great  influences — that 
exerted  by  the  earth  in  its  physical  aspect,  and  that  by  other 
human  beings.  We  Hve  with  nature  and  with  ourselves.  But 
if  the  radiation  of  magnetic  influence  from  man  to  man  be  free  and 
rapid,  equally  free  and  rapid,  for  in  the  same  current,  must  be  the  passage 
of  the  nature-influence,  caught  and  reflected  by  all.  As  no  other  influ- 
ence is  thus  traceable  to  a  definite  source,  this,  then,  may  be  considered 
the  one  great  fact — partial  though  it  be — in  human  existence; — that  the 
life  of  man  is  moulded  by  nature. 

Man  himself,  it  is  true,  is  never  entirety  conscious  of  this;  but 
always,  however  unconsciously,  has  he  testified  by  word  and  deed  to 
the  reality  of  it.  In  the  days  of  his  primitive  simplicity  he  was  so  di- 
rectly, so  individually  dependent  upon  nature,  that  everywhere,  through 
his  daily  struggle  against  her,  and,  especially  later,  through  his  co- 
operative labor  with  her,  he  was  brought  to  look  her  in  the  face,  carry 
her  in  his  mind,  formulate  ideas  about  her, — and  thus  to  admit  her  hand 
to  the  shaping  of  his  character.  Then,  in  leisure  moments,  when  his 
earliest  artistic  tendencies,  however  inspired,  emerged  from  his  soul  and 
found  visible  expression,  the  same  influence  held  sway  over  him;  he  saw, 
not  a  new  world,  but  new  aspects  of  an  old, — and  his  first  works  of  art 
were  definitely  suggested  by  the  long-familiar  forms  of  earth  about  him. 
He  thought,  prayed;  but  philosophy  had  its  beginnings  in  the  con- 
templation of  nature,  and  reUgion  its  roots  in  the  worship  of  her.  The 
religious  exaltation  of  the  Psalms,  would  it  not  be  colorless,  unrealizable, 
without  the  fruits  of  a  rapt  communion  with  nature  to  make  it  glow 
with  reality  and  color?  A  similar  worship  is  vibrant  in  the  souls  of  all 
great  men,  and  in  the  greater  over-souls  of  nations;  and  is  revealed  in 
their  language,  which,  in  moments  of  inspiration,  owes  its  nobility  and 
universal  appeal  to  a  beauty  or  spirit  of  nature  which  it  embodies  and 
which  gives  it  soul.  The  stories  of  the  Great  Spirit  told  among  the 
North  American  Indians  are  eloquent,  because  so  simple  and  direct, 
of  this,  the  universal  influence,  which  is  held  over  us  by  the  aspect  of 
the  material  veil  with  which  nature  conceals  from  our  eyes  the  ultimate 
spiritual  universe.  And  though  these  expressions  of  speculation,  worship, 
and  faith  are  primitive  and  childlike,  the  force  then  working  in  them 
works  now  in  the  maturest  and  profoundest  utterances — when  sincere 
and  heart-felt — of  the  great  philosophers,  poets,  and  religious  teachers  of 
the  day. 

But  not  alone  they  who  see  and  analyze,  feel  and  experience.     Still, 


66  The  Haverfordian 

in  the  midst  of  our  walled  and  paved,  artificial,  and  often  sordid  civiliza- 
tion, we  pass  our  lives,  all  of  us,  hand-worker  and  seer,  in  a  world  of  un- 
confinable  sunshine,  rollicking  breezes,  illimitable  space, — as  well  as  in 
a  world  of  bottled  light,  distributed  air,  and  low  partitioned  ,enclosures 
of  a  rigid  narrowness:  of  potent,  living  essences,  as  well  as  of  spiritless, 
unavailing  concrete  masses  of  brick  and  stone  and  steel.  The  mere 
warmth  of  the  sky,  the  fragrance  of  the  air,  the  crispness  of  the  grass, 
even,  may  have  as  great  an  effect  upon  our  lives  as  the  cold,  daring 
ugliness  of  skyscrapers,  the  sickly  scent  of  ballroom  flowers,  or  the 
clink  of  flashing  silver  on  the  counter.  The  reason  we  are  not  more 
clearly  perceptive  of  this  in  ourselves,  is,  that  we  have  no  opportunity 
of  comparing  ourselves  with  others,  for  they  also  are  under  the  same 
influence.     None  of  us  can  know  what  we  would  be  without  it. 

Instead  of  thither  following  the  metaphysicians  to  what  may  be 
but  a  futile  verge  upon  the  incomprehensible,  it  is  of  far  greater  interest 
to  stand  where  we  may  behold  that  which  is  both  useful  and  open  to  our 
understanding, — in  the  actual  visible  realm  in  which  man  does  meet  with 
nature. 

In  our  temperate  climate  the  seasons  are  the  most  striking  and 
tangible  phase  of  nature's  operations.  Nights  and  days  occur  wherever 
we  know  there  are  men;  and,  though  they  may  be  of  extraordinary 
length,  as  in  Norway,  their  recurrence,  no  less  there  than  elsewhere,  is 
rigidly  periodic,  and  their  variation  in  length  through  a  reiterated  cj'cle, 
over  a  law-bound  curve:  while  here,  in  our  part  of  the  globe,  besides 
these  regular  exquisite  stanzas  into  which  she  has  formed  the  earthly 
portion  of  her  sublime  poem,  endless,  yet  ever  complete! — nature  has 
here  in  addition  arranged  her  work  into  four  mighty  cantos,  which  are 
boundless, — regular  in  recurrence  and  succession,  but  varied  in  length 
and  in  spirit — a  vast  panorama  of  change! 

But,  not  to  lose  sight  of  man  in  our  enthusiasm,  what  is  the  relation 
of  all  this  to  his  life?  Has  he  no  other  concern  with  it  than  as  it  affects 
his  business,  his  material  welfare,  his  practical  existence?  No  other 
interest  in  it  than  as  it  provides  a  convenient  subject  for  his  conversation? 
Eternally,  not  a  sun  shines  without  brightening  more  hearts  than  it 
enriches  coffers!  Not  a  storm  beats  without  chastening  more  spirits 
than  it  wrecks  homes!  And  not  a  single  empty  conversation  about  the 
weather  can  be  heard  but  is  emblematic  of  a  real  and  abiding  interest 
in  the  natural  world  around  us.  The  weather  may  at  times  have  only 
the  remotest  imaginable  effect  upon  our  work,  while  it  is  scarcely  con- 
ceivable that  it  could  ever  fail  to  have  one  both  direct  and  powerful  upon 
us.     Not  all  men  are  cheered  by  a  bright  ray  of  sunlight,  but  those  only 


The  Seasons  and  the  Life  of  Man  67 

are  not  who  make  harsher  the  discords  within  them  by  cursing  it  as  the 
bitter  irony  of  nature  who  has  no  sympathy  with  their  ill-fortune  and 
distress, — and  thus  come  also  under  its  influence  in  spite  of  themselves. 
But  together  with  this  direct  influence,  however,  is  always  the  indirect, 
or  that  acting  through  changes  effected  in  the  definite  plans  and  activi- 
ties of  our  lives;  and  this  influence  is  so  often  the  nourishing  one,  where 
the  other,  though  the  only  one  that  appears  to  the  philosopher,  is 
merely  an  outgrowth  from  it,  that  it  is  for  science  rather  than  art  to 
study  them  apart  from  each  other.  Particularly  with  the  seasons  is  it 
necessary  to  regard  this  double  influence  as  one  harmonious  process. 

And  now  thus  to  follow  nature  as  she  conducts  us  from  one  to 
another  of  the  realms  in  her  universe,  the  successive  periods  during 
which  she  wraps  us  in  peculiar  atmospheres,  sprinkles  us  with  certain 
opiates  and  tonics,  all  of  one  kind  until  we  need  a  change,  when  she  ad- 
ministers the  next  treatment, — now  to  follow  the  great  march  of  the 
seasons  by  the  dwellings  of  man. 

To  get  the  full  effect  of  it  all,  we  will  best  begin  at  what  seems 
almost  a  real  beginning  evolving  from  the  circular  endlessness  of  nature — 
in  mid-winter,  the  time  when  nature  is  secretly  marshalling,  beneath  a 
barren,  sluggish  exterior,  the  energizing  forces  for  all  the  vital  activity 
and  lavish  abundance  that  are  to  come.  Only  a  few  terrific  blasts  shot  into 
the  air,  and  a  strong,  open-work  grip  as  of  steel  laid  upon  the  land,  give 
sign  to  the'  inhabitants  of  earth  that  beneath  the  calm,  passionless  sur- 
face through  which  they  pass,  lie  unseen  and  illimitable  forces.  But 
when  these  rare  blasts  die  down,  and  the  ice  yields  to  the  softening  snow, 
we  largely  relapse  into  our  former  unconsciousness  of  anything  but  the 
peace  and  satisfying  simplicity  on  the  surface  of  things.  Even  that 
seems  somewhat  vague  and  removed  by  its  very  definiteness  and  tangi- 
bility. 

Enter  upon  a  typical  winter  landscape  under  the  quiet  transforma- 
tion of  a  soft  fall  of  snow,  and  consider  the  gentle  charm  which  broods 
on  the  scene.  Is  it  not  a  charm  of  cosiness,  of  restful  contraction  of 
vision,  hanging  over  all  things  like  an  unbroken  veil?  The  leaden  sky, 
unlike  the  deep  blue,  or  fairy-tinted,  mystically  piling  clouds  of  summer, 
tempts  us  to  no  deep,  searching,  wearisome  gaze  into  depths  of  the  far 
unknowable,  but  drops  above  like  an  immovable  pall,  dark,  dull,  and 
unalluring.  One  glance  and  we  lower  our  eyes,  to  raise  them  aloft  no 
more,  content  with  the  bit  of  earth  surrounding  us.  Here,  too,  all 
wandering  and  distant  looks  are  gently  repelled  by  the  influences  of  the 
land  in  harmony  with  those  of  the  sky.  The  sameness  of  tone  of  the 
very  near  distance  envelops  us  with  a  pale  band  so  unobtrusive  as  to 


68  The  Haverfordian 

scarcely  attract  our  notice,  and  yet  so  powerful  as  to  virtually  con- 
stitute our  horizon.  Near  at  hand  the  blanketed  fields  urge  our  eyes 
to  withdraw  still  further,  and  come  to  rest  on  the  little  circle  of  snow- 
laden  trees  and  bushes  drawing  around,  overhanging,  and  encompassing 
us.  Here,  at  last,  we  find  a  complete,  though  plain,  satisfaction  and  rest. 
Thus  it  is  that  in  all  our  pictured  recollections  of  winter,  appears  no 
extensive  panoramic  view  of  broad  country,  or  distant  glimpse  of  moun- 
tains, such  as  summer  memories  aboundantly  yield  us;  but  many  a  re- 
stricted bit  of  close-at-hand  scenery, — a  snow- weigh  ted  thicket,  a  barren 
hill-top,  a  small  skating  pond  encircled  with  bushes,  a  bend  in  the  road 
piled  high  on  either  side  with  drifts,  or  merely  some  heaps  of  snow  before 
our  doorstep.  Moreover,  there  are  few,  even  of  these,  that  come  back 
to  us  in  definite  individualized  detail.  The  finesse  of  natural  beauty 
is  often  blurred  by  the  snow,  with  its  vague,  generalizing  curves  and 
sweeps;  and  therefore  winter  scenery  offers  less  enticement  than  that 
of  any  other  season  to  close-range  curious  observation  in  search  of 
beauty.  Even  one  striking  exception, — a  forest  of  glittering  trees,  with 
every  branch  and  twig  coated  with  sparkling  transparent  ice:  so  that 
every  tiny  vista  loses  itself  in  a  delicate  frosted  tracery — as  exquisitely 
delicate  as  the  spidery  network  of  tentacles  sent  out  by  the  ice  crystals 
from  the  grassy  banks  of  a  brook;  and  every  slender  treetop  flames  in 
the  sun  as  though  the  white  light  of  its  soul  leaped  up  to  the  skies  through 
pendulous  fairy  battlement  of  ice, — even  such  wizardry  as  this  is  too 
fantastic,  too  unreal,  too  evidently  transient,  to  be  brought  fully  home  to 
us.  Only  for  a  few  poetic  moments,  has  it,  perhaps,  a  meaning.  We 
soon  forget  and  ignore.  And  so  it  is  seen  how  in  winter  nature  drives  us 
back  from  her  distances,  and  attracts  us  but  little  to  her  vicinities. 
As  we  turn  to  the  closest  objects  the  same  interposing  veil  is  drawn  over 
them  as  that  which  caused  us  to  turn  from  the  farthest.  And,  in  addi- 
tion to  all  this,  the  very  air  produces  upon  us,  through  our  nostrils,  the 
same  effect  as  the  sky  and  land  through  our  eyes.  In  the  air  of  spring, 
summer,  and  autumn  is  something  intangible  and  seductive,  arousing 
a  desire  which  is  nearly  satiated,  even,  only  in  summer,  and  never  en- 
tirely so;  while  in  that  of  winter,  especially  when  heavy  with  the  taint 
of  snow,  is  almost  no  intoxication  of  things  hidden  or  half-sensed.  An 
atmosphere  damp,  without  warmth,  without  fragrance,  with  an  almost 
matter-of-fact  responsiveness  to  the  needs  of  our  breathing,  it  fully 
satisfies,  without  stimulating,  the  senses,  deadens  attention,  and,  with 
the  cosy  environment  meeting  the  eye,  is  a  powerful  depressant  of  inter- 
est in  things  that  are  not  forced  upon  our  notice. 

What,  then,  is  the  corresponding  change  induced  within  us  by  this 


The  Seasons  and  the  Life  of  Man  69 

temporary  narrowness  of  vision  ?  Do  we  not  fall  back  from  our  straining 
toward  soaring,  hazy  ambitions,  and  our  striving  toward  unattainable 
or  distant  ideals?  Having  no  sun  in  the  heavens  to  remind  us  of  far-off 
glories  in  the  spiritual  heights,  we  look  no  more  for  them,  and  turn  to  the 
inspiration  of  humble  duty  and  virtue.  And  no  sunshine  beating  upon 
us,  we  feel  less  strongly  the  emanation  of  soul-rays  from  beyond  earth, 
and  seek  out,  instead,  the  warmth  of  the  human  heart.  Our  thoughts, 
as  we  trudge  homeward  of  a  winter's  evening  through  the  soft  snow, 
are  occupied  with  the  successes  or  failures  of  the  day,  the  pleasures 
promised  for  the  evening,  or,  possibly,  with  plans  for  a  day  or  two  ahead ; 
and  our  hearts,  when  we  reach  home,  responsive  to  the  gentle  comforts 
and  blessings  of  our  really  snug  state  as  mortal,  and  the  joys  and  priv- 
ileges of  our  human  brotherhood.  So  society  comes  into  full  swing, 
and  we  grow  to  look  at  the  great  universe  beyond  man's  immediate 
interests,  as,  through  a  window,  into  the  night;  and  at  man's  little 
world  of  houses,  only  as  we  hurry  here  and  there  within  it. 

Naturally,  as  our  thoughts  and  aspirations  do  not  soar,  we  are  much 
steadier  at  our  work.  Now,  if  ever,  we  are  drudges.  Toil  replaces  toil, 
until  we  are  beginning  to  deny  ourselves  even  such  little  rest  as  good 
work  requires.  Duties  of  all  kinds  become,  for  a  time,  more  real.  Fam- 
ily cares  engross  our  attention.  We  are  accepting  our  share  in  the  labor 
of  humanity, — but  we  are  rushing  toward  the  brink  of  our  capacity, 
we  are  exhausting  our  energy  as  individuals,  and  we  have  ceased  to 
draw  from  the  vital  sources  of  supply.  Further,  we  are  becoming  unam- 
bitious, self-complacent,  narrow-visioned ;  and  our  sense  dulled  to  some 
of  the  finest  things  of  life.  Nature  means  less  to  us,  and  she  has  now  no 
wild  flowers  and  rapturous  birds  in  her  fields  and  woods,  to  attract  us, 
and  no  thunder  and  lightning  in  her  heavens  to  startle  us  into  worship. 
Love,  with  her  frolicsome  fancy  gone,  has  ceased  to  delight  our  gentler 
natures.  So  it  is  the  higher  poetry,  the  gossamer  romance,  of  life,  that 
we  are  now  on  the  point  of  losing.  We  are  even,  perhaps  as  a  result  of 
this,  becoming  a  trifle  more  animal  in  some  of  our  tendencies  such  as  in 
being  abnormally  under  the  influence  of  our  stomachs.  On  the  other 
hand,  we  are  not  developing  ourselves  so  much  muscularly,  and  are 
growing  feeble  in  lungs  and  weary  in  back.  We  need  swimming,  tennis, 
canoeing,  walking,  or  baseball  in  back  lots.  Lastly,  we  have  come  to 
attach  too  much  importance  to  clothes  and  other  trifling  paraphernalia 
of  society.  We  need  to  roam  the  woods  in  running  trunks  and  jersey, 
or  work  on  a  farm  in  overalls,  or  go  fishing  in  our  oldest  trousers  with 
conspicuous  suspenders.  Even  in  a  summer  hotel,  clothes  are  not  taken 
so  seriously  as  in  a  mid-winter  ballroom.     One's  straw  hat  needs  to  be 


70  The  Haverfordian 

chosen  with  care,  and  is  no  doubt  a  frivolous  article,  but  it  is  not  so  de- 
ceptively, so  overwhelmingly  imposing  as  a  high  silk. 

We  are,  then,  by  the  end  of  winter,  overworked  and  dull,  with 
abnormal  tendencies  leaning  to  the  animal  state  on  one  side,  and  to  the 
over-refined  and  artificial  on  the  other.  We  need  the  balance  restored 
by  a  great  awakening,  another  mighty  rebirth,  which  will  set  free  the 
suppressed  and  perverted  parts  of  our  natures,  that  they  may  force  to 
co-ordination  the  inordinate  tyrannical,  parts.  For  this  is  needed  a 
fresh  infusal  of  the  enlivening  germs  that  arise  only  from  the  infinitesimal, 
multitudinous  activity  of  natural  life  in  full  bloom. 

The  very  depths  of  our  natures  feel  the  call  with  the  first  breeze 
that  has  in  it  the  unmistakable,  ineffable  wine  of  the  springtide.  We 
are  at  first  brought  into  the  possibility  of  a  cure  by  a  soothing  and  alluring 
languor,  stealing  into  the  heated  restlessness  of  our  minds,  sapped  dry 
with  work  and  worry,  and  reopening  our  senses,  physical  and  spiritual, 
to  all  the  tender  sweetnesses  of  existence,  which  we  have  long  ceased  to 
enjoy,  almost  forgotten.  Love  blooms  once  more  with  the  flowers — the 
necessary  youthful  blush  of  love,  not  the  deep,  steadfast  affection,  which, 
though  unrelinquished  through  the  winter,  had  almost  lost  its  essence  of 
the  divine,  and  had  been  living  on  last  year's  diminishing,  unreplenished 
fruitage.  No  longer  are  we  satisfied  with  the  aims  and  projects  brought 
to  definiteness  by  the  firelight;  we  want  to  feel  the  spiritual  magnetism, 
the  impelling  spark  of  desire  which  emanates  from  the  luminaries  of 
thought,  idea,  beauty,  as  mightily  as  rays  from  the  all-acknowledged, 
irresistible  countenance  of  the  mystic  summer  moon!  Now  is  coming 
the  tim.e  to  stroll  in  the  fields,  eddy  down  the  rapid,  thrill  with  the 
falling  canoe,  penetrate  to  the  religious  sanctity  of  the  hermit  thrush,  or 
merely  step  into  the  dooryard  and  inhale  the  rich  odor  of  the  lilac  blos- 
soms— all  are  part  of  nature's  plan,  and  any  one  has  power  to  open  the 
gates  into  gardens  of  bliss  whose  depths  we  cannot  fathom.  All  nature 
has  a  meaning  now.     The  clouds  are  perpetual  delights. 

So,  through  the  long,  long  summer  we  acquire  a  healthy,  splendid 
delight  in  the  joy  of  living.  We  are  pleasant,  cheerful,  and  good-natured 
because  it  is  easy  and  natural  to  be  so ;  but  we  are  laying  up  stores  from 
the  very  sources  of  goodness  which  will  enable  us  to  do  many  things 
by-and-by  when  they  will  not  be  easy. 

As  the  last  dog-days  are  stilling  our  desire  for  more,  we  are  beginning 
to  prepare  for  more  vigorous,  less  sensual  autumn;  when  earth  is  not  so 
lavish  with  sweets  and  is  instilling  our  souls  with  a  sterner  strength,  a 
more  chaste  communion  with  beauty.  Such  are  the  lingering  late- 
autumn  sunsets,  of  whose  loveliness  man  can  scarcely  speak.     Their 


i 


The  Seasons  and  the  Life  of  Man  71 

exquisite  tints  float  upon  the  very  pinnacle  of  nature's  glory;  there  is 
nothing  further  of  pure  beauty  on  earth.  No  human  love,  no  strain  of 
music,  is  as  these.  We  are  given  no  loftier  glimpse  into  beauty's  ultimate, 
highest  domain! — and  are  led  to  look  beyond  this  world  and  life  to  give 
a  goal  to  our  longing  for  that  beauty  which  is  forever  above  the  visible, 
a  higher  and  ever  higher  beauty. 

This  is  the  reason  we  are  able  to  drop  back  again  to  the  old  routine 
and  short-sighted  drudgery  of  winter.  We  have  seen  and  felt  to  the 
end  of  mortality,  and  glimpsed  a  beyond;  and  we  must  work  long  and 
dully  before  we  can  exalt  our  spirit  to  behold  such  things  anew.  But, 
in  the  meantime,  not  in  total  darkness  is  our  work.  The  well  of  nature's 
bounty  is  never  frozen  to  the  bottom.  The  dying  sunsets  of  autumn 
will  now  and  then  burst  forth  again  late  into  winter,  with  a  yet  rarer 
gleam;  the  sleet  storms  build  ice-tabernacles  for  the  sun  to  glitter  in; 
the  brook  fresco,  with  his  quaint  devices,  the  garment  of  snow  and 
sheaf-ice  upon  his  bosom;  a  song-sparrow  with  summer-like  joy  sing  to 
the  keen,  ice-bright  dawns  of  winter.  But  these  are  occasional;  for 
the  most  part  the  landscape  will  be  monotonous,  and  we  wrapped  un- 
seeing in  the  mists  and  \apours  that  arise  from  human  industry,  ab- 
sorbed in  the  failure  or  success  of  our  enterprise,  recreated  only  by  the 
pleasantries  of  human  intercourse,  interested  only  in  problems  of  human 
life.  All  that  is  in  us  we  give  to  the  race,  until,  with  the  return  of  spring, 
nature  reclaims  her  homage,  and  once  more  offers  her  gifts,  inviting  us 
to  drink  her  honor  in  a  cup  of  her  own  quintessinal  wine — a  draught 
dipped  from  the  gushing  mainspring  of  seasons,  of  beauty,  of  life. 

— Charles  Hartshorne.  '10. 


THE  UNEASY  CHAIR 


ONE  is  prone  to  studiously  avoid  calendars  at  this  season  of  the 
year.  The  fateful  numerals  are  a  reproachful  reminder  of  the 
few  weeks  remaining  in  the  collegiate  year.  The  torpor  of  the 
winter's  hibernation  is  gradually  thrown  off  and  that  word  Regret, 
like  a  sprig  of  fennel,  slightly  embitters  the  Cup  of  Life.  But  we  shrug 
our  shoulders  and  mutter,  " 'Twas  ever  thus,"  with  philosophic  resigna- 
tion, and  continue  in  the  paths  we  have  trod.  That's  one  delightful 
attribute  of  philosophic  resignation — like  an  ancient  city  of  refuge, 
whenever  we  are  in  straits,  it  is  ready  with  open  gates  and  welcome 
on  the  mat.  For  instance,  someone  asked  our  Business  Manager  why 
we  didn't  offer  a  prize  for  the  best  short  story  in  a  proposed  contest. 
"Well,"  he  said,  "you  know  what  Sherman  said  about  war — and  poverty 
is  worse."  Then  someone  made  a  slighting  remark  and  we  held  a  board 
meeting  for  philosophic  resignation.  The  purpose  of  a  college  magazine 
was  discussed  and  the  unanimous  consensus  decided  the  main  motive 
was  to  keep  out  of  trouble.  After  offering  a  prayer  for  money  enough 
to  publish  the  next  issue,  someone  proposed  the  following  toast  to  the 
Business  Manager: 

"To  one  who  with  artful  word  enveigles  from  unwilling  Alumni 
the  almighty  dollar.     Bravest  of  the  brave!   Thee  we  salute." 
"For  the  mightiest  symphony  heard  in  the  land, — 

With  all  due  excuses  to  Mahler; — 
Is  the  music  whose  notes  are  not  made  by  the  hand. — 
7/'^  the  song  oj  the  evergreen  Dollar." 

Greek  Chorus  (sung  by  Alumni  Editor) 
"On  me  you  depend.      Were  it  not  for  me  you  would  not  exist. 
To    me    you    sing." 

The  members  of  the  Board  became  so  enthused  over  this  lyrical 
outburst  that  they  began  to  scribble  furiously.  Some  of  the  results 
were  as  follows: 

Member  1. 
The  past  was  full  of  sorrow, 
The  present  full  of  pain. 
The  unsuspected  morrow 


^ 


The  Uneasy  Chair  73 

Will  be  today  again. 

My  heart  was  full  of  yearning, 

My  head  with  hope  was  burning, 

My  hand  the  leaves  tvere  turning. 

But  sad  has  been  my  lot. 

For  just  reward  I'm  earning, 

As  sadly  I'm  discerning 

The  time  I've  spent  in  learning 

To  know  that  I  know  not! 

Member  2  (who  is  still  in  the  romantic  stage). 
Have  you  ever  stopped  to  listen 
To  the  murmur  of  the  sea 
Sobbing  low; 

When  the  sunlit  waters  glisten 
A  nd  the  white-capped  breakers  flee 
To  and  fro? 

Have  you  ever  gazed  in  wonder 
At  a  distant  mountain  peak 
Crowned  with  snow: 
As  the  avalanches  thunder 
Tear-like  down  the  Titan's  cheek 
Long  ago? 

Have  you  watched  the  colors  changing, 

A  nd  the  outpost  gold  rays  fly 

In  the  west; 

While  the  scudding  white  cloud-dragons 

Race  to  lairs  beyond  the  sky 

Sea-caressed? 

Member  3    (who   has   recently  delved    into   the   mysterious   realms  of 

Egyptian  archaeology). 
Thou  sherd  of  Amenartes!  crinkled,  old. 
And  fragile  as  the  shriveled  autumn  leaf, 
What  mysteries  are  veiled  within  thy  script? 
Dost  catch  the  moment  gleam  of  queenly  eye; 
Or  glimpse  the  horrored  face  of  awful  hag? 
Or  haply  in  a  transitory  thrill 
The  scent  of  sacred  Isis'  perfumed  breath 


74  The  Haverfordian 

Caresses  soft  thy  cheek;  and  leaps  thy  heart 
To  seek  the  hoiiri  in  the  vale  of  death. 

Member  4  (affected  with  febris  veris). 
The  wild  March  wind  has  settled  down 
Constrained  within  the  northern  cave. 
The  wand' ring  geese  have  northward  flown, 
Their  banks  the  snow-fed  rivers  lave. 
The  air  a  solemn  stillness  holds, 
Uncertain  to  ascribe  the  change 
To  winter  which  the  earth  enfolds, 
Or  to  warm  airs  that  eastward  range. 
The  sun  is  burning  in  the  sky. 
Warmth  pervadeth  everything. 
And  on  a  maple-tree  near  by, 
A  robin  flutes  his  note  of  spring. 

Member  5  (light  lyrics  a  specialty) . 
Villanelle. 
Your  name  I  will  tell, 
But  no  more  Til  reveal 
Villanelle. 

If  yours  is  the  spell 

I  over  me  feel, 

Yoiir  name  I  will  tell. 

Remember,  I  fell 
On  a  slippery  peel, 
Villanelle? 

You  giggled — atid,  well — 
If  that  way  you  feel 
Your  name  I  will  tell. 

Oh!  giddy  gazelle! 

You  make  my  head  reel, 

Villanelle! 

You've  sounded  my  knell. 
If  your  love  I  can't  steal, 
Your  name  I  will  tell. 


i 


I 


I 


The  Uneasy  Chair  75 

I  can't  do  you  well, 
But  leastwise  with  zeal 
Your  name  I  will  tell, 
Villanelle!' 

Member  6  (confirmed  optimist). 
Sic  Semper  Vita 
Said  the  antrepreneur  to  his  tvife  in  the  car, 

As  they  sailed  past  the  men  in  the  field, 
"How  I  envy  their  lot!    They  are  free!    They  are  not 
Brought  up  to  command  but  to  wield." 

Said  the  clown  with  regret,  as  he  mopped  off  the  siveat, 

To  the  overalled  lad  by  his  side: 
"Just  look  at  'em!  Gee!  It's  a  wonder  to  me. 

How  they  get  enough  money  to  ride!" 

So  if  in  a  "mood"  you're  inclined  to  be  rude, 
And  regret  that  you  aren't  like  your  neighbor. 

Just  "ivhislle  and  grin — tho'  it  seems  like  a  sin. — 
For  the  meed  of  success  is  hard  labor. 

Alumni  Ed.  (solus). 
"On  me  you  depend.     Were  it  not  for  me  you  would  not  exist." 

Chorus  of  Editors 
There  is  only  one  flower  in  the  waste  of  life. 
That  flower  is  Hope. 

Who  shall  say  what  is  the  substance  of  Hope. ^ 
Many  are  its  forms,  but  each  is  beautiful,  and  none  knows  whence  it  arises, 

nor  the  horizon  beyond  which  it  shall  sink. 
Onward,  onward,  0  Hope,  to  a  power  unattained! 
Till  finished  our  race,  and  the  night  shades  are  rushing  down. 


JLUMNI 


DECEASED 

T.  Wistar  Brown,  to  whose  gen- 
erosity and  unselfish  interests  Hav- 
erford  College  owes  an  unbounded 
gratitude,  died  at  his  home  in 
Villa  Nova,  Sunday,  April  16th. 
Mr.  Brown  had  during  his  career 
contributed  upwards  of  half  a 
million  dollars  to  our  College,  and 
had  been  closely  connected  with 
it  during  a  period  of  sixty-three 
years.  It  was  sixty-three  years  ago 
that  he  was  made  Manager  of 
Haverford  College,  and  for  the 
last  twenty-five  years  he  had  been 
serving  as  President  of  the  Board 
of  Managers. 

Mr.  Brown  was  a  man  of  great 
breadth  of  interest,  who,  in  spite  of 
having  stopped  school  at  the  age 
of  sixteen,  held  the  greatest  ad- 
miration for  the  cultural  phases  of 
higher  education,  and  did  much  to 
promote  them  at  Haverford.  He 
once  stated  that  he  had  used  to 
believe  that  Greek  was  of  most 
value  in  an  education,  but  had 
since  changed  his  mind  and  held 
philosophy  to  be  so. 

Such  was  the  man  who  after 
ninety  years  of  useful  life  has  passed 
away. 

The  following  appeared  in  the 
Public  Ledger  on  Monday,  April 
17,  1916. 


T.  Wistar  Brown,  vice  president  of  the 
Provident  Life  and  Trust  Company,  and 
for  twenty-five  >'ears  president  of  the 
Board  of  Directors  of  Haverford  College, 
died  suddenly  at  his  home  in  Villanova 
yesterday  morning.  Advanced  years  is 
the  only  cause  ascribed  to  his  death, 
which  came  as  a  surprise  to  both  his 
friends  and  relatives.  Although  in  his 
ninetieth  year,  Mr.  Brown  was  still 
actively  engaged  in  business,  and  only 
last  week  appeared  at  his  office  in  this 
city. 

Mr.  Brown  was  widely  known  in  busi- 
ness circles.  Besides  being  an  official 
of  the  Provident  Life  and  Trust  Company, 
he  was  a  member  of  the  firm  of  John  Far- 
num  &  Co.,  commission  merchants,  of  this 
city,  and  secretary,  treasurer  and  director 
of  the  Berkshire  Manufacturing  Com- 
pany. As  a  director  he  had  been  asso- 
ciated with  the  Central  National  Bank,  the 
Mortgage  and  Trust  Company  of  Penn- 
sylvania, the  Reliance  Insurance  Com- 
pany, the  Westmoreland  Coal  Company 
and  the  Manor  Gas  Coal  Company. 

For  more  than  fifty  years  Mr.  Brown 
was  a  member  of  the  board  of  directors 
of  Haverford  College,  and  for  twenty-five 
years  president  of  that  body.  He  was 
also  managing  director  of  the  Bryn  Mawr 
Hospital,  and  chairman  of  the  board  of 
directors  of  the  Pennsylvania  Hospital. 

During  his  life  Mr.  Brown  contributed 
liberally  to  hospitals  and  institutions  of 
learning.  The  south  wing  of  Haverford 
College  was  erected  at  his  expense  in 
memory  of  his  son,  Farnum  Brown,  who 
died  in  1893.  Later  he  also  contributed 
for  the  erection  of  the  north  wing. 

Mr.  Brown  was  a  scion  of  an  old  Quaker 
family,  long  resident  in  Philadelphia  and 
its  suburbs.  He  was  a  member  of  the 
congregation  of  the  12th  Street  Meeting 
House  of  this  city,  and  of  the  Haverford 
Meeting  House,  near  Haverford  College. 
In  some  ways  he  rigidly  observed  the 
Quaker  custom,  and  would  never  permit 
a  telephone  to  be  installed  in  his  home. 

Mr.  Brown  is  survived  by  two  daugh- 
ters, Mrs.  George  R.  Packard,  of  Villa- 
nova,  and  Mrs.  H.  S.  Leach,  of  New  York. 


Alumni 


77 


The  funeral  service  will  be  held  in  the 
12th  Street  Meeting  House. 

We  regret  to  announce  the  death 
of  Charles  R.  Jacob,  '84,  of  Moses 
Brown  Friends'  School,  Provi- 
dence, R.  I.  Mr.  Jacob  was  born 
in  Maine  in  1863.  He  entered 
Haverford  College  in  1881,  and  at 
his  graduation  in  1884  was  elected 
spoon  man  of  his  class.  He  won 
the  Alumni  Prize  for  Oratory.  He 
was  editor-in-chief  of  The  H.w- 
ERFORDI.AX.  After  his  graduation 
from  Haverford  he  studied  two 
years  in  Europe.  For  the  last 
twenty-five  years  he  has  taught 
French  and  German  at  Moses 
Brown  School,  and  was  one  of  their 
most    able    teachers. 


Mr.  O.  M.  Chase,  Registrar  of 
Haverford  College,  has  been  ar- 
ranging for  the  publication  of  a 
special  issue  of  the  College  Bulleim 
of  an  entirely  novel  sort.  To  quote 
from  its  preface,  "It  presents  some 
recent  photographs  with  a  brief 
description  of  the  College,  its  re- 
sources, ideals,  and  activities." 
The  photographs  are  those  used 
in  the  Athletic  Annual  and,  in 
addition,  two  panorama  views  of 
the  campus,  and  interior  \iews  of 
the  dining-hall  and  the  club-room 
in  the  Union.  The  booklet  will 
be  printed  on  bufT  paper,  and 
covered  with  buff  eggshell  paper 
on  which  the  College  seal  will  ap- 
pear in  colors. 


As  we  have  previously  announc- 
ed, the  Ha\'erford  Society  of  Mary- 
land held  its  annual  dinner  at  the 
University  Club  of  Baltimore  on 
Friday,  March  31st.  We  are  in- 
debted to  the  Haverford  News  for 
the  following  account:  R.  M. 
Gummere,  '02,  was  first  speaker  of 
the  evening,  giving  an  exposition 
of  the  work  of  the  Alumni  Exten- 
sion Committee.  Talks  were  given 
by  Mr.  E.  R.  Smith,  Headmaster  of 
Park  School ;  Mr.  Woodruff  Mars- 
ton,  Senior  Master  of  the  Univ^er- 
sity  School  for  Boys;  Frank  W. 
Cary,  '16,  and  Douglas  Waples, 
'14. 

Henry  M.  Thomas,  '82,  presi- 
dent of  the  Association,  presided 
as  toastmaster.  Throughout  the 
course  of  the  dinner  musical  selec- 
tions were  given  by  a  quartette 
consisting  of  C.  M.  Froelicher,  '10; 
Hans  Froelicher,  Jr.,  '12;  F.  M. 
Froelicher,  '13;  and  D.  Waples,  '14. 

A  letter  was  read  from  Felix 
Morley,  '15,  who  is  serving  with 
the  Friends'  Ambulance  Unit  in 
Belgium. 

The  Association  decided  to  es- 
tablish a  S200  scholarship  for  Mary- 
land boys. 

The  following  officers  were  elected 
for  the  ensuing  year:  President, 
Wm.  R.  Dunton,  Jr.,  '89;  Vice 
President,  Richard  L.  Cary,  '06; 
Secretary-Treasurer,  Hans  Froe- 
licher, Jr.,  '12;  Executive  Com- 
mittee— the  above  officers,  and, 
in  addition,  H.  M.  Thomas,  '82; 
Richard  J.  White,   '87. 


78 


The  Haverfordian 


The  Founders'  Club  dined  at  the 
College  on  the  evening  of  April  8, 
1916,  and  then  proceeded  to  their 
business  meeting.  An  engraved 
certificate  of  membership  was  de- 
cided upon.  The  annual  meeting 
of  the  club  is  to  be  held  in  Feb- 
ruary preceding  the  dinner  at  the 
Franklin  Inn  Club.  Among  those 
present  were  the  following:  J.  P. 
Magill,  '07,  president;  R.  M. 
Jones,  '85;  Ralph  Mellor,  '99;  H.  J. 
Cadbury,  '03;  H.  A.  Domincovich, 
'03;  R.  M.  Gummere,  '02;  T.  K. 
Brown,  Jr.,  '06;  Dr.  Jas.  A.  Bab- 
bitt; Hans  Froelicher,  Jr.,  '12; 
Chas.  T.  Moon,  '12;  Jos.  Tatnall, 
'13;  H.  W.  Tavlor,  '14;  E.  C.  Bye, 
'15. 

The  New  York  Haverford  Al- 
umni dined  at  Browne's  Chop 
House,  New  York  City,  on  April 
the  5th. 

President  Sharpless  is  serving 
on  the  Advisory  Board  for  The  Re- 
ligious and  Educational  Motion 
Picture  Society  of  Philadelphia. 

F.  Mitchell  Froelicher,  '13,  is 
director  for  the  coming  summer  of 
Camp  Tunkhannock,  Pocono  Lake, 
Pa.,  and  Hans  Froelicher,  Jr.,  '12, 
is  manager.  The  following  Haver- 
fordians  are  council  members  of 
the  camp:  Douglas  Waples,  '14; 
James  Carey,  3rd,   '16. 

Harry  A.  Domincovich,  '03,  is 
in  charge  of  Camp  Megunticook, 


Maine,  for  the  coming  summer. 
Among  other  officers  of  the  camp 
are  D.  Lawrence  Burgess,  '04;  L 
C.  Powley,  '12;  Rowland  S.  Phil- 
ips, '14,  and   Oliver  Winslow,    '16. 

Doctor  Randolph  Winslow,  '71, 
Professor  of  Surgery  in  the  LTni- 
versity  of  Maryland,  and  Caleb 
Winslow,  Registrar  of  the  Medical 
Department,  represented  the  Llni- 
versity  of  Maryland  at  the  annual 
meeting  of  the  Association  of 
American  Medical  Colleges  held 
in  Chicago  on  the  8th  of  February. 
A  resolution  was  offered  by  the 
Executive  Council  of  the  Associa- 
tion that,  beginning  with  the  first 
of  January,  1918,  a  minimum  stand- 
ard of  two  years  of  college  work 
should  be  required  of  incoming 
freshmen.  Doctor  Winslow  read 
a  paper  setting  forth  the  scarcity 
of  physicians  in  rural  Maryland, 
due  to  the  advancing  requirements, 
and  urging  that  a  change  be  made 
only  after  mature  thought.  In 
discussing  the  paper,  he  stated 
that  he  was  in  favor  of  the  addi- 
tional premedical  year,  but  advo- 
cated postponement  of  the  change 
until  medical  colleges  have  had  an 
opportunity  to  adjust  themselves 
to  new  conditions.  After  a  warm 
fight  the  resolution  was  adopted. 

Professor  Winslow  was  retired 
from  the  Executive  Council,  hav- 
ing completed  twenty  years  of 
continuous  service.  It  is  highly 
probable  that  he  has  done  more 
to    direct    the    policy    of    medical 


Alumni 


79 


education  during  these  twenty 
years  than  any  other  Alumnus  of 
Haverford. 

In  April  Doctor  Winslow  will 
have  completed  his  twenty-fifth 
year  as  a  member  of  the  Faculty 
of  Physic  of  the  University  of 
Maryland.  At  the  present  time 
a  movement  is  afoot  to  celebrate 
this  anniversary  in  a  fitting  man- 
ner. During  his  long  and  active 
professional  career,  Professor  Wins- 
low  has  been  a  prolific  writer  on 
medical  subjects.  He  is  a  fellow 
of  the  College  of  Surgeons,  a  mem- 
ber of  the  American  Surgical  So- 
ciety (membership  limited  to  one 
hundred),  a  member  of  the  South- 
ern Surgical  Society,  likewise  of 
many  State  and  local  medical 
societies.  In  spite  of  all  these 
honors,  the  proudest  achievement 
of  his  life,  and  the  one  that  he 
looks  back  upon  with  most  satis- 
faction, was  making  the  first  cricket 
eleven  as  a  slow  bowler. 

'92 
Christian  Brinton  acted  as  judge 
and  awarded  the  Shillard  gold 
medal  at  the  annual  exhibition  of 
color  work  at  the  Plastic  Club, 
Philadelphia. 

'96 

J.    Henry    Scattergood    recently 

succeeded    in    raising    $50,000    for 

the  Christiansburg  School  ( Va.)  for 

negroes  at  its  fiftieth  anniversary. 

L.     HoUingsworth     Wood     has 


moved  from  43  Cedar  Street  to  20 
Nassau  Street,  New  York  City, 
where  he  is  continuing  his  practice 
of  law  in  association  with  Messrs. 
Edwards,  O'Loughlin  and  George. 

'00 

John  A.  Logan,  Jr.,  Major  in  the 
United  States  Army,  was  one  of 
the  American  otificers  engaged  in 
examining  the  British  steamship 
Sussex,  which  was  torpedoed  in  the 
English  Channel. 

'02 
William  Wilder  Hall  was  mar- 
ried on  March  29th  at  Lakeville, 
Mass.,  to  Miss  Elsie  Willis,  daugh- 
ter of  Mr.  and  Mrs.  James  Munroe 
Willis. 

A  daughter  was  born  April  8th 
to  Percival  Nicholson  at  Wilming- 
ton, Del.  She  has  been  named 
Nell  Gray  Clayton  Nicholson. 

'09 
Charles  B.  Thompson,  M.  D., 
has  recently  resigned  his  position 
in  the  Phipps  Psychiatric  Clinic 
of  the  Johns  Hopkins  Hospital  to 
become  Executive  Secretary  of  the 
Mental  Hygiene  Society  of  Mary- 
land. 

Edwin  Shoemaker  has  an- 
nounced his  engagement  to  Miss 
Martha  Clawson  Reed,  daughter  of 
Mrs.  Charles  H.  Reed,  of  Phila- 
delphia. 


80 


The  Haverfordian 


Lawrence    C.     Moore    has    an-  S.  W.  Meader  is  now  holding  a 

nounced   his  engagement   to   Miss  position  with  Reilly  and     Button, 

Helen    Paschall,    of    West    Grove,  Chicago,  111.      His  address  is  1725 

Pa.  Wilson  Ave.,     hicago. 


'10 

W.  p.  Tomlinson  will  attend  the 
Teachers'  College  of  Columbia 
University  this  summer  and  next 
year,  studying  Administrative  Edu- 
cation— incidentally  for  a  Ph.  D. 
degree. 

In  the  recent  Shakespeare  num- 
ber of  Life  was  a  rondel  by  Christo- 
pher Morley  entitled,  "When 
Shakespeare  Laughed." 

'12 
Hans  Froelicher,  Jr.,  was  unan- 
imously re-elected  President  of  the 
Class  of  1917  in  the  Law  School  of 
the   University   of   Maryland. 

Henry  M.  Thomas,  Jr.,  who  will 
be  graduated  in  medicine  at  Johns 
Hopkins  University  in  June,  has 
been  awarded  an  interneship  in 
the  Massachusetts  General  Hos- 
pital, Boston,  Mass.  The  award 
was  made  after  competitive  exam- 
ination, and  covers  a  period  of  two 
years'  residence. 

'13 
The  Class  of  1913  held  a  supper 
at  Lauber's  Restaurant  on  the 
evening  of  March  24,  1916.  The 
following  were  present:  Crowder, 
Diament,  Hare,  Hires,  Howson, 
Maule,  Stieff  and  Tatnall. 


Paul  G.  Baker  has  announced 
his  engagement  to  Miss  Emily  H. 
Porter,  of  Philadelphia,  who  will 
graduate  this  year  from  Wellesley 
College.  Miss  Porter  is  the  sister 
of  Oliver  M.  Porter,  '13. 

Mr.  Baker  is  working  with  the 
Westinghouse  Electric  Co.,  and 
lives  at  805  Maple  Ave.,  Turtle 
Creek,   Pittsburgh. 

Norris  F.  Hall  and  J.  M.  Beatty, 
Jr.,  have  each  received  substan- 
tial scholarships  in  the  Graduate 
School  at  Harvard  for  next  year. 

'15 
Paul  K.  Whipple  has  recently 
accepted  a  position  for  the  remain- 
der of  the  scholastic  year  as  in- 
structor in  Latin  at  the  Asheville 
School  for  Boys,  Asheville,  N.  C. 
Mr.  Whipple  had  been  engaged  as 
a  teaching  fellow  at  the  College 
up  to  this  time. 

E.  R.  Dunn  is  author  of  an  article 
entitled,  "Two  New  Salamanders 
of  the  Genus  Desmognathus," 
which  appeared  in  the  April  4th 
number  of  the  Proceedings  of  the 
Biological    Society    of    Washington. 

E.  M.  Bowman  has  been  ap- 
pointed an  instructor  in  Pennsyl- 
vania State  College,  where  he  will 


Alumni 


81 


teach  first->ear  French,  and  either 
first-year  Spanish  or  second-year 
French. 

George  H.  Hallett,  Jr.,  has  been 
awarded  a  Harrison  Fellowship  at 
the  University  of  Pennsylvania 
for  next  year. 

Elmer  Shaffer  has  an  article  in 
the  Zoolo'^ischer  Anzeiger  for  Jan- 
uary 25th,  entitled,  "  Discocotyle 
Salmonis,  Nov.  Spec.  Ein  neuer 
Trematode  an  dem  Keimen  der 
Regenbogenforelle. ' ' 


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Contents 


God  is  Love Albert  H.  Stone,  '16  84 

The  New  Poetry W.  S.  Nevin,  '18  85 

To  CecUle Edwin  F.  Lawrence,  '17  90 

Chips  of   the  Old  Block Jack  Le  Clercq,  '18  91 

Choislr  (A  Story) Jack  Le  Clercq,  '18  91 

Look  Up! D.  C.  Wendell,  '16  97 

The  Moon  Below  the  Village Charles  Hartshorne,  '19  98 

Ivan  Turgeniev:  The  Man  and  His  Art, 

W.  H.  Chamberlin,  '17  99 

Hennery  Starts  a  Club H.  P.   Schenck,  '18  104 

Fides  Parentum T.   P.   D.,  '19  106 

A  Preliminary  Trial  (Dramatici  Sketch) .  .C.  Van  Dam,  '17  107 

Persicos  Odi ' J.  W.   Spaeth,  '17  114 

Alumni  Department Donald  H.  Painter,  '17  115 


fune 

1916 


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Trust  Officer  and  Treasurer. 
ALFRED  G.  WHITE.  Assistant  Trust  Officer. 
S.  HARVEY  THOMAS.  JR.,  Assistaat  Treasurer. 
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The  Haverfordian 


EDITORS 
Robert  Gibson,  1917  Editor-in-Chief 
W.  H.  Chamberlin,  1917  J.  G.  C.  LeClerco,  1918 

C.  D.  Van  Dam,  1917  Walter  S.  Nevin,  1918 

Donald  H.  Painter,  1917  Henry  P.  Schenck,  1918 

BUSINESS  MANAGERS 
Arthur  E.  Spellissy,  1917  (Jl/gr.)  H.  Beale  Brodhead,  1917  {Sub.  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  Po9t-01£ce,  for  transmission  ttirough  the  maile  as  second-class  matter 


Vol.  XXXVIII 


HAVERFORD,  PA.,  JUNE,  1916. 


No.  3 


^oh  is  Hobe 

Not  to  the  God  of  Love,  ye  hostile  lands, 
Direct  thy  prayers:  and  not  to  Him  who  brought 
The  creed  of  love  and  peace  to  men — who  taught 
By  love  and  not  by  sword — lift  up  thy  hands. 
Thy  prayers  are  blasphemy  while  swords  and  brands 
Are  turned  against  thy  brothers.     Ye  have  wrought 
But  death  and  hate,  and  Europe's  blood  for  naught 
Hath  stained  the  frozen  steppes  and  desert  sands. 
Thy  god  is  clad  in  mail;  his  creed  is  hate, 
His  priest  is  death,  his  altar  greed,  and  hearts 
The  sacrifice,  and  tears  and  dying  groan. 
Thou  hast  relapsed  into  a  barbarous  state; 
Return  unto  thy  ancient  pagan  arts, 

And  pray  to  senseless  gods  of  wood  and  stone!  M 

—Albert  H.  Stone,  '16. 


THE    HAVERFORDIAN 


Vol.  XXXVIII.  HAVERFORD,  PA.,  JUNE,  1916  No.  3 


Up  until  recently  contemporary  verse  consisted  of  lines  and  phrases 
of  pretty  design  used  to  plug  the  hole  at  the  end  of  a  short 
story  and  serve  the  same  decorative  purpose  as  a  tailpiece. 
But  the  past  few  years  have  produced  poets  worthy  of  the  name.  Writ- 
ers with  something  new  to  say  are  all  around  us. 

Just  what  the  new  philosophy  states  is  not  clear;  here  and  there  we 
can  obtain  a  glimpse  of  their  doctrines,  but  the  new  poets  are  satisfied 
to  depict  without  comment  what  they  see,  whether  it  is  a  rose,  a  sum- 
mer day,  or  a  human  life.  Observation  is  made  king,  and  thought  is 
thrust  to  a  subordinate  position.  A  cup  is  offered  you,  brimming  with 
life,  which  you  can  season  to  taste. 

The  imagists  are  the  only  group  of  the  oncoming  poets  who  have 
an  official  doctrine.  This  has  been  assailed  from  all  sides  and  critics 
have  defined  free  verse  as  "verse  that  has  to  be  given  away."  We 
may  not  like  the  way  thej'  are  solving  their  problems,  but  poetry  is 
poetry,  and  even  if  it  is  not  poetry  to  the  reader,  it  has  been  poetry  to 
the  writer. 

Miss  Lowell,  the  chief  exponent  of  the  school,  has  characterized 
the  imagists  as  having  these  aims : 

To  use  the  exact  word  in  the  language  of  common  speech. 

To  have  freedom  in  choice  of  subject. 

To  present  an  image. 

To  produce  a  poem  that  is  hard  and  clear. 

To  concentrate. 

The  imagists  believe  that  they  are  doing  what  Chaucer,  Shake- 
speare, Blake,  Coleridge  and  Henley  have  done.  They  believe  that 
what  they  feel  can  be  better  reproduced  if  certain  useless  and  artificial 
parts  of  the  language  be  omitted. 

Free  verse  has  a  certain  haunting  quality  that  is  irresistible;  it 
is  the  sudden  evocation  of  magic,  as  this  from  the  "Green  Symphony" 
of  J.  G.  Fletcher: 


86  The  Haverfordian 

"  Far  let  the  timid  feel  of  dawn  fly  to  catch  me: 
I  will  abide  in  this  forest  of  pines: 
For  I  have  unveiled  naked  beauty, 
And  the  things  that  she  whispered  to  me  in  the  darkness, 
Are  buried  deep  in  my  heart." 

Granting  that  free  verse  is  no  longer  an  experiment  and  that  nearly 
every  modern  poet  uses  it  in  addition  or  to  the  exclusion  of  regular 
verse,  yet  there  can  be  something  said  for  the  other  side.  The  intent- 
ness  can  be  without  intention  and  when  they  think  they  are  building 
a  cathedral  of  melody  they  may  be  making  a  doghouse. 

Mr.  J.  L.  Lowes  in  the  Nation  has  an  interesting  experiment.  He 
took  several  passages  from  the  novels  on  George  Meredith,  and  wrote 
them  out  in  the  form  as  used  by  the  new  poets.  This  example  will  show 
how  successful  he  was. 

Clair  de  Lune 
I 
Over  the  flowering  hawthorn 
The  moon 

Stood  like  a  wind-blown 
White  rose 
Of  the  heavens. 

II 
A  sleepy  fire 
Of  early  moonlight 
Hung 

Through  the  dusky  fir-branches. 
Of  the  imagists,  the  best  known  are  Miss  Amy  Lowell,  Messrs. 
John  Gould  Fletcher,  R.  Aldington  and  F.  S.  Flint.  Miss  Lowell's 
best  work  is  found  in  her  "Sword  Blades  and  Poppy  Seeds";  she  is  the 
most  gifted  of  the  group,  both  in  variety  and  the  intensity  of  the  work. 
Mr.  Fletcher  has  endeavored  to  express  the  inexpressible  in  his  "Ir- 
radiations." The  volume  is  full  of  moods  and  images  in  phrases  new 
garmented  and  full  of  vigor,  as  when  he  declares,  "I  will  brush  the  blue 
dust  of  my  dreams."  Messrs.  Aldington  and  Flint  have  their  best  work 
in  two  collections  of  imagist  writers;  their  art  is  as  flawless  and  clear- 
cut  as  a  gem. 

The  whole  school  of  imagists  wade  in  realism.  We  are  told  that 
Miss  Lowell's  neighbor  has  a  bald  head,  and  Mr.  Fletcher,  when  he  is 
tired  of  watching  "the  crimson  peonies  explode  in  the  humid  gardens 
of  the  soul,"  turns  to  the  beach  and  gives  a  careful  inventory  of  straw, 
old  bottles,  etc.,  that  litter  the  sand. 


"The  New  Poetry"  87 

To  sum  up  the  whole  matter,  we  conclude  that,  although  there  is 
being  produced  a  great  quantity  of  vers  libre,  the  majority  of  it  is  below 
par,  and  in  proportion  as  the  beauty  and  thought  of  the  poem  reaches 
perfection,  just  so  far  does  the  metre  tend  to  become  regular. 

II 

Two  poets  of  unusual  ability  who  adhere  strictly  to  the  presenta- 
tion of  their  thought  without  comment  and  without  philosophy  are 
Robert  Frost  and  Edgar  Lee  Masters.  They  have  joined  forces,  one 
from  the  west  and  the  other  from  the  east,  in  a  triumph  of  materialism. 
Mr.  Frost's  two  books,  "North  of  Boston,"  and  "A  Boy's  Will," 
express  a  new  individuality  in  poetr>-.  He  scoops  out  his  landscapes 
with  a  bold  hand,  expressing  the  character  of  his  people  by  their  sur- 
roundings. Yet  from  the  meagre  life  of  the  characters  he  draws  out  a 
poignant  feeling  that  crushes  the  heart,  as  in  his  "Home  Burial,"  or 
"Death  of  the  Hired  Man."  These  are  the  apex  of  his  power  and  they 
rank  among  those  that  have  the  stamp  of  approval  of  time.  In  his 
"Birches"  he  shows  a  different  mood;  it  is  a  poem  suggested  by  the 
appearance  of  birch  trees  in  winter  bowed  down  by  the  ice,  and  he 
recalls  when  he  was  a  boy  how  he  used  to  swing  on  these  trees — 
" — feet  first,  with  a  swish, 

Kicking  his  way  down  through  the  air  to  the  ground." 
Mr.  Masters  has  created  the  sensation  of  the  year  with  his  "Spoon 
River  Anthology";  he  is  breaking  new  ground  and  is  presenting  his 
poetic  themes  in  a  way  peculiarly  dramatic.  Briefly,  it  is  a  novel  in 
verse,  painting  a  community  of  over  two  hundred  people,  whose  lives 
are  interwoven  and  touch  others  at  a  critical  point  of  their  existence. 

It  is  the  work  of  a  fatalist  who  hears  the  voices  of  the  graveyard 
and  has  each  character  sum  up  its  life  in  a  few  burning  words. 
"  The  ogre,  Life,  comes  into  the  room, 
{He  was  waiting  and  heard  the  clang  of  the  spring) 
To  watch  you  nibble  the  wondrous  cheese, 
And  stare  at  you  with  his  burning  eyes, 
And  scowl  and  laugh,  and  mock  and  curse  you. 
Running  up  and  down  in  the  trap. 
Until  your  misery  bores  him." 
We  learn  with  concentrated   literalness  to  know  Hod   Putt,  the 
murderer,  or  Isaac  Beethoven,  who  sat  by  the  mill  contemplating  life 
while  waiting  for  death.     Here  are  the  words  of  Petit,  the  Poet,  who 
missed  Life  while  he  lived : 


88  The  Haverfordian 

"Life  all  around  me  here  in  the  village: 
Tragedy,  comedy,  valor  and  truth. 
Courage  and  constancy,  heroism,  failure — 
All  in  the  loom  and  oh,  what  patterns! 
Woodlands,  meadows,  streams  and  rivers — 
'       Blind  to  all  of  it  all  my  life  long." 

Ill 

There  is  a  group  of  the  new  poets  singing  bravely  and  tunefully, 
each  with  a  vision  ahead  to  guide  him.  Louis  Untermeyer  is  the  best- 
known,  and  his  work  varies  from  exquisite  descriptions  of  nature  to 
sonnets  on  "Gentlemen  Reformers."  Miss  Widdemer,  in  her  "Fac- 
tories," attacks  the  social  regime,  but  her  lyrics  are  much  more  beauti- 
ful when  she  surrrenders  to  a  dream  or  mood  than  when  she  is  carried 
away  by  a  conviction.  Mr.  Vachel  Lindsay  is  trying  to  form  a  closer 
relation  between  the  poet  and  his  hearers.  He  is  the  wandering  minstrel 
who  pays  for  his  entertainment  with  his  rousing,  rattling  verse,  called 
by  some  "literary  ragtime." 

There  are  two  followers  of  Whitman.  Both  James  Oppenheim 
and  Lincoln  Colcord  have  a  philosophy  that  they  believe  fitted  for  the 
oncoming  age.  Mr.  Oppenheim  believes  that  all  perfections  and  laws 
are  to  be  found  in  the  will  of  the  individual,  and  in  his  "1915"  he  writes 
of  the  war  in  trumpet  tones.  Mr.  Colcord,  in  his  "Vision  of  War,"  has 
produced  the  most  serious  piece  of  work  from  the  tons  of  literature  about 
the  present  war.  All  great  convulsions,  he  believes,  discipline  us  for  a 
more  perfect  brotherhood — the  final  goal  of  the  new  age.  Having  thus 
deftly  proved  the  need  of  the  present  war,  he  follows  his  dream  to  its 
conclusion,  when — 

"  The  world  has  passed  through  the  Dark  Ages  of  Democracy 

And  practice  has  caught  up  with  theory.'" 

His  verse,  considered  by  some  as  the  last  word  in  modernism,  is 
equally  destitute  of  rhyme  or  rhythm.  He  absolves  himself,  by  the 
use  of  Whitmanesque  verse,'  both  of  the  pointedness  of  prose  and  of  the 
music  and  imagination  of  regular  verse. 

IV 

Not  all  of  the  poets  have  left  the  "ancient  landmarks,"  and  espe- 
cially can  this  be  said  of  Miss  Sara  Teasdale's  "Rivers  to  the  Sea." 
Her  brief,  passionate  lyrics  are  unfaltering  in  their  tone,  without  over- 
elaboration  of  sentiment,  and,  above  all,  musically  enchanting.  Here 
is  a  typical  lyric — 


"The  New  Poetry"  89 

"Strephon  kissed  vie  in  the  spring, 

Robin  in  the  fall, 
But  Colin  only  looked  at  me 

A  nd  never  kissed  at  all. 

"  Strephon' s  kiss  was  lost  in  jest, 

Robin's  lost  in  play, 
But  the  kiss  in  Colin' s  eyes 

Haunts  me  night  and  day." 

Mrs.  Conkling,  in  her  dreamy  and  tenuous  "Afternoons  of  April," 
shows  herself  to  be  a  follower  of  Keats.      She  specializes  in  audible 
sights,  visible  sounds  and  fragrances.      This  will  illustrate  the  decoction 
she  pours  from  her  fragile  cups  of  tinted  china: 
"  If  form  could  waken  into  lyric  sound, 
This  flock  of  irises  like  poising  birds 
Would  feel  song  at  their  slender  feathered  throats. 
And  pour  into  a  gray-winged  aria 
Their  wrinkled  silver  finger-marked  with  pearl." 
Mr.  Neihardt  has  turned  his  attention  to  narrative  poetry,  and  has 
given  us  the  adventures  of  a  trapper  in  the  early  Northwest.     In  his 
"Song  of  Hugh  Glass"  he  has  sketched  in  the  natural  setting  with  skill, 
and  has  joined  with  this,  a  life  and   power   that  make  the  work  worthy 
to  stand   in   comparison   with   Masefield's    "Dauber."      The   story   of 
Hugh's  crawl  across  country  sustained  by  hate  and  thirst  for  vengeance 
can  not  be  equalled  in  any  American  writer. 

Paul  Shivell,  in  his  "Stillwater  Pastorals,"  is  a  reappearance  of  Cow- 
per  and  Wordsworth;  he  is  not  bound  down  by  any  literary  tradition, 
but  describes  the  joys  of  simple  and  sober  living.  He  takes  no  pains 
to  smooth  his  verses,  but  leaves  them  rough-hewn  and  unadorned. 

In  the  last  place  we  come  to  the  Magazine  Anthology  for  1915 — 
a  book  that  has  become  an  institution.  To  review  this  would  be  a 
repetition  of  the  editor's  task.  He  is  liberal  in  his  tastes,  and  has  in- 
cluded poems  for  all  readers.  There  are  some  hundred  pieces,  which 
run  the  entire  gamut  of  modem  poetry,  from  the  delicate  and  fantastic 
"Peter  Quince  at  the  Clavier,"  by  Wallace  Stevens,  to  the  sonnets  of 
M.  L.  Fisher,  so  compacted  with  imagery  that  they  gasp  for  breath, 
as  in  the  close  of  his  "July": 

"  No  bird  need  sing  to-day,  and  no  bird  sings: 
This  stillness  is  enough:  it  is  to  me 
The  muted  prelude  to  Eternity; 


90  The  Haverfordian 

A  summing  up  of  hushed  and  ended  things; 
The  balancing  of  Nature's  books,  who  creeps 
Close  to  a  stone,  and  in  her  own  shade  sleeps." 
The  fashion  of  poetry  to-day  is  sincerity  and  finding  the  poetic 
in  unpoetic  things.      Poetic  diction  has  disappeared;    poets  no  longer 
"fain"  to  do  anything.     They  strive  to  present  facts  or  an  image  with- 
out comment.     There  are  no  neat,  tinfoiled  "uplift"  verses,  and  the 
poet  takes  the  intelligence  of  the  reader  for  granted  and  refuses  to 
bellow  in  his  ear  through  a  megaphone. 

—W.  S.  Nevin,  '18. 


Wo  Cectlle 

As  the  winter  sun,  descending,  paints  the  west  a  ruddy  glow. 
So  my  kisses,  hotly  burning,  cause  your  cheeks  a  glow  to  show. 
Snowflakes  sparkle  from  your  furs.  Love,  and  your  skin  is  white  like  snow; 
Let  the  kisses  I  have  dreamt  of,  bring  a  glorious  red  below. 

Eyes  that  seem  forever  dancing,  cheeks  where  color  comes  and  goes. 
Girlhood,  marvelous,  entrancing;  as  I  gaze  my  wonder  grows. 
As  your  eyes  meet  mine  without  fear,  as  you  blush  so  like  a  rose, 
It  is  bliss  to  kiss  your  cheek,  dear,  cool  and  dampened  by  the  snows. 

Often  shall  the  sun,  descending,  leave  the  west  a  ruddy  glow; 
May  my  farewell  kiss,  at  parting,  ofteii  cause  a  glow  to  show. 
Often  shall  the  sun,  at  rising,  tint  the  east  with  glorious  rose; 
May  my  rapturous  kiss  of  greeting  ever  mark  a  love  that  grows. 

— Edwin  F.  Lawrence,   '17. 


Cf)ip£(  of  tfie  0{ti  Plock 

(Leur  point  de  vue) 

I 

Laura:  The  poet  Petrarch  loved  me  with  all  the  chivalry  of  the  Middle 
Ages.  He  made  the  name  of  Laura  de  Sade  the  symbol  of  beauty 
and  womanly  virtue.  I  never  gave  him  so  much  as  a  look,  and 
yet  he  loved  me  madly.  My  virtue  will  go  down  through  the 
ages,  and  the  race  I  have  reared  will  always  retain  the  purity 
which  I  did. 

The  Marquis  de  Sade:  I  have  lived  a  life  of  debauchery  and  lust.  Sub- 
stantives and  adjectives  have  been  coined  from  my  name  to  qualify 
the  highest  point  of  libidinous  love.  I  wonder  what  that  poor, 
silly  ancestor  of  mine,  Laura,  would  have  thought  of  me — she  who 
never  even  spoke  to  Petrarch. 

II 

Pierre  Corneille:  I  have  written  the  greatest  tragedies  of  the  day.  My 
heroes  and  heroines  sacrificed  everything  to  their  duty.  But  my 
descendants  will  be  ordinary,  peaceful  Norman  bourgeois,  never 
even  dreaming  of  the  courage  and  heroism  I  immortalized  by  my 
pen. 

Charlotte  Corday:  My  great-uncle  Corneille  was  a  great  man.  What 
a  wonderful  tragedy  he  would  have  written  about  Marat  and  me! 
What  inspired  me  was  the  instinctive  knowledge  that,  while  he 
wrote,  he  dreamed  of  one  of  his  own  family  emulating  the  sublime 
Camille. 

— Jack  Le  Clercq,  'IS. 


Ctoifiiir 

A  Story 

I 

MADAME  MOREAU,  wife  of  the  late  Jacques  Moreau,  was  a 
queer  woman.     A  widow  at  the  age  of  twenty-six,  childless, 
her  banker-husband's  entire  fortune  at  her  disposal — these 
things  might  have  made  of  her  a  careless,  pleasure-loving  woman.     And 
it  is  only  just  to  add  that  she  was  beautiful.     This,  however,  was  but 
a  secondary  consideration:   when  first  one  met  her,  she  interested  him 


92  The  Haverfordian 

because  of  her  wealth,  later  because  of  her  good  taste  and  charm,  finally 
he  noticed  that  she  was  beautiful.  Nor  was  she  of  classical  mould  or 
a  modem  beauty;  she  possessed  that  languid,  indolent  beauty  of  her 
countrywomen.  Jacques  Moreau,  while  at  Martinique  on  business, 
had  fallen  in  love  with  her  and  brought  her  back  to  Paris,  the  birth- 
place of  her  poor  father,  who,  he  two,  had  fallen  in  love  with  one  of 
these  heavenly  island  women — but  whose  life  had,  alas!  been  cruelly 
spoilt  by  what  his  parents  deemed  a  mesalliance.  And  even  the  coming 
of  Ang61ique  had  not  taken  the  mind  of  this  melancholy  Parisian  off  the 
subject  of  France,  the  foyer  he  might  have  had  somewhere  en  province, 
the  bon  pot-au-feu  du  soir 

But  enough  of  him,  poor  martyr  to  his  infatuation  for  the  cold, 
heartless  mother  of  Ang61ique. 

Ang^lique's  life  in  Paris  was  a  round  of  gaiety  until  Moreau  died 
and  she  had  left  the  capital  for  America.  In  New  York  she  made  many 
friends  and  renewed  her  old  acquaintances.  Yet  she  did  not  go  into 
society  much;  she  rather  sought  out  the  intellectual  lions  of  Manhattan, 
until  very  soon  she  found  herself  the  Madame  de  Rambouillet  of  quite 
a  salon.  It  was  Gabriel  Gavamy,  the  French  'cellist,  who  took  me  to 
her  house  in  the  east  seventies  for  the  first  time.  I  knew  Roy  Barclay, 
the  dramatist;  Polak  Prasovni,  the  great  Polish  violinist;  and  many 
of  those  who  frequented  her  salon  on  her  famous  Thursday  afternoons,  so 
that  fortunately  I  was  not  quite  a  stranger  when  I  made  her  acquaint- 
ance. In  fact  Polak  kindly  told  her  of  that  thin  volume  of  verse  I  had 
brought  out  that  autumn. 

I  shall  never  forget  that  afternoon.  A  steady  conversation  went 
on,  Angelique  occasionally  adding  a  word  or  two,  but  more  often  re- 
clining on  the  couch  like  that  superb  Madame  Recamier,  content  to 
be  admired  as  a  beautiful  creature.  Somehow  I  could  not  help  thinking 
of  Baudelaire's  verse : 

"Et  conime  qui  dirait  des  beautSs  de  langueur," 
when  I  looked  at  her. 

Gavamy  was  holding  forth  on  English  music:  "Nan,  non,  there  is 
no  great  music  in  England.  There  have  never  been  any  great  English 
musicians.     It  is  pretty,  but  inspid — pouah!" 

A  tall,  thin  young  man,  unmistakably  English  by  his  accent,  spoke 
up:  "We  have  not  had  half  a  chance!"  he  said.  "And  besides,  I 
think  music  is  not  for  the  Briton.  It's  like  Catholicism — Romanism, 
if  you  wish;  it's  not  consistent  with  the  English  character." 

Roy  Barclay,  the  American  dramatist,  turned  to  Gavamy:  "You 
see,  the  Frenchman  of  the  contemporary  school  of  music  considers  it  as 


Choisir  93 

an  exercise  for  a  virtuoso;  Debussy,  Franck,  Chaminade — it's  always 
the  same  thing;  please  the  ear,  voild  tout.  There  is  none  of  the  haunting 
melancholy  of  Chopin,  none  of  the  neuropathic  forces  of  Wagner. 
Of  the  Poles,  Prasovni  will  tell  .  .  .  .  " 

"Yes,"  interrupted  the  latter.  "The  Pole  puts  all  his  heart  into 
his  music.  It  is  for  him  the  means  of  expressing  the  pain  and  the  sorrow 
of  a  heart  that  bleeds,  the  agony  of  a  nation  whose  nationality  is  but  a 
memory  or  a  distant  and  seemingly  impossible  dream 

The  Englishman — Noel  Latham  was  his  name,  I  was  told,  and  he 
had  quite  a  reputation  in  his  own  country  as  a  young  poet, — cleared 
his  throat  and  asked  of  Prasovni:  "Do  you  think  it  will  never  be 
realized?"  and  then,  seeing  how  painful  the  subject  was,  he  changed  it: 
"For  us  Britons,  music  is  neither  a  jeu  d' esprit  nor  our  whole  life;  it 
may  not  please  the  ear — shades  of  Massenet! — it  may  not  vibrate  with 
the  thoughts  of  our  soul.  It  is  merely  for  us,  a  form  of  developing  our 
minds  and  souls,  an  aid  to  understand  the  beautiful  and  use  it  in  our 
life,  helping  us  to  cope  with  all  the  tedious  realities  of  that  life." 

I  did  not  listen  to  the  rest  of  their  conversation,  as  Madame  Moreau 
was  chatting  to  me  about  my  poems  and — O  happy  poet! — she  quoted 
several.  What  a  wonderful  woman  I  thought  she  was ;  so  distinguished, 
so  wonderfully  intelligent!  She  told  me  much  about  Noel  Latham  and 
his  work,  how  it  resembled  mine,  and  when  I  hinted  that  America  was 
hardly  the  place  for  him  she  explained  that  he  felt  it  wrong  to  kill  his 
fellow-men,  that  for  him  Christianity  and  war  were  incompatible. 
With  great  interest  I  broached  the  subject  to  him. 

"I'm  thought  a  coward  at  home,"  he  said.  "My  brother  Reg 
died  in  the  Dardanelles  expedition,  and  Donald,  who  is  only  nineteen, 
just  got  his  lieutenancy.  But  I  can't  do  it!  it's  against  the  grain. 
We're  all  fellow-men,  and  Christianity  means  more  to  me  than  patriot- 
ism." His  voice  trembled.  "  Can  you  realize  a  warless  earth ;  can  you 
see  Tennyson's  'Federation  of  the  World'?  No  homeless,  nameless 
waifs,  no  ruin,  no  damnable  waste  of  life,  no  atrocious  crimes  and  bestial 
brutality:  but  brothers  all,  living  for  each  other,  peacefully.  This 
is  what  Christ  dreamt,  what  He  preached,  what  we  must  have.  Chris- 
tianity and  war  are  incompatible:  to  fight  and  kill  you  must  renounce 
what  to  me  is  dearest :   Jesus  Christ.     I  will  not  do  it." 

Roy  Barclay  looked  up:  "There  must  be  some  huge  force  that 
makes  men  go.  Take  Rupert  Brooke,  for  example.  Has  not  some- 
body written  of  his  death : 

'He's  gone. 

I  do  not  understand; 


94  The  Haverfokdian 

I  only  know 

That  as  he  turned  to  go 

And  waved  his  hand, 

In  his  young  eyes  a  sudden  glory  shone: 

And  I  was  dazzled  by  a  sunset  glow, 

And  he  was  gone.' 
There   must   be   something   profoundly   spiritual   about   it,    that   grips 
these  men  and  makes  them  sacrifice  everything  for  their  country." 

"Yes,"  said  Latham,  "there  is.  But  something  even  more  com- 
pelling is  Christ  the  Martyr,  who  begs  us  to  help  Him  and  carry  our 
part  of  the  burden  of  the  Cross,  and  preach  the  blessed  peace  for  which 
He  died.  Is  this  not  as  glorious  a  mission  as  that  of  defending  one's 
country?" 

At  the  time,  I  thought  he  was  right. 

II 

I  was  very  busy  during  the  next  few  weeks  with  the  routine  work 
of  journalism,  and  so  did  not  get  a  chance  to  avail  myself  of  Angelique 
Moreau's  kind  invitation  to  go  to  one  of  her  Thursdays,  but  that  day 
I  decided  to  do  so  and  stopped  in  at  the  Ritz  beforehand,  where  I  met 
Roy  Barclay.  As  it  was  early  and  the  weather  was  perfect,  we  decided 
to  walk  up  the  thirty-odd  blocks  to  Madame  Moreau's.  I  chanced 
to  mention  Noel  Latham  and  the  pleasure  I  had  experienced  in  reading 
his  poems. 

"Strange  young  fellow,"  commented  Barclay.  "And  he's  chang- 
ing every  day." 

"He  seems  a  great  pacifist,"  I  mused. 

"He's  changing,  my  friend;  he's  changing  every  day.  Although 
Rodney,  Gavarny,  Lewisohn,  and  all  the  crowd,  have  been  constantly 
talking  war  and  peace,  he  hasn't  said  a  word.  If  questioned,  he  has 
deftly  changed  the  subejct.     There's  something  brewing " 

We  reached  Madame  Moreau's  soon  after  and  she  greeted  us  with 
a  delightful  exclamation  of  surprise:  "So  Mr.  Barclay  has  brought 
you  back  again,"  she  said. 

"Oh!  Madame,"  he  protested  gallantly,  "it  is  you  who  brought 
me  here." 

"You  have  come  in  time,"  she  said.  "Rodogunes  is  just  about  to 
begin  improvising,"  and  we  hastily  sat  down  as  the  musician  began. 

A  queer  fellow,  Rodogunes.  As  ugly  as  a  gargoyle,  with  shaggy 
hair  and  a  huge  beard;  a  mongrel  he  was,  half-Spanish,  half-Jew,  but 
what  a  pianist!     When  he  played,  one  forgot  everything  but  the  divine 


Choisir  95 

music  of  the  piano — he  was  a  Liszt,  of  whom  everybody  said:  "You 
are  our  master,"  even  such  men  as  Schumann. 

A  breathless  silence  and  he  began.  Such  an  improvisatore !  What 
divine  accents  the  piano  uttered  when  under  his  touch!  But,  poor, 
mad  Jew,  he  is  dead  now,  with  only  three  sonatas  to  his  name,  although 
his  posthumous  fame  is  wonderful.  A  greater  improvisatore  than 
composer,  but  a  marvelous  musician.     Peace  be  to  his  memory! 

The  first  part  of  his  music  was  a  song  of  contentment,  an  anthem 
of  joy:  full  of  la  joie  de  vivre  and  of  youth.  It  was  as  if  the  atmosphere 
of  Italy  had  been  transplanted  in  that  New  York  house:  the  glory  of 
the  golden  sunshine;  the  pure,  azure  sky;  the  wonderful  countryside 
where  the  maidens  laugh  and  are  cheerful,  each  Gemma  loving  her 
Antonio,  all  thanking  their  Creator  for  having  given  them  so  wondrous 
a  land  to  live  in,  so  lovely  a  mate  to  live  with,  so  glorious  an  existence 
full  of  sunshine  and  peace.  Love  of  God,  gratitude  to  God,  ecstasy  of 
living — it  was  the  religion  of  thankfulness  that  this  poor  devil,  who 
never  knew  what  life  out  of  a  dingy  garret  was,  made  into  music.  Then, 
into  this  sigh  of  supreme  bliss,  crept  a  few  discordant  notes,  portent 
of  impending  evil ;  watchfulness  and  anxiety.  Here  and  there  was  still 
a  note  of  joy;  but  it  was  a  different  joy — more  forced.  Then  a  long 
thrill  of  pleasure  and  crash!  deep  notes  followed  each  other  in  quick 
succession.  He  put  all  his  soul  into  this  part  of  the  composition:  pain, 
sorrow,  anguish — the  whole  human  tragedj'.  It  was  the  old  story: 
happiness  and  the  inevitable  finish:  sobs  of  grief  from  the  man  whose 
illusion  leaves  him,  whose  idol  is  shattered,  whose  ideal  has  crumbled 
like  a  house  of  cards.  It  was  a  human  heart  bleeding  to  death;  drop 
after  drop  of  its  life-blood  flowing;  after  the  thrill  of  joy,  the  moan  of 
pain.  Louder  and  more  vibrant  came  the  music:  the  Curse  of  Man. 
In  the  midst  of  his  sorrows  he  has  turned  to  Nature;  cold,  cruel  Nature, 
that  insults  him  at  every  turn.  Woman  is  to  him  but  an  occasion  for 
more  pain;  tenderly,  unwittingly,  she  hands  him,  bound,  over  to  the 
Philistines.  And  God  he  has  found  deaf:  Nature  and  woman  having 
made  him  miserable,  he  invokes  the  Supreme  Being,  only  to  find  Him 
indifferent. 

Beautiful  music!  Poor,  mad  Jew,  his  whole  life  was  being  told. 
Then,  after  this  curse  to  humanity,  came  a  sort  of  low  lull,  a  pause, 
finally  calm,  exquisite  calm. 

The  musician  played  on :  it  seemed  as  if  he  had  wept  until  he  could 
weep  no  longer;  now  came  the  end  of  his  morbid  melancholy  and, 
resigned  to  his  fate,  he  fell  back  upon  himself.  Self:  there  was  his 
solution,  and  his  pride  alone  gave  him  courage  to  live  on  until  the  morrow. 


96  The  Haverfordian 

And  such  a  life!  The  sensation  of  delicious  peace  after  one's  troubles, 
the  thought  of  the  ship  come  safe  "to  its  haven  under  the  hill" — 
and  probably  the  feeling  of  lassitude  and  utter  weariness  was  never 
better  expressed  in  any  other  music;  none,  at  least,  that  I  have  heard. 
It  was  what  Swinburne  felt  when  he  wrote: 

"  We  thank  with  brief  thanksgiving 

Whatever  gods  may  be,  ^,    .. 

That  no  life  di^s  forever, 

That  dead  men  rise  up  never, 

That  even  the  weariest  river 

Winds  somewhere  safe  to  sea." 
Such  was  my  impression  of  Rodogunes'  playing,  possibly  it  gave  others 
different  things  to  think  about.  The  pianist  stopped  and  tunled  around 
on  the  stool:  "Ha!  it  is  good  music,  nicht?"  he  asked.  "I  only  need 
to  touch  the  piano  once  and  all  the  people  are  still.  They  say  it  is  the 
great  Rodogunes,  and  that  silence  must  accompany  his  playing.  Ach 
Gott!  how  he  plays!  It  is  die  alte  Geschichte:  Ich  habe  geliebt  und 
gelebt.  .  .  .  But  how  he  tells  it;  Madre  de  Dios!" 
And,  egoist  as  he  was,  we  could  not  contradict  him. 

Ill 

We  all  left  shortly  afterwards,  and  on  my  way  down  the  stairs,  I 
felt  a  pluck  at  my  sleeve.  Turning  around,  I  saw  Latham:  "I  say, 
are  you  going  down  the  Avenue?" 

"Yes,"  I  replied.     "Do  join  me,  won't  you?" 

"Certainly,"  he  said.  "Thanks  very  much,"  and  he  started  walk^ 
ing.  Neither  of  us  spoke  for  fully  five  minutes — I  insist  that  not  a 
word  was  uttered— strange  phenomenon,  when  two  youthful  would-be 
men  of  letters  are  together. 

Suddenly  he  said:     "  I  am  leaving  for  England  as  soon  as  possible." 

"Why?"  I  asked. 

"I'm  going  to  go  back  and  fight!" 

I  looked  at  him,  stupefied.     "But  .  ..."  I  blurted. 

He  put  his  hand  to  his  head  and  mopped  his  brow:  "I  know 
what  you  are  about  to  tell  me,  but  my  decision  is  irrevocable.  To-day 
when  that  Jew  played  I  realized  it  all.  I  heard  a  voice:  the  voice  of 
England  calling  me  across  the  sea.  I  heard  Reg  from  his  grave  in 
Gallipoli  bidding  me  go  back.  It  all  came  over  me  at  once.  My 
country  is  in  the  greatest  war  of  the  ages;  the  epoch-making  conflict 
which  it  is  waging  needs  every  man  it  can  get.  I  realize  that  war  and 
Christianity  are  impossible  together — and  then  I  think  of  the  widows 


Look  Up  97 

at  home,  their  husbands  and  sons  in  the  trenches,  killing  and  dying,  all 
for  that  grand  inspiration :  England.  Think  of  the  thousands  of  women- 
folk, trembling  before  the  hostile  host,  think  of  the  tribulations  and 
travail  of  these  women  martyrs.  Christianity  and  war,  I  said  the 
other  day,  are  incompatible.  I  feel  England's  need:  she  cries  for  me 
and  I  go.  Willingly,  feeling  in  the  depth  of  my  soul,  the  full  importance 
of  this  awful  step  I  am  taking:  /  renounce  Christianity.  I  cannot 
serv-e  two  masters:  I  must  kill  or  stand  aside.  God  forgive  me!  I 
choose  the  first." 

A  few  minutes  later  he  was  gone  and  I  walked  on  through  the  city. 
And  I ,  too,  could  not  help  thinking  that  that  man's  last  state  was  better 
than  his  first. 

— Jack  Le  Clercq,  '18. 


Hook  ?Hp 


"  There  comes  a  tide  in  the  affairs  of  men, 
Which,  taken  at  the  flood,  leads  on  to  victory." 

— Julius  Caesar. 

It's  the  turn  of  the  tide 

Where  the  gray  waves  ride 

And  the  sea  swells  rise  to  the  storm; 

While  the  heave  of  my  soul 

Where  the  breakers  roll 

Makes  leap  the  foam  from  the  form 

Of  Ghosts,  grim,  black. 

In  the  Maelstrom's  wrack 

As  the  Tide  seethes  over  the  bar: — 

O  Heart  and  Mind 

To  God  so  blind. 

Look  tip!  to  Thy  silent  Star. 

—D.  C.  Wendell,  '16. 


Zf\t  Moon  lielotti  tfje  VilU^t 

'Tis  the  river, 
In  the  evening, 

As  the  misty  night  comes  on: 
And  the  quiver 

Of  reflections 

In  the  darklins,  water's  zone. 


The  lights  twinkle 
In  the  hamlets 

To  the  sunken  waterside. 
Where  they  sprinkle 

Tiny  glitters 

Of  trite  gold  in  the  dark  tide. 

Round  a  turning 
Of  the  valley. 

Where  the  current  stirs  the  moon — 
Faintly  yearning 

Emanations 

Glimmer  in  a  mystery-swoon, 

Calling  farther 
Through  the  night-hills 

To  some  pure,  pale  land  of  dreams. 
Not  a  shimmer 

Of  the  human. 

Mortal  tint  warms  those  strange  gleams. 

One  who  saw  this, 
Comprehending 

What  the  lights  and  moonbeams  show, 
He  would  know  this, 

That  a  heaven 

Glimmers  where  men  never  go. 

— Charles  Hartshorne,  '19. 


3ban  tE^urgemeb:  l^fjc  JHan  anb  ^is;  ^rt 

THE  fame  of  an  artist  or  thinker  is  only  too  often  dependent,  in 
popular  estimation,  on  some  idiosyncrasy  of  character  or  some 
peculiar  method  of  life.  This  tendency  is  well  illustrated  by 
the  general  attitude  towards  the  three  great  Russian  novelists,  Tolstoy, 
Turgeniev  and  Dostoievsky.  Tolstoy,  both  in  his  works  and  life,  ex- 
pressed certain  ideals  of  communism,  pacifism,  and  extreme  democracy 
that  made  him  one  of  the  most  picturesque  and  interesting  figures  in 
Europe.  Dostoievsky  endured  four  years  of  penal  servitude  in  Siberia; 
and  this  experience,  together  with  his  pronounced  Slavophile  theories, 
lent  a  distinct  glamor  to  his  work.  Needless  to  say,  both  these  men 
were  novelists  of  the  first  rank  in  their  own  right;  but  their  reputation 
has  been  enhanced  by  extraneous  circumstance;  while  Turgeniev, 
probably  the  finest  literary  artist  of  the  three,  has  suffered  comparative 
neglect.  Yet,  although  his  career  was  not  in  any  way  spectacular,  his 
writings  of  the  fifties  and  early  sixties  exerted  a  powerful  influence  upon 
the  political,  social,  and  artistic  history  of  his  country.  In  fact,  an 
adequate  understanding  of  his  earlier  works  requires  some  knowledge  of 
conditions  in  Russia  about  the  middle  of  the  last  century. 

Then,  as  now,  a  continual  struggle  was  going  on  between  the  con- 
servative upholders  of  the  old  system  and  the  liberals,  who  aimed  at 
giving  Russia  a  more  democratic  form  of  government.  Besides  this 
political  line  of  cleavage  there  were  several  interesting  and  important 
movements  that  were  partly  political  and  partly  cultural  in  their  nature. 
Early  in  the  nineteenth  century  Russia  received  a  strong  infusion  of 
French  tastes  and  ideas.  This  French  culture  was  tenaciously  retained  by 
the  reactionaries  and  aristocrats;  while  the  radicals  looked  chiefly  to 
Germany  for  their  inspiration;  and  a  third  party,  known  as  the  Slavo- 
philes, professed  an  enthusiastic  devotion  to  the  customs,  traditions, 
and  ideals  of  the  Russian  peasants.  While  Turgeniev  sympathized, 
in  some  measure,  with  all  these  cultural  factions,  he  was  not  in  thorough 
accord  with  any  of  them.  He  fully  realized  that  the  old  French  culture, 
with  all  its  polish  and  refinement,  was  artificial  and  utterly  incapable 
of  meeting  the  needs  of  the  new,  growing  Russia.  On  the  other  hand, 
his  sanity,  good  sense,  and  moderation  showed  him  the  folly  and  empti- 
ness of  much  of  the  liberal  propaganda.  This  attitude  of  neutrality 
and  aloofness  exposed  the  novelist  to  a  great  deal  of  unjust  censure, 
notably  upon  the  publication  of  "Fathers  and  Sons." 

Turgeniev's  first  literary  reputation  came  from  a  group  of  short 
stories  and  pictures  of  Russian  peasant  life,  later  published  under  the 


100  The  Haverfordian 

title,  "Sportsman's  Sketches."  These  works  were  both  artistic  and 
social  in  their  message.  They  contain  exquisite  descriptions  of  the 
country  life  of  the  period,  and,  at  the  same  time,  denounce,  with  merci- 
less vigor,  the  cruelty  and  oppression  of  the  serf  system,  which  still  pre- 
vailed in  Russia.  These  sketches,  like  Gogol's  powerful  novel,  "Dead 
Souls,"  are  considered  to  be  an  important  factor  in  bringing  to  pass 
the  emancipation  of  1862. 

"Rudin,"  written  in  1856,  was  Turgeniev's  first  great  novel.  It 
is  an  interesting  study  of  a  character  type  that  is  very  common  in  modern 
Russian  literature.  Dmitri  Rudin,  the  hero,  is  a  young  man  full  of  new 
ideas,  enthusiastic  and  idealistic.  When  he  is  confronted  with  a  crisis, 
however,  he  fails  to  live  up  to  his  highsounding  phrases,  deserts  the 
girl  who  has  fallen  in  love  with  him,  and  seems  to  stand  convicted  as  a 
mere  braggart  and  humbug.  Yet,  at  the  end  of  the  book,  we  find  that 
Rudin  is  lacking  in  stabiHty  and  resolution,  rather  than  in  courage  and 
sincerity,  for  he  bravely  gives  up  his  life  fighting  for  the  cause  of  freedom 
in  the  barricades  of  Paris.  This  book  contains  a  striking  tribute  to 
the  value  of  patriotic  feeling  in  art,  when  one  of  the  characters,  com- 
menting on  Rudin's  cosmopolitanism,  says: 

"The  cosmopolite  is  a  cipher,  is  less  than  a  cipher.  Without  the 
feeling  of  nationality  there  is  neither  life,  nor  truth,  nor  art;  there  is 
nothing." 

"House  of  Gentlefolk,"  which  follows  "Rudin"  by  three  years,  is, 
in  many  respects,  Turgeniev's  masterpiece.  It  certainly  contains  the 
fairest  figure  in  his  long  gallery  of  beautiful  heroines.  With  rare  art 
the  author  depicts  the  awakening  and  development  of  love  in  a  reserved, 
rather  austere,  middle-aged  man,  Lavretsky,  for  a  fresh,  ingenuous, 
exquisitely  charming  girl,  Liza.  The  love  idyll  has  a  climax  of  intense, 
passionate  joy,  which  is  almost  Immediately  blasted  by  the  appearance 
of  Lavretsky's  unfaithful  first  wife,  whom  he  had  thought  to  be  dead. 
As  divorce  was,  of  course,  impossible,  under  the  strict  laws  of  the  Greek 
Church,  the  solution  of  the  problem  was  inevitably  tragic.  Her  first 
love  killed  in  its  very  bloom,  Liza  quietly  resigns  herself  to  fate  and 
retires  to  a  convent.  Lavretsky,  a  powerful  contrast  to  the  brilliant, 
but  inconstant  Rudin,  bears  his  misfortune  with  manly  fortitude. 
Instead  of  weakly  giving  up  to  despair,  he  leads  a  life  of  quiet,  unosten- 
tatious service  and  devotion  to  his  country  and  his  fellowmen.  The 
cruel  blow  that  robbed  him  of  his  happiness  makes  of  him  a  stronger, 
nobler  man.  It  is  impossible  to  read  the  closing  chapters  of  "House 
of  Gentlefolk"  without  feeling  at  once  profoundly  touched  by  the 
pathos  and   profoundly  inspired   by   the  constructive  optimism.      In 


Ivan  Turgeniev;':  The  Man  and  His  Art  101 

"On  the  Eve"  we  have  a  brilliant  romance,  with  a  sudden  tragic  con- 
clusion. A  picturesque  background  is  formed  by  the  beginning  of 
Bulgaria's  struggle  for  freedom  against  Turkey. 

We  now  come  to  Turgeniev's  greatest  and  most  discussed  novel, 
"Fathers  and  Sons."  The  main  interest  of  the  book  is  concentrated  on 
the  young  nihilist  doctor,  Bazarov,  in  whom  Turgeniev  attempted  to 
express  alike  the  strength  and  the  weakness  of  the  new,  radical  Russia. 
Bazarov's  hatred  of  the  hoUowness  and  insincerity  which  characterized 
the  old  regime  leads  him  to  an  attitude  of  universal  negation.  He 
ridicules  and  despises  culture,  art,  and  religion;  and  worships  science 
with  fanatical  enthusiasm.  Yet  the  strength,  sincerity,  and  resolution 
of  his  character  hold  our  interest  and  command  our  sympathy  through- 
out the  book.  The  picture  of  Bazarov,  struck  down  by  a  cruel  disease 
on  the  very  threshold  of  his  career,  is  one  of  the  tragic  masterpieces  of 
literature.  The  stoicism  and  resignation  of  the  young  nihilist  himself, 
the  pathetic  devotion  and  religious  faith  of  his  parents,  the  passionate 
grief  of  the  aristocratic  woman  who  has  been  fascinated,  in  spite  of  her- 
self, by  his  rugged,  powerful  personality,  all  these  elements,  and  many 
more,  go  to  make  up  a  great  artistic  creation,  worthy  to  rank  with  the 
deathbed  scenes  of  Balzac's  Cousin  Pons  and  Thackeray's  Colonel 
Newcome.  But,  instead  of  receiving  the  recognition  that  was  due  to 
one  of  the  strongest  literary  works  of  the  century,  "Fathers  and  Sons" 
was  greeted  with  a  chorus  of  childish,  partisan  abuse.  Liberals  and 
conservatives  alike  insisted  on  regarding  the  novel  as  a  satire  on  the 
progressive  movement  in  Russia.  The  character  of  Bazarov  was  inter- 
preted as  a  malicious  caricature  of  the  typical  Russian  liberal.  Deeply 
hurt  by  the  general  misunderstanding  of  his  purpose  and  idea,  Turgeniev, 
from  this  time  on,  practically  severed  his  connection  with  Riissia.  He 
spent  the  rest  of  his  life  in  Baden  and  France,  where  he  became  inti- 
mately associated  with  a  number  of  the  leading  literary  men,  among 
them  Flaubert,  Daudet,  Maupassant  and  Zola. 

Turgeniev  attained  the  zenith  of  his  power  and  genius  in  "Fathers 
and  Sons."  Several  of  his  later  works,  however,  are  well  worthy  of 
comment.  "Smoke,"  written  in  1867,  is  a  pessimistic  picture  of  the 
futility  and  instability  of  many  of  Russia's  cultural  aspirations.  "Virgin 
Soil,"  which  bears  the  date  1876,  is  another  study  of  Russian  political 
and  social  conditions.  It  cannot  be  compared  with  "  Fathers  and  Sons," 
however,  partly  because  the  author's  long  absence  from  his  native 
country  had  made  him  unfamiliar  with  the  course  of  contemporary 
events,  partly  because  the  novel  contains  no  Bazarov.  "Torrents  of 
Spring"  is  an  exquisite  love  story.      Its  blending  of  joy  and  sadness, 


102  The  Haverfordian 

languor  and  passion  might  well  suggest  a  Chopin  nocturne.  In  his 
later  years  Turgeniev,  like  Ibsen,  developed  a  stronger  and  stronger 
tendency  towards  symbolism  and  mysticism.  "Clara  Militch"  is  an 
excellent  example  of  this  period  of  his  development. 

Although  Turgeniev  has  acquired  his  most  universal  fame  from 
his  novels,  much  of  his  finest  artistic  work  is  to  be  found  in  his  short 
stories  and  poems  in  prose.  His  keen  imagination,  warm  sympathy, 
and  mastery  of  detail  made  him  an  admirable  short  story  writer.  It 
would  be  hard  to  find  anywhere  a  more  moving  picture  of  love  between 
man  and  beast  than  "Mumu,"  which  Carlyle  pronounced  the  most 
touching  story  he  had  ever  read.  A  veritable  symphony  of  romance, 
tragedy  and  bitterness  resounds  in  the  pages  of  "Hapless  Child." 
"The  Song  of  Love  Triumphant,"  dedicated  to  the  memory  of  his  great 
friend,  Gustave  Flaubert,  is  a  glorious  outpouring  of  romantic  joy, 
optimism,  and  rhysticism.  "Reckless  Character,"  "The  Jew,"  and 
many  of  his  other  stories  are  miniature  masterpieces  in  psychology. 
Notwithstanding  his  love  and  appreciation  of  poetry  (his  admiration 
for  Pushkin  is  especially  notable),  Turgeniev  never  attempted  to  write 
verse.  His  lyric  moods,  however,  found  excellent  expression  in  his 
poems  in  prose,  short,  impressionistic  sketches  which  are  adorned  with 
rich  poetic  imagery. 

After  this  brief  and  imperfect  survey  of  the  novehst's  productions,  we 
may  now  consider  the  distinctive  features  of  his  creative  art.  Probably 
the  most  important  element  in  the  development  of  his  style  was  his 
intimate  association  with  Flaubert  and  other  French  prose  masters  of 
the  last  century.  It  is  to  them  that  he  owes,  in  large  measure,  the 
exquisite  finish  and  careful  workmanship  that  are  so  painfully  lacking 
in  the  works  of  Dostoievsky  and  other  contemporary  Russian  novehsts. 
From  Flaubert,  especially,  he  learned  to  appreciate  the  value  of  constant 
attention  to  detail.  A  single  weak  adjective  or  ill-turned  phrase  grated 
on  his  nerves  like  a  musical  discord.  The  art  of  word  painting,  which 
was  carried  to  such  heights  by  Flaubert  and  Nietzsche,  was  also  assidu- 
ously cultivated  by  Turgeniev.  It  must  not  be  imagined,  however, 
that  the  Russian  novelist  was  a  mere  imitator  of  his  French  associates. 
Keen  psychological  insight,  warm  human  sympathy,  delicate  poetic 
fancy,  these  were  Turgeniev's  gifts  by  nature;  and  with  these  gifts  he 
unquestionably  enriched  the  colder  and  more  austere  work  of  his 
friends.  Moreover,  the  novelist,  unlike  Tolstoy,  never  made  the  fatal 
mistake  of  regarding  himself  as  a  prophet  and  reformer,  rather  than 
as  an  artist.  Although  he  took  a  keen  and  lively  interest  in  the  political 
and  social  betterment  of  his  country,  Turgeniev  did  not  allow  his  ethical 


Ivan  Turgeniev:  The  Man  and  His  Art  103 

theories  to  exert  an  overpowering  influence  on  his  art.  Consequently 
his  characters  are  drawn  from  life,  not  evolved  out  of  any  peculiar  set  of 
philosophic  ideas.  And  because  of  this  purely  artistic  attitude  Tur- 
geniev's  outlook  on  life  is  broader,  saner,  more  rational  and  more  tolerant 
than  that  of  either  Tolstoy  or  Dostoievsky.  His  books  are  further 
enriched  by  his  wide  knowledge  and  intense  interest  in  music,  art,  and 
poetry. 

Perhaps  the  most  striking  quality  in  Turgeniev's  work  is  its  pro- 
found humanness,  its  wide  range  of  sympathy.  In  this  respect  the 
Russian  author  is  quite  similar  to  Charles  Dickens,  although  his  fine 
psychological  touches  and  literary  polish  are  more  suggestive  of  Balzac 
and  Thackeray.  Despite  the  keenr^ess  and  accuracy  of  his  observation, 
we  cannot  feel  that  he  looked  oil  the  mighty,  surging  movement  of  the 
world  with  the  eye  of  a  coldly  detached  spectator.  His  quick  outbursts 
of  indignation  at  cruelty  or  injustice,  his  withering  contempt  for  sham 
and  hypocrisy,  his  ready  sympathy  with  grief  and  distress;  all  these 
characteristics  in  his  work  reveal  him,  as  he  was,  a  man  of  the  most 
lovable  disposition  and  the  finest  sensibilities.  His  broad  humanity 
is  unrestricted  by  any  considerations  of  race,  creed,  or  political  belief. 
With  vision  undimmed  by  prejudice  or  fanaticism,  he  perceives  and 
expresses  the  potential  good  in  every  type  of  character.  The  reaction- 
ary nobleman  and  the  radical  nihilist  in  "Fathers  and  Sons"  have  an 
equal  measure  of  his  sympathy  and  understanding.  Neither  realist  nor 
romanticist,  in  the  extreme  sense  of  the  term,  he  combines  the  best 
elements  in  both  schools.  His  novels  depict  life,  stern,  to  be  sure,  in  its 
uncompromising  reality,  but  ennobled  and  exalted  by  a  rich  strain  of 
poetry  and  humanity.  It  is  impossible  to  lay  down  one  of  his  typical 
novels,  strikingly  truthful  in  its  portrayal  of  human  nature,  exalted  in 
its  thought,  fragrant  in  its  poetry,  without  feeling  that,  in  Ivan  Tur- 
geniev, the  world  was  blessed  not  only  with  a  great  mind,  but  with  that 
still  rarer  and  more  precious  heritage,  a  great  heart. 

— W.  H.  Chamherlin,  '17. 


ilennerp  Starts  a  Club 

WELL,  when  Hennery  was  home  a  while,  he  began  to  stir  things 
up  around  here.  He  came  over  to  the  Jedge's  house  one  night 
an'  him  an'  the  Jedge  started  one  of  these  here  'tarnal  secret 
sacieties.  Everybody  what  didn't  belong  to  th'  Masons  or  th'  Ushers' 
Association  over  here  at  th'  church  wanted  to  join  right  off.  Hennery 
said  that  nobody  what  didn't  have  good  social  standin'  could  get  in, 
and  that  made  everybody  real  anxious  to  be  in  th'  fool  thing.  He  said, 
too,  that  they  was  goin'  to  have  a  gulf  lynx  an'  a  club  house.  Nobody 
around  here  knowed  what  a  lynx  was.  Old  Harrison,  the  game  warden, 
said  it  was  somethin'  like  a  polecat.  Jake  asked  th'  schoolmaster  and 
th'  schoolmaster,  after  lookin'  it  up  for  some  time  in  the  books,  said  a 
lynx  was  a  wild  cat.  Well,  do  you  know,  they  was  all  wrong.  Hennery 
fixed  one  of  the  old  man's  fields  all  up  an'  mowed  it,  an'  then  him  an' 
the  Jedge  used  to  walk  aroun'  that  there  place  all  day  with  a  bag  full 
of  sticks,  an'  poke  little  balls  aroun'  an'  sort  of  dig  up  the  grass  with 
th'  sticks. 

"Well,  my  ol'  woman  she  just  wouldn't  have  no  rest  nohow  till  I 
joined  th'  consarned  thing.  Hennery  said  I  would  have  to  be  voted  in. 
Everybody  what  had  joined  the  contraption  wore  a  kind  of  shiney  thing 
on  their  watchchain,  all  but  Squire  Hawkins,  who  used  his'n  fer  a  sinker 
when  he  went  fishin'.  I  druve  up  tu  th'  hall  the  night  I  was  to  jine,  an' 
hitched  old  Jenny  tu  th'  hitchin'  post.  Hennery  was  at  th'  door  and 
he  led  me  up  tu  th'  hall.  Most  of  th'  mambers  was  old  neighbors  of 
mine  an'  I  was  tu  home  right  off.  After  I  was  there  a  while  Jake  Skinner 
came  in.  He  looked  awful  sheepish.  He  knowed  everybody  thought 
him  the  meanest  man  in  th'  hull  town.  Hennery  winked  tu  me  an'  th' 
Jedge  an'  then  shook  hands  with  Skinner.  Skinner  sais  as  how  his 
wife  wanted  him  tu  belong  because  th'  women  in  th'  Sewin'  Circle  all 
desired  their  men  tu  belong  tu  somethin'  like  it.  Hennery  told  him  as 
how  it  cost  a  lot  tu  keep  up  a  gulf  lynx,  an'  Skinner  started  right  off  tu 
back  for  th'  door.  When  Hennery  told  him  th'  initiation  cost  five 
dollars,  Skinner  just  fell  down  them  there  steps,  and  druv  home. 

"The  next  meetin'  night  old  Skinner  came  in  again.  Guess  his 
wife  couldn't  stand  th'  uppishness  of  th'  women  in  th'  Sewin'  Circle. 
Skinner  handed  Hennery  th'  five  dollars  with  his  eyes  shut,  and  started 
to  sit  down.  Jedge  crossed  his  fingers,  signifyin'  that  we  didn't  want 
Skinner  in  th'  club.  Hennery  winked  one  eye  that  he  understood. 
Well,  things  started  right  off. 

"Hennery  said  that  Skinner  would  now  undergo  th'  medical  exam- 


Hennery  Starts  a  Club  105 

ination,  an'  Doc  Martin  got  up  an'  coughed  a  couple  of  times.  Skinner 
looked  frightened,  but  didn't  say  nothin'.  Si  Cook  asked  Hennery  if 
th'  goat  was  out  in  th'  shed.  He  said  it  loud  enough  so  as  Skinner 
could  hear  it.  Doc  then  begins  to  thump  him  on  the  back  an'  look  at 
his  tongue  an'  take  his  pulse.  He  looks  serious  an'  asks  Skinner  if  he 
didn't  feel  bad,  as  he  had  an  awful  pulse  an'  looked  as  if  he  was  goin' 
to  hev  a  bad  case  of  yaller  fever.  Skinner  reckoned  that  he  didn't  feel 
any  too  pert  an'  looked  as  if  he  was  goin'  to  die  right  oH.  Josh  Reynolds 
an'  Spike  Leonard  went  outside  an'  took  a  shutter  oflen  th'  hall  an' 
brought  it  in.  They  put  Skinner  on  the  shutter  an'  covered  him  up 
with  a  sheet.  Skinner  kicked  like  th'  dickens,  but  Doc  said  he  would 
hev  tu  be  operated  on  at  once.  They  carried  him  out  an'  put  him  in 
Doc's  buggy  an'  Doc  druv  'way  out  past  William's  Grove.  Hennery 
an'  a  bunch  uv  th'  young  fellers  followed  them  in  th'  rear.  Doc  got 
out  to  fix  th'  horse's  shoe,  as  he  said,  an'  Hennery  an'  th'  others  come 
up  with  hankychiefs  over  their  faces  an'  told  Doc  an'  Skinner  to  hold 
up  their  hands.  Skinner  got  down  on  his  knees  an'  begged  for  his  life, 
while  Doc  had  all  he  could  do  to  keep  from  bustin'  with  laughin'.  They 
tied  an'  blindfolded  Skinner  an'  toted  him  back  to  town.  Simms  here 
was  secrytary  of  th'  club,  so  we  all  come  in  th'  store  here,  an'  Simms 
opened  th'  safe,  while  they  carried  old  Skinner  in  an'  put  him  down 
next  th'  safe.  Skinner  kept  beggin'  for  mercy,  but  we  was  too  busy 
to  pay  much  attention  to  him.  Hennery  then  sets  off  one  of  these  here 
cannon  crackers  an'  everybody  run  out — all  except  th'  sheriff,  who 
pulled  out  a  gun  an'  run  aroun'  th'  store  like  he  was  mad  an'  callin'  for 
help.  When  Hennery  gives  th'  signal  we  all  run  in  an'  th'  sherifT  put 
Skinner  under  arrest  fer  safe-crackin'.  We  all  went  over  to  th'  Court 
House  an'  th'  Jedge  got  up  a  fake  court  frum  among  our  members. 
They  gave  Skinner  an  awful  scare.  Th'  Jedge  sais  as  how  safe  crackin' 
ought  to  be  a  hangin'  offence.  Skinner  got  up  an'  said  as  how  if  they 
could  find  th'  Doc  he  would  be  proved  innercent.  Doc  came  in  just 
then  an'  swore  on  a  copy  of  th'  'World's  Greatest  Wars'  that  old  man 
Skinner  lured  him  out  to  a  lonely  spot  an'  robbed  him  of  his  horse  an' 
carriage.  Skinner  didn't  know  what  to  say  to  that.  Th'  Jedge  said 
that  in  th'  circumstances  present,  an'  on  account  of  Skinner's  wife  an' 
family,  he  would  let  him  off  with  a  hundred  dollar  fine.  Skinner  near 
sweat  blood,  but  said  he  would  pay  it  if  only  they  wouldn't  put  him  in 
jail. 

"Well,  sir,  do  you  know,  to  this  day  old  Skinner  thinks  he  was 
blame  lucky  not  to  get  stuck  in  the  county  prison.  Hennery  put  th' 
money  into  th'  Orphan  Asylum  treasury  an'  th'  money  came  in  real 


106  The  Haverfordian 

handy  to  buy  th'  pore  little  shavers  new  clothes  an'  things.  Skinner 
never  got  th'  nerve  to  try  to  jine  us  agin,  an'  every  time  he  sees  Hennery 
or  th'  Jedge  he  crosses  th'  road  to  avoid  them.  Hennery  sure  knew 
how  to  handle  folks." 

—H.  P.  Schenck,  '18. 


jFibcsi  ^arcntum 

THE  evening  fell.     The  rain  had  been  pouring  for  several  hours. 
The  surging  stream,  that  was  then  roaring  past  a  simple  frame 
house,  a  few  hours  before  had  been  a  sluggish  creek.  The  gutters 
were  choked  with  the  unprecedented  downpour. 

Within  the  humble  home,  unmindful  of  the  menacing  stream,  a 
mother  knelt  praying  at  the  bedside  of  her  youngest  child.  The 
father  stood  with  his  arms  folded  and  his  head  cast  down,  bearing  a 
grief  that  could  not  be  alleviated. 

The  thin  form  of  a  child,  with  sunken,  glassy  eyes,  a  feverish  flush, 
and  a  forced,  jerky  breathing,  justified  their  fears.  The  malady  would 
be  fatal. 

A  hush,  save  for  the  sobbing  of  the  mother  and  the  threatening  roar 
of  the  stream — the  breathing  of  the  child  had  ceased, — was  interrupted 
by  a  neighbor  with  a  baby  in  her  arms. 

"My  God!"  she  gasped,  "run  for  your  lives." 

Not  a  word. 

The  woman  was  gone.  A  moment  passed  and  then — a  grating, 
creaking  sound.  The  glass  downstairs  was  breaking.  The  water 
swished  and  gurgled  into  the  sitting-room,  and  its  splashing  could  be 
heard  as  it  slowly  mounted  the  stairs. 

The  boy  was  dead. 

"Thank  God!"  sobbed  the  mother  as  she  took  hold  of  his  cold, 
slimy  hand.  "Thank  God,  that  he  didn't  live  to ." 

The  lights  dimmed,  a  hideous  white  flash  outside,  and  they  were 
out.  Just  a  moment,  and  then  a  terrible  crash;  the  house  tottered  and 
was  gone. 

T.  P.  D.,  '19. 


► 


^  preliminary  ^rial 

Characters 

Mike 
Kate 
Ben 

The  scene  is  the  interior  of  a  jail  in  the  Fourth  Ward,  New  York  City. 
At  the  right  and  back  is  a  row  of  iron  cells,  half  occupied.  On  the  left  an 
iron  gate  leads  to  an  alley,  which  connects  with  the  street.  At  the  table  in 
front  a  policema.n  sits,  chair  tilted  back,  reading  a  novel.  It  is  nine  o'clock 
on  a  sultry  evening  in  Jidy. 

Suddenly  a  girl  appears  at  the  outer  gate,   breathless  and  glowing. 
A  man  in  one  of  the  cells  starts  to  his  feet  and  seizes  the  bars  in  both  hands. 
The  girl  lays  her  finger  on  her  lips  and  the  man  sits  down  slowly.     The 
policeman,  absorbed  in  his  book,  has  heard  nothing. 
Kate  {calling  softly  to  the  policeman):   Mike!   May  I  come  in? 
Mike  {jumping  up):  ^\qss  my  souW   Kate!  Yes!  Glad  to  see  yer !  'Tain't 

often  anyone  begs  ter  come  through  this  door.     {Let  her  in). 
Kate  {smiling):    I've  brought  you  some  cakes  and  doughnuts.     Mother 

just  cooked  'em. 
Mike  {giving  her  his  seat  at  the  table,  where  Ben  cannot  see  her):    Now 

that's  awful  sweet:    but  you  ain't  been  in  to  see  me  for  'most  a 

month.      I  s'posed    you'd  forgotten  yer  old  friend;    how's  things 

goin'? 
Kate:    Awful,  Mike!    We've  shut  up  the  bake-shop.      It  didn't  pay; 

and  we're  terrible  hard  up  now. 
Mike:  Too  bad;  too  bad,  little  girl!    If  I  can  lend  you — 
Kate:    No,  no  {patting  his  hand).     You  work  hard.     I  couldn't  take  it 

from  j-ou,  Mike. 
Mike:   Me  work  hard?     Don't  I  look  it!  {showing  her  the  book). 
Kate  {earnestly):    Well,  the  less  you  have  to  do,  the  more  happiness 

there  is  in  the  world,  so  don't  complain.      Have  you  been  very 

busy  here  lately? 
Mike  {grimly):    The  divil's  a  pretty  steady  customer.      He  keeps  me 

goin'  most  of  the  time.     See  what's  here  to-night!  {pointing  to  the 

cells).     They'll  all  be  tried  in  the  momin'. 
Kate  {fearfully):    Will  they? 
Mike  {surprised):    Sure  they  will!     They  ain't  hired  these  apartments 

permanently.    {Laughing).    My  list  of  boarders  changes  'most  every 

day. 


108  The  Haverfordian 

Kate:   Don't  laugh,  Mike!     It's  a  terrible  thing  to  be  put  in  prison! 
Mike  {still  smiling):     Sure,    what's    little    Kate  know  about  prison! 

The  angels  themselves  would  drop  from  heaven  to  carry  her  off, 

if  any  one  so  much  as  laid  a  hand  on  her! 
Kate:   I  don't  want  the  angels,  Mike,  when  I've  got  a  friend  Hke  you. 

Here,  eat  one  of  these  doughnuts,  I  brought  them  for  30U.     {She 

gives  him  one). 
Mike  {sitting  before  her  and  eating  it  thoughtfully):    Kate,  why  did  yer 

come  here  tonight? 
Kate:   Well — I  was  lonely,  Mike,  and — I  got  to  thinkin'  of  you!     {She 

gives  him  a  worried,  lialf-ashamed  smile). 
Mike:  And  what  were  yer  thinkin',  Kate? 
Kate:    I  was  thinking  of  how   devoted   you'd  always  been  to  me,  and 

how — how  unappreciative  I've  been. 
Mike  {bitterly):    It's  devoted  I've  been  this  last  month  since  you  ain't 

been  near  me!    And  I  set  here  night  after  night  thinkin'  about  yer, 

and  fearin'  yer  got  no  time  fer  an  old  duffer  like  me,  with  all  the 

young  lads  fillin'  that  little  head  with  thoughts  o'  love. 
Kate  {nervously):    Don't  be  silly!    How  did  you  know  that — that  they 

had  been  doing  that? 
Mike:    Why,  Kate,  a  blind  man  could  guess  it,  just  hearin'  yer  talk! 

If  I  was  a  young  man — 
Kate   {with  an  attempt  at  gaiety):     Then    you    must   be   terribly   sure, 

for  you've  got  a  pair  of  bright,  kind  eyes  that  don't  look  half  fierce 

enough  for  a  policeman. 
Mike:  That's  because  it's  you  they're  lookin'  at,  Kate! 
Kate:   No,  Mike,  they're  always  kind,  to  everyone. 
Mike:  You  should  hev  seen  'em  the  other  day  when  a  dago  jest  brought 

in  tried  to  mix  it  up  with  me!     I'm  afraid  thej'  was  far  from  kind 

then. 
Kate:   Did  he  hurt  you? 

Mike:   No,  I  nearly  killed  the  poor  little  black-eyed  devil. 
Kate  {shivering):    O,  I  hate  to  see  men  fight!     If  I  was  married,  and 

I  ever  saw  my  husband  fight,  he'd  be  just  an  animal  to  me  after- 
wards.    The  human  in  them  doesn't  go  very  deep,  Mike!    Under 

the  skin  they're  only  brutes. 
Mike:    Does  that  mean  me?    I  didn't  fight  with  him.     I  only  hit  him 

once. 
Kate  {taking  his  hand):    No,  Mike,  you've  got  more  heart  than  one 

man  in  a  hundred.     That's  why  I  love  you! 
Mike  {warmly):    I  wish  yer  meant  that,  Kate! 


I 


A  Preliminary  Trial  109 

Kale  {coming  close  to  him):    Perhaps  I  do. 

{A  bell  rings  suddenly,  and  Mike  gets  up.      As  he  does  so  a  bunch 

of  keys  dangles  at  his  belt). 

Mike:   The  chief  wants  me  a  minute,  Kate!    I'll  be  back  in  a  jiffy. 

Kate  (quickly,  seeing  the  keys):    Let  me  keep  jail  while  yer  gone! 

Mike  (laughing):  AH  right,  Kate! 

Kate:  Give  me  the  keys;  I'll  be  a  real  jailer! 

Mike:  You  don't  need  them. 

Kate  (coming  up  to  him.  He  puts  his  arm  about  her):  Please,  Mike! 
It  would  be  such  fun! 

Mike:   But  my  duty,  Kate!    I'd  lose  my  job  if — 

Kate:  You  can  trust  me,  Mike!     Please! 

Mike:  All  right,  God  love  yer!  (He  kisses  her  suddenly,  takes  off  his 
keys,  gives  them  to  her).  I'll  trust  you,  Kate;  you're  honest  as  the 
sun.  I'll  be  back  in  a  few  minutes.  (He  leaves.  Kate  hesitates  a 
vtoment,  then  steps  quickly  to  one  of  the  cells). 

Kate  (seizing  the  bars):  Ben! 

Ben  (he  stands  up  quickly   and   speaks   with  deep  emotion):     O  Kate! 

Kate:  You  didn't  do  it?  You're  innocent?  You  didn't  take  the 
money?    Tell  me  you  didn't! 

Ben:  Of  course  I  didn't!  I  was  the  handiest,  the  last  employed.  They 
jumped  on  me  naturally.  Let  me  out,  Kate  darling,  hurry!  I'll 
go  crazy  if  I  stay  here! 

Kate:  But  he  trusted  me!     I — ■ 

Ben:  Never  mind  that!  You  love  me  now,  Kate!  If  I  don't  get  out 
I'm  afraid  you'll  turn  against  me.  Let  me  go!  (She  quietly  unlocks 
his  door). 

Kate:  Stay  in  there  now!  He'll  be  back  directly.  You  must  wait 
till  he  goes  out  again!  O  Ben,  they  were  cruel  to  put  you  here 
behind  bars  like  a  common  criminal  when  you  haven't  done  any- 
thing. 

Another  prisoner:   Let  me  out  too,  kid,  I'm  innocent. 

Kate:  O,  I  can't;  have  mercy,  and  keep  quiet.  (To  Ben).  I'll  get 
him  away  from  here  again  somehow.  I'll  take  him  outside  and 
leave  the  door  open.  Then  you  can  escape,  and  you'll  have  time 
to  get  somewhere  before  being  discovered.  Poor  boy,  this  must 
be  terrible  for  you!    Put  in  prison!    O  Ben! 

Ben  (brokenly):  Not  as  bad  as  it  is  for  you  to  see  me  here!  To  think 
of  your  marrying  a  man  who  has  been  in  jail!  Kate,  you  must 
forget  it!  You  will,  won't  you?  It's  a  wonder  you  don't  take 
your  ring,  and  fling  it  in  my  face 


110  The  Haverfordian 

Kate:    How  can  you  say  such  things!    You're  innocent.      If  the  girl 

you  love  would  leave  you  now,  when  you're  in  trouble,  her  loss 

wouldn't  be  worth  your  regretting. 
Ben:   God  bless  you,  Kate! 
Kate:    You'll  be  tried  in  the  morning.     I'll  be  there  and  look  at  you 

all  the  time,  and  you'll  know  I'm  praying  for  you.     They  can't 

convict  you.     They  wouldn't  dare! 
Be7i  {frightened):    No,  no;    don't  come!    I  won't  have  you  watching 

me :   if  you  love  me,  promise  me  not — 
Kate:  Sh-h ! —  he's  coming  back. 

{She  takes  her  seat  at  the  table,  and  Mike  returns.) 
Mike  {jovially):    Well,  my  little  police  lady,  have  the  prisoners  given 

yer  any  trouble? 
Kate  {calmly):   Why,  no,  Mike:   they  are  quiet  as  lambs:   you'd  never 

know  there  was  any  one  here. 
Mike:  They're  all  thinkin',   Kate:    thinkin'  what  fools  they've  been. 

They're  usually  quiet  till  they  get  used  to  the  bars  always  up  and 

down  before  their  eyes.      It  sickens  some  of  'em  at  first  till  their 

self-respect  sinks  to  a  prison  level,  then  they  get  used  to  it. 
Kate:  O,  it's  horrible! 
Mike:    Kate,  you're  too  serious  tonight.     There's  lots  of  things  worse 

than  prison! 
Kate  {in  a  quiet  voice):    No:  it's  always  been  the  low -water  mark  of 

disgrace  to  me. 
Mi\e  {tenderly):    Well,  you'll  never  reach  it,  darlin',  so  don't  worry. 

{He  takes  her  hand).     Kate,  child,  you're  terrible  doleful  tonight. 

What's  the  matter?      Somethin's    troublin'    that    little    head    o' 

yours.     Tell  Mike  what  it  is:  yer  know  yer  can  trust  'im. 
Kate  {with  a  sudden  look  of  fear):   Why,  there — there's  nothing!  nothing 

at  all! 
Mike:    Give  me  my  keys,  Kate.     If  they  was  lost,  or  any  of  the  men 

got  out,  you  know  it  'ud  lose  me  my  job  {with  a  smile),  and  I  got 

a  mother  and  sister  lookin'  to  me,  or  I  would  na  care  if  I  shoveled 

coal  fer  a  livin'.     {She  gives  him  the  keys). 
Kate  {bitterly):    Mike,  you're  too  good!     Be  careful  you  don't  lose  all 

sj'mpathy  for  those  who  are  less  so. 
Mike:    Shure  an'  what'll  a  cop  do  with  sympathy?       I  gets  paid  fer 

bein'  unsympathetic. 
Kate  {with  a  frank  smile):    But  that's  your  only  reason  for  being  so, 

Mike;    you're  as  tender-hearted  as  a  baby  with  your  mother  and 

sister,  and — with  me. 


A  Preliminary  Trial  111 

Mike  (slowly):  We — 11,  that  ain't   my  fault.     I  can't  help  it,  yer  know! 

Kate:  And  you  don't  want  to,  either!  There's  little  enough  kindness 
in  this  world,  without  trying  to  smother  any  of  it. 

Mike:  Ain't  you  serious,  though!  Laugh  for  me  once,  as  if  you  really 
felt  like  it. 

Kate  (trying  a  laugh,  which  fades  almost  to  tears):  Mike,  let's  go  out 
in  the  air  for  a  few  minutes.  I  hate  this  place.  It  frightens  me 
tonight  somehow.  You  don't  need  to  be  here  for  a  few  minutes. 
(She  stands  up  beside  him;   he  draws  her  to  him  and  she  kisses  him). 

Mike:  Bless  yer  little  heart!  I  oughtn't  to  do  it,  Kate!  The  chief 
might  ring!  Do  yer  think  you  could  get  to  love  an  old  duffer  like 
me,  Kate  darlin'?  I've  always  been  fond  o'  you,  but  I  thought 
I  was  too  old !  I  thought  you  wanted  some  keen  young  feller  with 
his  fame  before  him,  who  could  climb  hand  in  hand  with  yer  to 
success;  not  one  like  me  who's  set  in  his  ways  an'  bitter,  jest  a 
common  cop!     Could  yer  love  a  cop  like  me,  Kate? 

Kate  (in  a  low,  tense  voice  as  they  walk  towards  the  door,  arms  about  each 
other):   Are  you  makin'  serious  love  to  me,  Mike? 

Mike  (halting  in  confusion):  Why — no,  no;  it  sounds  funny  to  yer, 
don't  it?  O  Kate,  yer  know  I'm  fond  of  yer:  ye've  known  it  fer 
a  long  time;  ever  since — 

Kate:  Sh-h,  Mike!  Wait  till  we  get  out!  Oh — (They  turn  suddenly 
and  see  Ben  standing  directly  behind  them,  and  the  door  of  his  cell 
swung  open). 

Ben  (in  a  commanding  voice  to  Mike):    Let  go  of  that  girl! 

Kale  (fiercely  to  Ben):  You  fool!  Why  didn't  you  stay  in  there!  What 
do  you  think  I'm  standing  here  selling  my  soul  for! 

Ben  (with  terrible  quietness):  If  I  serve  the  rest  of  my  days  in  hell,  I 
won't  sit  by  and  watch  you  loved  by  another  man. 

Kate  (wildly):  He's  got  no  right  on  earth  to  keep  you  in  here,  Ben. 
If  he  keeps  an  innocent  man  behind  the  bars  he  ought  to — 

Ben:     He  has  every  right.     I'm  guilty. 

Kate  (as  if  turned  to  stone):  Guilty! 

Ben:  Yes. 

Kate  (horrified):   You're  a  thief! 

Ben:  Yes. 

Ktae  (dazed):   O — I — didn't — know — that. 

Ben  (slowly  and  resignedly):  I  stole  the  money  to  buy  your  ring.  I 
tried  to  borrow  it  and  couldn't.  I  would  have  paid  it  back,  but 
they  caught  me.  I'll  serve  my  time,  whatever  it  is:  then  I'll  get 
out  and  start  again.  But  please  don't  come  here  any  more.  If 
he  lays  a  hand  on  you  again,  I'll  kill  him. 


112  The  Haverfordian 

Alike  {wJw  had  been  listening  in  stupefied  surprise):    Back  to  your  cell! 

Ben:  One  moment,  sir!  I  shan't  try  to  escape.  {To  Kate):  Kate, 
listen  to  me!  I  love  you,  now  and  always.  This  prison  is  nothing 
to  me  except  that  it  keeps  me  away  from  you.  God  and  I 
know  how  far  I  am  guilty:  but  it  is  you  alone  who  can  convict 
me  on  this  earth.  If  I  can  take  your  love  with  me  behind  those 
bars  they  won't  exist  for  me:  if  not,  I  may  as  well  be  there 
as  elsewhere.  Don't  take  up  the  cry  of  the  world  and  say,  "Once 
a  thief,  always  a  thief."  I  would  have  bought  that  ring  with  mj' 
blood  if  I  could,  Kate.  You  wanted  it!  That  was  all  I  thought 
of.  If  it  had  cost  half  a  million  instead  of  a  hundred,  I'd  have 
stole  that  too,  if  I  could  have  got  my  hands  on  it! 

Kate:   But  you  lied  to  me! 

Ben:  I  w"as  a  coward  then.  I  admit  it.  I'm  only  human.  I  didn't 
have  a  chance  to  think!  You  came  so  suddenly!  I  saw  your  love 
slipping  away  from  me.  You  had  faith  in  me  then.  I  couldn't 
destroy  it  at  that  moment.  Then  when  I  saw  his  arms  around 
you,  my  blood  boiled.  I  forgot  your  scheme  to  escape;  I  forgot 
that  I  was  a  thief;  I  forgot  everything,  but  that  you  were  in  his 
arms.  It  conquered  me  like  a  flash,  and  if  I'd  had  a  gun  in  my 
hand,  I'd  have  shot  him. 

Kate  {turning  in  tears  to  the  policeman):   Poor  Mike! 

Mike  {in  cold  anger):   Go  to  your  cell! 

Ben  {hopelessly):  Good-bye,  Kate.     Will  you  wait  for  me? 

Kate  {in  a  -whisper):   I'll  wait. 

Ben:  Thank  God!  {He  drops  to  his  knees  and  kisses  her  hand).  And  O, 
Kate,  out  of  pity  if  nothing  else,  don't  come  to  the  trial ! 

Kate  {dully):  All  right. 

Mike  {angrily):  Come,  you've  said  enough!  Go!  {pointing  to  the  cell. 
Ben  goes  in  ivith  bowed  head,  and  Mike  slams  the  door.  Then  he 
walks  to  the  table,  sits  down,  and  picks  up  his  book  without  a  word. 
Kate  goes  slowly  to  him,  crying). 

Kate:  O  Mike,  I've  deceived  you  cold-bloodedly,  and  broken  my  heart 
doing  it,  all  for  nothing!  God  forgive  me!  {He  continues  to  read). 
Mike,  listen  to  me  or  I'll  go  mad!   Please!   {He  lays  down  his  book). 

Mike:  Kate,  I  didn't  know  that  things  like  you  was  alive  on  earth, 
and  I've  seen  some  bad  uns  in  my  day.  You'd  take  an  old  feller 
like  me,  who  loved  yer  like  a  baby,  and  who'd  give  yer  his  last 
nickel  if  you  was  hungry,  and  trick  him  with  yer  fake  kisses,  and 
lose  him  his  job,  all  fer  a  common  thief  like  that  feller! 


A  Preliminary  Trial  113 

Kate  (wildly):  Stop!  Stop!  He's  not  a  common  thief.  ()  Mike,  have 
pity!  I  thought  he  was  innocent.  I  wanted  to  sa\-e  him  the  dis- 
grace of  the  prison.  I  was  crazy  with  the  injustice  of  it!  I  lo\-ed 
him  with  all  my  heart  and  soul.  We  were  to  be  married  soon. 
He  had  given  me  m\'  engagement  ring.  ( 117//;  terrible  bitterness  in 
her  tone).  O  curse  me  for  wanting  a  ring!  {She  hesitates  a  moment). 
Mike,  when  I  saw  how  fond  you  really  were  of  me,  I  could  ha\'e 
screamed  with  horror  at  myself.  You'll  forgive  me  some  day, 
Mike,  for  I'll  pay  for  this  in  suffering  ten  times  over.  You  don't 
need  to  accuse  me! 

Mike:  You  better  go  home  to  your  mother,  and  tell  her  yer  waitin' 
fer  yer  lover  to  get  out  of  jail,  ter  marry  him! 

Kate  (helplessly):    Mike,  where's  your  heart  gone.-* 

Mike:  I  don't  know.  It's  had  a  hard  jounce.  It'll  get  o\'er  it  some 
time,  I  s'pose.  (.4  pause  as  he  looks  at  her).  I  thought  yer  was 
as  good  as  the  angels.  I'd  have  trusted  yer  with  my  life  in 
this  world  and  the  next,  just  as  surely  as  I  trusted  you  with 
those  keys.      It  takes  a  little  time  ter  change  all  that! 

Kate:  Don't  change  it  quite  all,  Mike!  I  ha\'en't  many  real  friends, 
and  hea\en  knows,  I  need  what  few  l'\e  got,  now. 

Mike:   What  are  >ou  going  to  do? 

Kate:    Do?     I'm  going  to  marry  him. 

Mike  (softening):  Ye're  a  brave  child!  What  a  start  in  life  >-e'll  have! 
An'  I  thought  I  wasn't  good  enough  to  touch  yer! 

Kate:  O,  don't  sympathize  with  me,  Mike.  You  deserve  pit>-  more 
than  I.  You'\-e  been  kind  and  generous  and  gotten  kicked  in  the 
face  for  it.  I  didn't  think  I  could  go  so  low  as  to  be  a  traitor  like 
that.  I  belong  in  there  beside  him  by  right.  It  was  my  wish  that 
put  him  there.  (A  pause).  Mike,  dear,  give  me  your  hand  and 
say  you  forgi\e  me.    It's  the  last  thing  I'll  ever  ask  you  to  do  for  me. 

Mike  (giving  her  his  hand):  Don't  worry  about  me.  Ye've  got  all  yer 
can  carry  on  those  little  shoulders.  I  was  a  bit  taken  back  at  first, 
'cause  I  thought  yer  was  honest  with  me.  If  ye'd  told  me  about 
'im  I'd  a  helped  yer,  Kate;  yer  know  that.  I  fergive  yer;  and 
I'm  sorry  fer  yer, — an'  him  too. 

Kate:  Don't  be  sorry  for  me,  Mike.  I  don't  need  it.  No  man  steals 
money  to  buy  a  girl  a  ring  unless  he  lo\'es  her.  No  man  throws  up 
a  chance  to  escape  prison  because  that  girl's  in  another  man's 
arms,  unless  he  lo\-es  her:  and  I  ha\'e  enough  faith  in  God  and  in 
myself  to  know  that  Ben  can't  lo\-e  me  that  much  and  be  a  real 
thief.      I  told  him  I'd  stay  by  him  when  I  thought  he  was  innocent, 


114  The  Haaerfordian 

and  he  needs  me  more  than  ever,  now.  (A  pause  as  she  gives  a 
iveary  sigh).  What  a  night  I've  had  of  it!  I  hate  to  go  home  after 
this,  but  I  must!  Good-bye,  you  blessed  old  thing!  {She  kisses 
him  on  the  forehead) .     Pray  for  me,  Mike.     Perhaps  it'll  help. 

Mike:    I  will,  Kate. 

Kate:   And,  Mike,  be  good  to  him,  won't  jou? 

Mike  (with  a  generous  smile):  Sure  I  will,  Kate!  {As  she  walks  toward 
the  outer  door):  Go  home  now,  an'  get  a  good  sleep.  Ye'U  feel 
better  in  the  mornin'. 

Kate:  Yes,  Mike.  {As  she  is  leaving,  she  turns  and  sees  Ben  in  his  cell, 
with  head  bowed  on  his  hands.  She  bursts  into  tears,  theji  calls  to  him). 
Ben,  O  Ben,  I'd  wait  a  lifetime  for  you!  {He  looks  up,  and  she 
forces  a  smile  at  him  through  her  tears).  We're  a  pair,  Ben,  and 
you're  just  as  good  as  I  am;  I'm  guilty,  too:  it's  all  my  fault — 
if  I  hadn't  wanted  a  ring — 

{Overcome,  she  quickly  turns  her  face  from  him,  and  her  voice  dies 
aivay  in  sobs  as  she  departs  down  the  alley). 


{Curtain) 


— C.    Van  Dam,   '17. 


(Horace  Odes,  I,  38) 

I  hate  these  Persian  frills,  boy; 

Your  chaplets  hold  no  charm  for  me. 
Come,  cease  to  hunt  the  rose,  boy, 

Late-lingering  but  not  meant  for  thee. 

A  simple  myrtle  wreath,  boy; 

Try  not  to  grace  it  with  thy  care: 
It  suits  thy  serving  well,  boy, 

A  nd  well  becomes  my  woodland  fare. 

—J.   W.   Spaeth,    '17. 


1 


JLUMNI 


DECEASED 

We  regret  to  announce  the 
deaths  of  the  following  Haver- 
forilians: 

Jos.  R.  Li\ezey,  '58,  who  dieil 
May  3,  1916. 

James  W.  Rogers,  '89,  who  died 
during  March,  1916. 

Jos.  K.  Murray-,  '61,  who  died 
January  3,  1916. 

— O— 

It  has  been  announced  that  the 
College  has  recei\ed  8350,000  for 
the  establishment  of  graduate  work 
in  Philosophy,  Bililical  Literature, 
Sociology  and  History.  This  fund 
had  been  set  aside  for  the  above 
purpose  by  the  late  T.  Wistar 
Brown  before  his  death,  and  it  was 
not  until  his  death  that  it  was 
revealed  to  the  Board  of  Managers. 

S72,000's  worth  of  the  J.  P. 
Jones  estate  has  l^een  sold  and 
added  to  the  general  fund  of  the 
College  endowment. 

Funds  amounting  to  824,000 
have  been  subscribed  for  two  new 
sections  to  Llo>d  Hall.  One-half 
of  this  amount  was  given  by 
Horace  E.  Smith,  '86,  as  a  memorial 
to  his  father.  One  of  the  sections 
is  well  on  the  wa\'  to  completion. 


Dr.  W.  \V.  Baker  and  Dr. 
Frederic  Palmer,  Jr.,  have  been 
raised  to  the  rank  of  full  Professor. 

Dr.  Henry  S.  Pratt  has  received 
a  leave  of  absence  for  the  first 
half  of  next  year,  in  order  that  he 
may  assist  in  relief  work  in  Bel- 
gium. His  work  will  be  in  the 
field  of  bacteriology. 

The  New  York  Haverford 
.'\lumni  met  the  New  York  Swarth- 
more  Alumni  in  a  joint  smoker 
held  at  the  Columbia  University 
Club  in  New  York  on  the  evening 
of  May  19th.  In  the  afternoon  a 
Haverford  tennis  team  beat  a 
Swarthmorc  tennis  team,  and  a 
Swarthmore  golf  team  beat  a 
Haverford  golf  team.  The  Haver- 
ford tennis  team  consisted  of  S.  G. 
Spaeth,  '05;  J.  D.  Kenderdine,  '10; 
and  P.  C.  Kitchen,  '09;  the 
Haverford  golf  team,  of  L.  H. 
Wood,  '96;  W.  T.  Ferris,  '85;  E.  C. 
Rossmaessler,  '01 ;  and  H.  W. 
Doughten,  Jr.,  '06.     ' 

In  the  evening  each  of  the 
victorious  teams  was  presented 
with  an  engraved  silver  cup,  and 
it  was  decided  to  ofTer  a  cup  every 
year  for  the  tennis  and  golf  cham- 
pionship. 

A  letter  from  Captain   Ramsey 


116 


The  Haverfordian 


of  next  year's  Haverford  football 
team  was  read. 

F.  M.  Morley,  '15,  delivered  an 
illustrated  lecture  on  his  work  in 
Belgium. 

R.  J.  Davis,  '99,  presided  for 
Haverford. 

Articles  have  appeared  in  the 
May  issue  of  the  Westonian  by  the 
following  Haverfordians:  Allen  C. 
Thomas,  '65;  A.  W.  Jones,  '85; 
W.  W.  Comfort,  '94;  and  Wilson 
Sidwell,  '08. 

C.  Mitchell  Froelicher,  '10,  and 
Hans  Froelicher,  Jr.,  '12,  will  open 
Camp  Tunkhannock  on  July  3rd. 
Camp  Tunkhannock  was  the  head- 
quarters last  fall  of  the  College 
football  team  during  its  early 
training  at  Pocono  Lake. 

The  following  resolutions  with 
regard  to  tenure  of  office  of  Faculty 
members  were  adopted  by  the 
Board  of  Managers  at  their  meet- 
ing on  May  19th,  1916: 

Unless  otherwise  specially  ar- 
ranged, the  term  of  appointment 
of  an  Instructor  at  Haverford 
College  shall  be  one  year;  of  an 
Assistant  Professor,  three  years; 
of  an  Associate  Professor,  five 
years;  and  of  a  Professor,  indefi- 
nite, subject  to  the  regulations  of 
the  Pension  Fund  and  the  follow- 
ing clauses  of  this  paper. 

No  Professor  should  be  discharg- 
ed, and  no  Associate  or  Assistant 
Professor  shall  be  discharged  dur- 


ing his  term  of  appointment,  ex- 
cept after  a  conference  between 
the  Board  and  a  committee  of  the 
Faculty  to  be  appointed  by  the 
Faculty,  in  which  conference  the 
officer  shall  have  an  opportunity 
to  present  his  case. 

Unless  an  Associate  Professor 
shall  receive  one  year's  notice, 
before  the  Past  Commencement 
Day  of  his  term  of  appointment, 
and  an  Assistant  Professor  one- 
half  year's  notice,  it  shall  be 
considered  that  he  is  reappointed 
for  a  new  term. 

The  College  shall  not  be  liable 
for  any  salary  after  the  discharge 
or  discontinuance  of  an  official. 

The  terms  of  the  present  officers 
shall  all  begin  with  the  College 
year— 1916-1917. 

The  Librarian  shall  be  assigned 
to  one  of  the  above  classes  and 
these  rules  shall  apply  to  him. 

The  Class  of  1913  will  hold  their 
Third  Annual  Reunion  on  June 
17th  at  the  College.  At  2.30  P.  M. 
of  that  day  they  will  play  the 
Class  of  1914  in  baseball.  Supper 
will  be  served  at  about  6.30  P.  M. 
1913  men  will  please  keep  this 
date  open. 

'69 

Henry  Cope  has  been  elected 
to  the  Board  of  Managers  of 
Haverford  College  to  fill  the  vacan- 
cy caused  by  the  resignation  of 
Benjamin  H.  Shoemaker,  who  was 


Al.UMXI 


117 


forced     to     retire     because     ot     ill 
health. 

Mr.  Cope  is  an  intensely  en- 
thusiastic Alumnus,  who  has  done 
more  to  promote  cricket  at  Haver- 
ford  than  anN'  other  man. 

71 
At  a  banc|uet  celebrating  his 
t\vent>-fifth  anniversary  as  mem- 
ber of  the  faculty  of  the  I'niversity 
of  Maryland,  Dr.  Randolph  Wins- 
low  was  honored  with  a  testimo- 
nial read  by  Dr.  R.  B.  Warfield. 
Prolonged  applause  marked  the 
conclusion  of  the  reading.  The 
toastmaster  of  the  evening  was  Dr. 
\Vm.  Tarun.  The  speakers  were 
Attorney  General  A.  C.  Ritchie, 
Dr.  Wm.  H.  Welch,  Rev.  Thos.  H. 
Lewis,  President  of  Western  Mary- 
land College,  and  Dr.  Warfield. 
The  testimonial  follows: 

TESTIMONIAL 

Presented  to 

Randolph  Winslow,  M.A.,  M.D.,  LL.D., 

at  a  dinner  arranged  by  his 

.Associates  and  Friends 

In  Commemoration  of  his 

TWENTY-FIFTH  ANNUERSARV 

As  a   member  of  the   Faculty  of   Physic 

of  the 

University  of  Maryland 


May  8,  1916, 

Hotel  Belvedere, 

Baltimore. 

TO  DR.  RANDOLPH  WINSLOW. 
Professor  of  Surgery,  University  of 
Maryland. 
Throughout  a  prolonged  career  ol 
conspicuous  activity  devotedly  attached 
to  his  .-Mma  Mater  as  Surgeon,  Teacher 
and  Administrator,  for  a  quarter  of  a 
century  a  member  of  the  Major  Faculty 
and  now  its  President,  the  subscribers 
among  his  many  friends  and  associates, 
in   recognition   of  this  service  and   of   its 


quality,  beg  to  present  this  testimonial 
of  appreciation  with  the  hope  that  he 
may  enjo\-  for  the  future  many  years  of 
fortunate,  useful  life. 

Bkhiraphkal  Sketch  of  Randolph 
WiNsL.dw,  Haverkord  '71,  Written  hy 
Dr.  Ridc.ei.v  B.  Warfield  and  Read 
BY  Him  at  the  Testimonial  Dinner 

The  Mayflower  pioneer,  Edward  Wins- 
low,  notable  governor  of  Plymouth,  and 
his  three  brothers,  John,  Kenelm,  and 
Josiah,  all  identified  with  the  early 
history  of  the  colony,  were  ancestors  of 
a  numerous  family  now  widely  scattered 
throughout  the  country. 

Somewhat  ob.scured  is  the  evidence  of 
direct  descent  from  these  pilgrim  fathers 
of  the  branch  of  the  fatiiily  in  North 
Carolina,  but  the  tradition  is  doubtless 
true,  and  as  early  as  1677  a  New  England 
trader,  Joseph  Winslow,  was  already 
established  there  and  exercised  his  full 
privileges  of  citizenship,  being  recorded  as 
serving  as  foreman  on  a  jury  and  as 
bringing  indictment  against  the  then 
acting  governor  of  Albemarle  colony. 
From  this  beginning  in  the  "old  North 
State"  the  Win.slow's  in  all  succeeding 
years  have  been  active  participants  in 
affairs  of  both  local  and  national  import- 
ance. 

The  subject  of  our  testimonial.  Dr. 
Randolph  Winslow,  was  born  in  the 
village  of  Hertford,  near  Albemarle 
Sound,  on  October  23rd,  1852. 

Dr.  Winslow  is  fortunate  in  his  heri- 
tage. Still,  honor  attends  not  condition, 
but  rather  service,  on  the  plane  of  diffi- 
cult performance,  of  doing  one's  best, 
and  life  for  him  has  been  both  full  and 
fruitful. 

On  coming  to  Baltimore  in  1865  he 
entered  Rugby  Academy.  After  two 
years  he  went  to  Haverford  College, 
where  he  graduated  with  the  degree  of 
A.B.  in  1871.  He  graduated  in  medicine 
at  the  University  of  Maryland  in  1873  at 
the  age  of  twenty-one.  Then  followed 
post-graduate  work  at  the  llniversity  of 
Pennsylvania  and  in  Philadelphia  hos- 
pitals and  a  course  in  clinical  microscopy 
under  the  late  Dr.  Joseph  Richardson. 
In  1874  he  was  given  his  degree  of  M.A. 
by  Haverford,  not  in  the  usual  course  by 
tliesis  presentation,  but  following  exam- 
ination after  special  study  in  advanced 
Cireelc. 

Returning  to  Baltimore,  he  became 
connected  with  his  Alma  Mater  as 
prosector    to    the  Professor  of  Anatomy 


118 


The  Haverfordian 


Dr.  Francis  T.  Miles,  and  in  the  next 
year  was  associated  with  Dr.  J.  Edwin 
Michael  as  Assistant  Demonstrator  of 
Anatomy.  This  position  he  held  for 
six  years,  and  there  was  thus  inaugurated 
a  devoted  service  to  the  University 
which  has  been  maintained  without 
interval  for  more  than  forty  years. 

From  1880  to  1886  he  was  Demon- 
strator of  Anatomy,  and  until  1891 
Lecturer  on  Clinical  Surgery.  He  suc- 
ceeded Dr.  Michael  as  Professor  of 
Anatomy  in  1891,  becoming  thereby  a 
member  of  the  Major  Faculty  and  of  the 
Board  of  Regents. 

In  1902,  on  the  resignation  of  Dr. 
Tiffany,  Dr.  Winslow  became  Professor 
of  Surgery,  which  position  he  now  holds. 
He  held  service  at  Bay  View  from  1884: 
to  1891,  and  also  in  1884  joined  the  faculty 
of  The  Baltimore  Polyclinic.  He  was 
Professor  of  Surgery  at  the  Woman's 
Medical  College  from  1882  to  1893, 
and  of  this  institution  he  was  a  founder. 
In  1883  he  spent  a  half-year  in  Europe,  for 
the  most  part  in  the  University  and 
clinics  of  Vienna.  Here  he  took  course 
nstruction  from  men  afterwards  famous, 
Lorenz,  Woelfler  and  von  Hacker. 

Because  of  his  enthusiastic  interest  in 
a  broad  way  in  advancing  medical  educa- 
tion, he  has  been  for  twenty  years  in  a 
service  just  now  terminated,  a  valued 
member  of  the  Executive  Council  of  the 
Association  of  American  Medical  Colleges. 
It  is  in  this  direction,  this  devotion  to 
adequate  medical  education,  that  Dr. 
Winslow  deserves  highest  praise.  In  the 
remarkable  recent  advance  in  educa- 
tional requirement,  incessantly  pursued 
and  at  great  cost  to  unendowed  institu- 
tions such  as  the  University  of  Maryland, 
he  has  steadfastly  stood  for  every  reason- 
able progress.  He  believes  in  real 
scholarship  and  is  a  foe  to  sham  and 
pretense  of  every  sort.  No  half-way 
measure  contents  him,  and  he  is  no 
disciple  of  expediency.  A  follower  of  the 
faith  of  his  fathers,  he  is  nevertheless  not 
unmilitant.  No  man  can  doubt  where 
he  stands  on  any  important  question, 
and  his  stand  is  as  he  sees  it  righteous 
and  as  we  see  it  with  whatever  difference 
of  opinion,  courageous  and  unmistakably 
honest.  As  a  teacher  his  chief  concern 
is  in  an  intimate,  personal  way  to  give 
faithful,  competent  instruction,  and  he 
requires  of  the  student  genuine  applica- 
tion and  diligent  work. 

Throughout  his  life  he  has  been  blessed 
with     exceptionally     good     health;     even 


casual  illness  is  almost  unknown  to  him. 
In  his  college  career  he  was  an  athlete, 
especially  active  in  cricket,  and  among 
the  small  group  of  men  in  Baltimore 
devoted  to  this  diversion  he  was  for 
years  a  conspicuous  participant. 

A  cheerful,  tireless  worker,  devoted  to 
his  profession.  Dr.  Winslow  enjoys  life 
simply  and  sanely,  entirely  without 
ostentation.      His  delight  is  in  his  home. 

He  married  when  twenty-five  Miss 
Rebecca  Fayssoux  Leiper,  and  of  this 
very  fortunate  union  there  have  been 
thirteen  children,  twelve  of  whom  sur- 
vive. 

Younger  than  his  years,  with  ripened 
wisdom,  with  undiminished  zeal  and 
capacity,  and  with  the  consciousness  of 
more  tfian  usual  achievement.  Dr.  Wins- 
low may  reasonably  look  forward  with 
serene  confidence  to  an  extended  period 
of  usefjl,  contented  life. 


'72 
An  article  by  Dr.  F.  B.  Gummere 
entitled,  "New  Poetry  versus  the 
Old,"  appeared  in  the  Shakespeare 
supplement  of  the  New  York  Even- 
ing Post  of  April  22nd. 

72  AND  74 
Edward  M.  Wistar,  72,  and 
Samuel  E.  Hilles,  74,  attended  the 
Y.  M.  C.  A.  convention  at  Cleve- 
land, Ohio,  which  was  held  about 
the  middle  of  May. 

'82 
Professor  G.  A.  Barton  was 
elected  President  of  the  American 
Oriental  Society  at  its  annual 
meeting  held  in  Washington,  April 
24th  to  26th.  The  Oriental  Soci- 
ety, founded  in  1842,  is  the  oldest 
national  learned  society  in  the 
United  States  devoted  to  the  study 
of  the  humanities.  During  its 
more  than  seventy  years  of  history 


Al.lMNI 


119 


its  presidents  ha\f,  with  one  prc- 
^•ious  exception,  al\va>s  been  cIto- 
sen  from  the  faculties  of  one  of  the 
large  imixersities. 

'85 
Theo.  \V.  Richards  was  elected 
to  fill  the  \acancy  left  by  the 
resignation  of  Ira  Remsen  from 
the  Board  of  Directors  of  the 
Wolcott  Gibbs  Fund  of  the  Nation- 
al Academy-  of  Sciences,  Washing- 
ton, D.  C. 

'89 
Dr.    William    R.    Dimton,    Jr., 
is     President     of     the     Haverford 
Society  of  Maryland. 

•93 
Geo.    L.    Jones,     of     Westtown 
School,  addressed  the  College  Y.  M. 
C.     A.     meeting    on     Wednesday, 
May  10th. 

'94 
Horace  A.  Beale,  Jr.,  of  Parkes- 
burg,  was  nominated  as  a  Republi- 
can delegate  to  the  National  Con- 
vention. 

'97 
A  table  indicating  the  photo- 
graphic positions  of  Comet  f  1913 
(Delavan),  compiled  by  William  O. 
Heal  at  the  Uni\ersity  of  Minne- 
sota, appeared  in  the  Astronomical 
Journal.  No.  690. 

We    quote    from    the    Haverford 
Xcu's: 


Dr.  Roswell  C.  McCrea,  who 
has  h)r  se\eral  \'ears  been  dean  of 
the  Wharton  School  of  the  Univer- 
sity of  Pennsylvania,  was  given  a 
reception  last  Saturday  evening 
by  the  faculty  of  the  school,  and 
presented  with  a  lo\ing  cup. 

'98 
Jos.  H.  Haines  was  married  on 
June  3rd  to  Miss  Helen  Whitall. 
daughter  of  John  M.  Whitall,  '80. 
The  marriage  took  place  at  Ger- 
mantown. 

•99 
J.    P.    Morris   sailed    from    New 
York  on  the  S.  S.  Espagne  to  work 
in  the  American  Ambulance  Hos- 
pital in  France. 

'00 
According  to  the  New  York 
Times  of  April  29th,  1916,  The 
Interocean  Submarine  Engineer- 
ing Co.,  Inc.,  has  been  incorporated 
at  Albany  for  the  purpose  of 
raising  sunken  ships.  G.  M.-P. 
Murphy,  '00,  Vice  President  of 
the  Guaranty  Trust  Co.  of  New 
York,  was  asked  to  pass  on  the 
practicability  of  this  enterprise, 
and  it  was  after  his  enthusiastic 
approval  that  the  company  was 
organized.  Mr.  Murphy  is  one  of 
the  financial  backers.  The  presi- 
dent of  the  company  is  Rear 
Admiral  Chester,  U.  S.  N.,  retired. 
"The  moving  spirit  in  the  enter- 
prise is,  howe\er.  Chief  Gunner 
Geo.  D.  Stillson,  U.  S.  N.,  retired 


120 


The  Haverfordian 


who  devised  the  plan  for  raising 
the  submarine  F-4  from  the  waters 
off  Honolulu." 

'02 
Dr.    R.    M.    Gummere   and    Dr. 
A.  G.  H.  Spiers  will   teach  in  the 
Columbia       Uni\-ersity       Summer 
School  this  coming  summer. 

R.  M.  Gummere  was  nominated 
May  16th  as  Republican  Commit- 
teeman for  Coopertown  District, 
Haverford  Township. 

Dr.  Gummere  is  to  deliver  the 
commencement  address  at  West- 
town  School  on  June  15th. 

Chas.  W.  Stork  is  author  of  an 
article  entitled,  "Hofmannstral  as 
a  Lyric  Poet,"  which  appeared  in 
the  New  York  Nation,  May  18th. 

We  regret  that  an  error  was 
made  in  an  announcement  of  last 
issue,  which  should  have  read  as 
follows:  Percival  Nicholson  was 
married  to  Miss  Nell  Gray  Clayton 
at  Wilmington,  Del.,  on  April  8th. 

'03 
Jos.  K.  Worthington  has  been 
engaged  during  the  winter  in  work 
at  the  Johns  Hopkins  Hospital  in 
the  James  Buchanan  Brady  Uro- 
logical  Institute. 

C.  V.  Hodgson  was  married 
April  17th  at  Cincinnati,  Ohio,  to 
Miss  Edith  Hockett,  of  Westboro, 
Ohio. 


J.  E.  HoUingsworth,  professor 
of  Greek  at  Whitworth  College, 
Spokane,  Wash.,  has  been  active  in 
the  formation  of  a  classical  club 
there. 

'04 
H.  H.  Morris,  together  with  his 
family,  expects  to  start  home  from 
Shanghai,  China,  on  June  17th  for 
a  six  months'  furlough. 

'05 
Leslie  B.  Seely  is  a  professor  in 
the  department  of  physics  of  the 
Wagner  Free  Institute  of  Science. 

'06 
Richard  L.  Cary  has  resigned 
his  position  as  Assistant  Director 
of  the  Bureau  of  State  and  Munici- 
pal Research  to  become  associated 
with  Elmore  B.  Jeffery,  who  is 
engaged  in  the  promotion  of  in- 
dustrial organizations.  Mr.  Cary 
is  Vice  President  of  the  Haverford 
Society  of  Maryland.  Present 
address:  1310  Munsey  Building, 
Baltimore,  Md. 

'07 
Jose  Padin,  who  is  General 
Superintendent  of  the  Department 
of  Education  of  Porto  Rico,  is 
author  of  a  pamphlet  entitled, 
"The  Problem  of  Teaching  Eng- 
lish to  the  People  of  Porto  Rico." 
In  conjunction  with  P.  G.  Miller, 
Ph.D.,  Commissioner  of  Educa- 
tion, he  has  compiled  and  written 
a    booklet    of    biographical    notes, 


Alumni 


121 


selections  and  appreciatit)ns  of  Cer- 
vantes and  Shakespeare,  in  honor 
of  the  Cervantes — Shakespeare 
Tercentenary. 

'08 
A    daughter    was    horn    to    Mr. 
and    Mrs.    Carroll    T.    Brown    on 
Ma\-   Isl.      She  was  named  Caro- 
line Cadbury. 

Dr.  Cecil  K.  Drinker  is  engaged 
in  research  work  at  the  Hospital  of 
Johns  Hopkins  University. 

Chas.  L.  Miller,  as  counsel  for 
the  American  Fair  Trade  League, 
has  written  a  brief  on  The  Legal 
Status  of  the  Maintenance  of  Uni- 
form Resale  Prices.  The  brief  has 
had  a  very  wide  distribution  and 
has  recei\-ed  splendid  commenda- 
tion from  all  sources. 

'09 
Walter  C.  Sandt  was  married  to 
Miss  Marie  Theresa  Kostenbader 
at  Catasauqua,  Pa.,  on  May  3rd, 
1916.  They  will  reside  at  Cata- 
sauqua. 

Edwin  Shoemaker  was  married 
to  Miss  Martha  Reed,  of  Philadel- 
phia, on  April  29th,  1916. 

Mr.  and  Mrs.  F.  M.  Ramsey 
had  a  son  born  to  them  on  April 
29th.  He  has  been  named  Frank 
McCracken,  |r. 


'10 

C.  Mitchell  Froelicher  coached 
the  recent  production  by  the  Gil- 
man  School  Dramatic  Association 
of  Richard  Harding  Davis'  play, 
"The  Dictator."  This  was  the 
fifth  production  of  the  association 
which  Mr.  Froelicher  has  coached. 

The  engagement  is  announced  of 
W.  L.  G.  Williams  to  Miss  Anne 
Christine Sykes,  of  Cincinnati,  Ohio. 
The  wedding  will  occur  in  June, 
and  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Williams  will 
li\c  in  Oxford,  Ohio,  where  Mr. 
Williams  is  Assistant  Professor  of 
Mathematics  in  Miami  University. 

•11 
Henry  Ferris,  Jr.,  has  a  position 
in  the  Advertising  Department  of 
the  Curtis  Publishing  Co.  of  Phila- 
delphia. 

Philip  B.  Deane  has  recently 
returned  from  a  two  and  one-half 
>ears'  absence  abroad.  Mr.  Deane 
has  been  traveling  in  Russia,  among 
other  countries,  for  the  Smythe- 
field  Export  Company. 

Mrs.  Bashti  S.  Garey,  of  Caro- 
line County,  Md.,  announces  the 
engagement  of  her  daughter  Lena 
Rebecca  to  Caleb  Winslow.  The 
date  for  the  wedding  has  been  set 
for  the  latter  part  of  June.  Mr. 
Winslow  is  at  present  Registrar  of 
the  Medical  School  of  the  Univer- 
sitv  of  Marvland   in   Baltimore. 


122 


The  Haverferdian 


'12 
J.  Hollowell  Parker  has  been 
associated  with  the  Chesapeake 
and  Potomac  Telephone  Company 
and  Associated  Companies  since 
October,  1912.  Parker  is  now  an 
assistant  in  the  department  of  the 
commercial  engineer,  with  offices 
at  Room  401,  108  E.  Lexington 
Street,  Baltimore,  Md. 

Robert  E.  Miller  was  recently 
elected  Secretary  of  the  Hamilton 
Corporation  of  Lancaster,  Pa.,  a 
company  newly  organized  for  the 
purpose  of  manufacturing  and  sell- 
ling  time,  speed,  and  distance  re- 
cording devices  for  automobiles, 
locomotives,  and  electric  cars. 

Mr.  Miller  will  also  retain  for 
some  time  his  position  as  adver- 
tising manager  of  the  Hamilton 
Watch  Co. 

'13 
Francis  M.  Froelicher  has  been 
elected  to  the  Board  of  Governors 
cf  the  Baltimore  Center  of  the 
Drama  League.  He  is  chairman 
of  the  Program  Committee  of  this 
organization. 

Norman  H.  Taylor,  who  has 
been  studying  medicine  at  Har- 
vard, will  complete  his  last  two 
years'  work  at  the  L^niversity  of 
Pennsylvania  School,  commencing 
next  fall. 

W.  C.  Longstreth  is  now  with 
the  Standard  LTnderground  Cable 
Co.  at  Pittsburgh. 


'14 
C.  D.  Champlin,  who  has  been 
Assistant  Instructor  in  English 
during  the  present  collegiate  year, 
has  been  appointed  instructor  of 
History  in  the  McKeesport  High 
School.  Mr.  Champlin  has  been 
doing  some  teaching  in  English 
and  Biblical  Literature  at  Friends' 
Select  School  during  the  past 
several  weeks,  and  throughout  June 
and  July  he  will  be  instructor  in 
American  History  and  the  History 
of  Education  at  the  Columbia 
County  Summer  School.  He  is 
planning  to  enter  the  Princeton 
Graduate  School  after  a  year  or 
two  of  teaching. 

Thomas  Elkinton  was  married 
to  Miss  Elsie  Roberts,  of  Moores- 
town,  N.  J.,  on  May  10th,  at  the 
Moorestown  Friends'  Meeting. 

'14  AND  '15 
Edward  Rice,  Jr.,  '14,  and  F.  M. 
Morley,  '15,  have  both  recently 
returned  from  France,  where  they 
have  been  engaged  in  the  relief 
work  of  the  Friends'  Ambulance 
Unit. 

'15 
H.  Linneus  McCracken  is  en- 
gaged in  teaching  in  the  depart- 
ment of  History  and  Public  Speak- 
ing of  Hastings  College,  Hastings, 
Nebraska. 


Alumni 


12.> 


Loring  P.  Crosman  was  recentK' 
married  tn  a  Miss  Hawkes,  ol 
Portland,  Me.  He  has  a  position 
in  BrockKn,  X.  \'. 

The  engagement  has  been  an- 
nounced cf  Paul  H.  Egolf  to  Miss 
Anna  Brcwn  Turner,  of  Over- 
brook,  sister  of  C.  B.  Turner,  '15. 

Brinkley  Turner  was  married 
to  Miss  Willie  Bond  Savage  at 
Los  Angeles  on  Thursday,  May 
18th,  1916. 


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to  mak,c  her  dimple  with  delight 

and  thai    is — 


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Triolet : W.  S.Nevln, 

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EDITORS 
Robert  Gibson,  1917  Edilor-in- Chief 
W.  H.  Chamberlin,  1917  J.  G.  C.  LECLERCg,  1918 

C.  D.  Van  Dam,  1917  Walter  S.  Nevin,  1918 

Henry  P.  Schenck,  1918 

BUSINESS  MANAGERS 
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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  through  the  mails  as  second-class  matter 

Vol.  XXXVIII  HAVERFORD,  PA.,  OCTOBER,  1916.  No.  4 


ZvioUt 

Just  a  misty  form  in  the  star-lit  way 
Where  the  fireflies  glow  in  the  scented  gloom; 
And  the  dream  that  shone  through  heat  of  the  day 
Was  a  misty  form  in  the  star-lit  way. 
There  beneath  a  beech  where  the  shadows  play 
Is  a  bench  for  two  'mid  the  roses'  bloom — 
Just  a  misty  form  in  the  star-lit  way 

Where  the  fireflies  glow  in  the  scented  gloom.  M 

—W.  S.  Nevin,  '18. 


THE    HAVERFORDIAN 


Vol.  XXXVIII.  HAVERFORD,  PA..  OCTOBER,  1916  No.  4 


^umani£(m  anb  Cbucation 

AMONG  the  many  rich  and  precious  possessions  which  we  owe 
to  the  Renaissance,  perhaps  the  finest  is  the  spirit  which  is  so 
aptly  expressed  in  the  word  "humanism."  This  spirit  impHed 
an  interest  and  sympathy  with  warm,  vital,  human  things,  as  opposed 
to  the  cold,  barren,  formal  logic  and  theology,  with  which  the  medieval 
mind  was  exclusively  preoccupied.  The  primary  concern  of  the  Renais- 
sance humanist  was  the  magnificent  civilization  of  Greece  and  Rome; 
but  the  full  significance  of  the  movement  was  not  confined  to  a  mere 
revival  of  classical  learning.  Art,  literature,  discovery,  natural  science, 
all  shared  in  the  bursting  of  the  long-sealed  well  of  the  human  intellect. 
The  movement  reached  its  full  height  and  brilliance  in  Italy;  in  Ger- 
many it  assumed  a  more  sober  hue ;  while  in  England  the  same  universal 
impulse  produced  the  wonderful  literature  of  the  Elizabethan  era.  That 
the  Renaissance  did  not  go  farther  and  accomplish  more  is  largely  due 
to  another  great  movement,  which  is  sometimes  linked  with  it,  but 
which  was  really  its  most  deadly  enemy.  This  movement  was  the 
Protestant  Reformation.  Far  from  being  in  sympathy  with  humanism, 
the  early  reformers,  with  few  exceptions,  were  openly  or  secretly  dis- 
trustful of  its  spirit.  The  Renaissance  was  free,  joyous,  pagan,  and 
hopelessly  lacking  in  the  gloomy  consciousness  of  sin  which  Luther  and 
Calvin  were  perpetually  impressing  on  their  followers.  Furthermore, 
the  Catholic  Church,  which  had  been  so  liberal  and  tolerant  under 
popes  like  Leo  the  Tenth,  suddenly  became  strict  and  reactionary  in  the 
face  of  the  dangerous  revolt.  The  Jesuits  gained  control  of  CathoHc 
politics  and  instituted  a  system  of  repression  that  effectually  blocked 
all  aspirations  after  a  freer  and  higher  culture.  In  the  countries  that 
were  strongly  affected  by  the  Reformation  a  succession  of  ferocious  and 
sanguinary  civil  wars  soon  quenched  the  dawning  light  of  the  new 
learning.  Germany  was  prostrated  for  generations  by  the  horrors  of 
the  Thirty  Years  War.  France  was  distracted  by  conflicts  between 
the  Guises  and  the  Huguenots.  In  England  Protestantism  left  the  dark 
blight  of  Puritanism,  whose  traces  even  now  corrupt  and  restrict  English 


128  The  Haverfordian 

artistic  taste  and  appreciation.  But,  however  disastrously  religious 
fanaticism  and  other  influences  might  operate  on  the  general  culture, 
individual  men  were  not  lacking  to  keep  alive  the  precious  spirit  of  the 
Renaissance.  The  classics  remained  the  basis  of  education  until  the 
scientific  awakening  of  the  nineteenth  century.  At  first  a  serious  diver- 
gence in  theories  of  education  was  threatened.  But,  although  men  so 
differently  constituted  as  Huxley  and  Matthew  Arnold  might  disagree 
about  the  precise  value  of  the  classics  and  the  natural  sciences  as  objects 
of  study,  the  true  humanist  rejoiced  in  the  vast  extension  of  the  field 
of  human  interest  and  inquiry  that  followed  upon  the  scientific  renais- 
sance. The  life  of  that  greatest  product  of  Renaissance  ideals,  Goethe, 
indicated  the  perfect  harmony  that  is  the  natural  relation  between  the 
students  of  the  classics  and  the  devotees  of  the  sciences.  The  present 
problem  of  humanism  has  nothing  to  do  with  any  fancied  antagonism 
between  the  pursuit  of  the  sciences  and  the  study  of  the  ancient  lan- 
guages. It  has  to  do,  however,  with  two  very  real  and  very  pressing 
dangers:  pedantry  from  within  and  materialism  from  without. 

The  best  concrete  illustrations  of  the  first  danger  are  gained  from  a 
consideration  of  the  methods  used  in  teaching  such  subjects  as  history 
and  the  classics.  Take  the  former  study,  for  instance.  The  narrative, 
the  mere,  bald,  accurate  narrative,  of  the  thoughts  and  actions  of  past 
men  and  races  contains  an  inexhaustible  mine  of  romance.  To  bring 
out  this  romantic  element  it  is  only  necessary  to  treat  history  as  a  human 
subject,  to  deal  with  its  personages  as  if  they  were  living,  flesh-and- 
blood  men  and  women.  Nothing  could  appear  simpler.  And  yet 
how  often  is  a  fascinating  cross-segment  of  ancient  life  turned  into 
a  dry  and  featureless  mummy  through  dull  writing  and  uninspired 
teaching!  How  often  is  a  great  event,  a  rich  personality,  a  mighty  strug- 
gle of  compelling  interest  reduced  to  a  meaningless  jargon  of  dates  and 
names!  It  is  very  well  to  know  that  Henry  the  Fourth  went  to  Canossa 
in  1077;  but  it  is  far  more  important  to  know  why  he  went  there,  to 
possess  some  idea  of  the  character  of  the  ill-fated  monarch,  and  of  his 
stem  enemy.  Pope  Gregory  the  Seventh.  It  is  in  the  ignoring  of  the 
personal  equation,  in  the  exclusive  emphasis  on  names,  and  dates,  and 
facts,  and  events  en  bloc,  that  modem  instructors  of  history  lose  countless 
opportunities  to  enlist  the  warm  interest  and  sympathy  of  their  students. 
While  Carlyle  is  scarcely  justified  in  asserting  that  history  is  merely 
the  biography  of  great  men,  it  can  not  be  questioned  that  modem  history, 
in  its  laborious  investigation  of  past  social  and  economic  conditions,  fails 
to  lay  the  proper  stress  upon  the  characters  and  motives  of  the  chief 
actors  in  the  great  drama  it  is  recording.    Even  so  portentous  a  spectacle 


Humanism  and  Education  129 

as  the  fall  of  the  Roman  Empire,  which,  under  Gibbon's  inspired  pen, 
becomes  such  a  grand  and  moving  tragedy,  frequently,  under  a  me- 
chanical and  soulless  interpretation,  seems  nothing  but  a  desert  of  undis- 
tinguishable  names  and  unrelated  facts.  The  ideal  historian,  the  ideal 
historical  teacher  of  the  future  must  be  a  creative  genius,  attractive  in 
form,  vivid  in  imagination,  quick  in  sympathy.  No  mere  scientist  or 
statistician,  he  must  have  the  power  to  transform  his  rows  of  figures 
and  lists  of  facts  into  the  living,  breathing  spirit  of  the  age  he  is  striving 
to  interpret.  In  common  with  the  historical  novelist,  he  must  be  able 
to  understand  and  translate  the  forgotten  rhythms  of  the  races  and  gen- 
erations that  have  gone  before.  If  its  full  glorious  possibilities  are  to  be 
realized,  history  must  be  treated,  not  merely  from  the  viewpoint  of  the 
scientist,  but  also  from  that  of  the  poet  and  philosopher. 

The  need  for  humanism  is  still  more  evident  in  the  case  of  the 
classics.  It  is  largely  through  mistaken  and  incompetent  methods  of 
teaching  that  the  languages  which  contain  some  of  the  most  living  and 
enduring  poetry  in  the  world's  store  have  received  the  unflattering  and 
unmerited  sobriquet,  "dead."  In  vain  Arnold  and  Pater  have  shown 
the  intimate  connection  between  Greek  and  Roman  civilization  and 
modem  life  and  thought;  in  vain  Friedrich  Nietzsche  has  poured  out 
the  vials  of  indignant  ridiculte  upon  the  heads  of  the  worthy  professors, 
"who  object  to  Homer  because  it  is  not  written  in  Indo-Germanic." 
The  instinct  for  pedantry  has  laid  a  hard,  impenetrable  crust  of  dry, 
uninteresting  matter  over  the  rich  mine  of  classic  literature.  It  is  not 
the  purpose  of  the  present  article  to  enter  upon  an  extended  criticism  of 
modem  pedagogical  theories  and  principles;  but  a  few  of  the  most 
glaring  dehumanizing  influences  can  not  be  passed  over  in  silence. 

One  very  general  and  very  pernicious  tendency  is  to  force  isolated 
works  of  ancient  authors  upon  the  student  with  no  attempt  to  explain 
their  relation  to  the  political  and  cultural  scheme  of  their  time.  Without 
a  reasonable  knowledge  of  Roman  history  and  politics  Cicero's  orations 
have  little  meaning;  while  the  poetry  of  Catullus  and  Horace  is  cer- 
tainly rendered  far  more  intelligible  and  enjoyable  if  the  reader  is  able 
to  discern  the  striking  contrast  between  the  fiery,  unbridled  license  of 
the  late  republic  and  the  calm,  philosophic  epicureanism  of  the  Augustan 
period.  Acquaintance  with  contemporary  Roman  conditions  also 
lends  a  keener  fascination  to  the  study  of  the  contrasted  historical 
methods  of  Tacitus  and  Livy.  It  is  obviously  impossible  to  excite 
any  lively  enthusiasm  in  a  group  of  young  students  by  picking  a  work, 
written  in  a  foreign  tohgue,  completely  out  of  its  environment  and 
administering  it  to  them  in  regulated  doses.     Yet  this  method  is  prac- 


130  The  Haverfordian 

tised  by  many  teachers  who  perpetually  lament  the  decline  of  popular 
interest  in  Latin  and  Greek.  Perhaps  the  best  remedy  for  the  present 
situation  lies  in  a  great  increase  in  the  amount  of  required  collateral 
reading  along  the  lines  of  classic  civilization,  even  at  the  expense  of  a  few 
periods  of  Cicero  and  hexameters  of  Vergil.  This  collateral  reading 
should  include  standard  translations  of  some  of  the  classics  which  can 
not  be  read  in  the  original.  In  this  way  some  advance  would  be  made 
towards  the  ideal  of  presenting  Graeco-Roman  culture  and  civilization, 
not  as  a  collection  of  unrelated  fragments,  but  as  a  connected  and  har- 
monious entity. 

Aside  from  the  question  of  method,  there  is  certainly  much  to  be 
desired  in  the  spirit  of  American  classical  education.  Youth — even 
American  youth — is  romantic  and  imaginative.  And  surely  there  is  no 
lack  of  appeal  to  the  imagination  in  classic  literature.  The  immortal 
spirit  of  adventure  still  lives  in  Homer's  great  epics;  the  Prometheus  of 
Aeschylus  still  shakes  the  world  with  his  titanic  defiance  of  fate;  the 
most  brilliant  historical  novel  can  scarcely  excel  Thucydides'  picture 
of  the  Sicilian  expedition  in  vividness  of  description  and  wealth  of  color. 
But  too  often  these  great  works,  in  the  hands  of  pedants,  become  petri- 
fied mummies,  devoid  of  the  least  semblance  of  life  and  reality.  The 
personal  magnetism  of  an  instructor  is  a  gift  of  the  spirit,  not  to  be  con- 
cretely analyzed  and  appraised.  But  the  man  who  can  take  this  im- 
mense store  of  living,  pulsating,  vitally  modem  and  real  literature,  and 
fail  to  kindle  some  spark  of  responsive  enthusiasm  in  his  students,  how- 
ever great  his  technical  endowment,  has  surely  failed  to  catch  the  true 
spirit  of  the  mighty  flood-tide  of  classic  thought. 

The  second  great  enemy  of  humanistic  culture  is  the  tendency,  so 
marked  in  America  at  the  present  time,  to  set  all  education  upon  a 
commercial  and  industrial  basis.  Of  course  the  immense  development 
of  the  national  resources  has  made  necessary  the  creation  of  numerous 
technical  schools  and  colleges.  But,  apart  from  this  inevitable  and 
altogether  wholesome  phase  of  progress,  there  is  a  strong  movement,  in 
educational  circles,  to  eliminate  all  humanistic  and  aesthetic  elements 
from  education  and  to  substitute  a  system  in  which  material  achievement 
is  to  be  the  sole  ultimate  object.  The  recent  Teachers'  Convention  in 
New  York  was  a  striking  example  of  the  spirit  of  unqualified  materialism 
which  is  now  dominant,  especially  in  our  system  of  secondary  education. 
Vocational  training  and  "the  Wisconsin  idea"  are  to  be  the  panaceas  for 
all  human  ills  and  imperfections.  Any  part  of  the  educational  system 
which  does  not  pay  tangible  dividends  in  hard  cash  is  condemned  as  an- 
tiquated, obsolete  and  out  of  relation  to  life. 


Humanism  and  Education  131 

Now  it  is  a  curious  and  remarkable  fact  that  this  brilliant  program 
of  educational  reform  bears  a  decided  resemblance  to  the  so-called 
German  "kultur"  which  has  excited  so  much  ridicule  and  denunciation 
on  the  part  of  advocates  of  the  Allies.  Needless  to  say,  the  German 
word  can  not  be  literally  translated  by  the  English  "culture."  It  rather 
signifies  a  condition  of  material  efficiency,  unconnected  with  any  moral 
or  cultural  implications.  It  is  just  such  a  state  that  our  ardent  propo- 
nents of  vocational  and  industrial  education  are  trying  to  force  upon 
our  own  country.  American  "kultur"  may  never  find  expression  in  the 
aggressive  militarism  of  its  German  prototype.  It  will,  however,  unless 
it  is  checked,  find  expression  in  equally  obnoxious,  though  less  obvious 
forms.  A  nation  whose  citizens  have  been  brought  up,  almost  from 
infancy,  on  a  diet  of  crass  materialism  can  scarcely  find  time  to  develop 
any  exalted  standards  of  international  obligation  or  civic  duty.  A 
certain  eastern  magazine  has  long  been  severely  reproaching  the  American 
people  for  their  apathy  in  the  "Lusitania"  case.  This  same  magazine 
has  also  attacked  and  ridiculed  the  humanistic  scheme  of  education, 
which  alone  can  properly  train  the  future  citizens  of  America  to  a  sense 
of  their  national  responsibilities.  Is  it  not  possible  that  there  might  be 
a  slight  difference  of  viewpoint,  in  this  very  instance  of  the  "Lusitania," 
between  the  man  who  has  been  educated  vocationally,  with  the  sole 
idea  of  getting  money,  and  getting  it  quickly,  and  the  man  who  has 
caught  a  little  of  the  spirit  of  Greece  and  Rome?  History  has  a  stem 
warning  of  physical  dissolution  and  decay  for  the  nations  which  sacri- 
fice their  national  ideals  on  the  altar  of  the  god  of  wealth.  But  even 
more  appalling  than  the  outward  collapse  of  such  mighty  political  or- 
ganisms as  Rome  and  Carthage  is  the  spectacle  of  the  moral  decadence, 
the  gradual  immolation  of  fine  and  generous  sentiment,  the  rotting  out 
of  the  very  soul  of  the  people,  which  preceded  by  centuries  the  actual 
break-up  of  these  great  empires. 

The  reason  why  industrialism  can  not  be  a  satisfactory  basis  of 
education  is  that  its  essential  nature  is  unhuman.  Ability  to  run  a  buzz- 
saw,  or  to  lay  bricks,  is  an  excellent  thing;  but  it  can  hardly  make  a 
man  conscious  of  his  obligations,  either  to  himself  or  to  his  fellowmen. 
A  system  of  general  industrial  education,  such  as  many  vocationalists 
would  like  to  institute,  would  inevitably  entail  a  universal  spirit  of  ma- 
terialistic greed,  unrelieved  by  any  element  of  moral  responsibility, 
aesthetic  taste  or  collective  idealism.  Life  would  become  nothing 
but  a  dreary,  insensate,  disgusting  scramble  for  wealth,  which  could  not 
provide  any  but  the  most  materialistic  delights,  even  for  its  possessors. 
It  is  often  stated  as  a  serious  objection  to  the  classics  that  they  have  no 


132  The  Haverfoedian 

relation  to  modern  life.  If  this  statement  be  true — and  it  may  well 
be  true — the  fault  is  certainly  not  with  the  classics,  but  rather  with 
modem  life.  One  can  search  the  records  of  the  nations  in  vain  for  an 
example  of  a  state  blessed  with  higher  intellectual  culture  than  Athens 
of  the  fifth  century  B.  C.  Braver  men  never  lived  than  those  who  died 
at  Thermopylae  to  save  their  country  from  a  foreign  yoke.  Not  even 
Shakespeare's  genius  can  transcend  the  immortal  power  of  Aeschylus' 
"Prometheus."  Before  the  calm,  epicurean  wisdom  of  the  Augustan 
poets  the  whole  noisy  jangle  of  twentieth  century  civilization  sinks  back 
abashed.  But  the  vocationalist,  turning  his  back  upon  this  inexhaustible 
store  of  poetry  and  philosophy,  of  heroic  deeds  and  great  thoughts,  still 
remains  confident  that  the  Wisconsin  idea  fully  satisfies  every  rational 
requirement  of  the  human  mind. 

In  many  respects  America,  from  the  cultural  viewpoint,  is  in  the 
position  of  Europe  during  the  Dark  Ages.  Throughout  this  period  the 
seeds  of  classic  learning  were  kept  alive  by  isolated  scholars  and  monks, 
so  that  the  Renaissance  found  abundant  material  for  its  intellectual 
activity.  The  few  small  colleges  of  America  which  have  remained 
loyal  to  their  classic  traditions  are  under  an  obligation  to  perform  a 
similar  service.  It  should  be  their  part  to  keep  alive  the  holy  flame 
of  cultural,  humanistic  enthusiasm  until  the  day  comes  when  America 
will  awake  from  her  medieval  period  to  discover  that  life  is  something 
more  than  an  accumulation  of  automobiles,  stocks  and  bonds,  and 
profitable  munition  contracts.  Then,  and  only  then,  will  the  present 
immense  materialistic  activity  of  the  great  American  republic  become 
justified  in  the  light  of  the  development  of  the  human  race. 

— W.  H.  Chamberlin,  '17. 


Autumn 

Once  when  all  the  trees  were  fair, 
In  the  joy  of  spring, 
Once — we  wandered  side  by  side 
And  heard  the  wood-thrush  sing. 

What  if  all  the  trees  are  hare. 
And  the  sky  is  dim, 
And  the  withered  asters  droop 
By  the  river's  brim? 

—W.  S.   Nevin,   '18. 


"Wt  iWen  of  Be  Protfjerfjoob  " 

HIBBY  HOSSES"  HENKELS  stumbled  over  the  milk  bottles 
and  landed  in  a  heap  on  the  porch.  Actually  too  surprised 
to  swear,  he  remained  sitting  in  silent  astonishment  until 
the  fitting  and  proper  moment  for  any  possible  oath  had  passed,  never 
to  return  again.  No  oath  could  now  be  timely  and  this  missed  oppor- 
tunity capped  the  wrath  caused  by  the  accident  of  a  moment  before. 
"Preparedness!"  muttered  Hibby,  "dat's  preparedness  fer  ye."  In- 
stinctively he  looked  around  him  for  victims  on  whom  to  wreak  vengeance. 
His  hunt  was  eminently  successful.  There  sitting  on  either  side  of  him 
were  the  two  great  allies  of  the  morning  milk — namely,  the  morning 
bread  and  the  morning  paper. 

"  Yer  triple  in  entent'll  die  tegither,"  cried  Hibby,  and,  suiting  word 
to  action,  he  ravished  the  bread-bag  of  a  roll  and  opened  the  paper  to 
the  sporting  page  with  one  and  the  same  motion.  The  first  mode  of 
attack  on  the  common  foe  proved  more  successful  than  the  second. 
Hibby  had  but  begun  to  gnaw  at  his  roll  when  a  glance  at  the  box- 
scores  dealt  him  a  deep  blow.  "Both  of  'em,"  he  sighed,  "and  Alex 
giv  'em  nine  hits  in  de  first.     Gee,  I  wish  I  was  managin'  that  'er  team." 

Receiving  no  solace  from  his  first  love — the  sporting  page — Hibby 
resigned  himself  to  searching  the  rest  of  the  paper  for  any  sudden  devel- 
opments which  might  affect  the  position  he  had  recently  assumed  in  the 
business  world.  "Hughes  Blames  Wilson  for  Sinking  of  Lusitania," 
read  Hibby.  "Gosh!"  cried  Hibby,  "don't  dat  boob  know  by  dis 
time  dat  it  wez  the  Germans  done  it!  Gee,  look  who's  here!"  he  sud- 
denly muttered,  stopping  in  his  reading.  "Railroad  Brotherhood  to 
Meet  Tonight — Will  Seriously  Consider  Advisability  of  Strike."  Hibby's 
aged  brow  of  fifteen  summers  wrinkled  itself  in  deep  thought.  "Huh!" 
he  mused;  "thot  it  wez  comin',  but  not  so  dam  quick.  Dis  is  mighty 
serious,  ain't  it?  I'm  glad  I  ain't  got  no  family  to  depend  on  me.  Cru- 
saders' Hall — yeh,  I  know  where  dat  is — down  der  'tween  de  terminal 
and  de  wharf;  I'll  bet  der'U  be  an  awful  gang  der.  Dey  think  dey  got  us 
fellers  scared ;  huh !  we  men  of  de  brotherhood'll  show  'em." 

Ten  minutes  later  "  Hibby  Hosses"  Henkels  caused  quite  a  sensation 
and  no  little  amusement  in  the  baggage  station  where  he  worked,  when 
he  proudly  announced  to  the  men  that  he  was  going  to  attend  the  union 
meeting  that  night. 

"Say,  kid,  how  do  ye  get  dat  way?"  gargled  leery  old  Sam  Ragan. 
"Why,  kid,  dat  'er  infantile  pyralysis'll  get  ye;  ye  had  to  lie  yer  were 
sixteen  to  get  dis  job,  and  now  ye  want  to  throw  it  over." 


134  The  Haverfordian 

This  speech  was  quite  a  blow  to  Hibby's  pride.  "So  dey  think  me 
a  kid,  do  dey?"  he  mused  on  his  way  home.  "Dat  nickname  'Hibby 
Hosses'  is  'sponsible  for  it  all.  I  wish  I  had  never  seen  dat  old  name; 
just  'cause  I  wez  English  and  didn't  know  de  right  name  for dem  carousels 
or  whatever  dey  call  'em,  why,  dey  couldn't  stop  kiddin'  me  and  givin' 
me  dat  nickname.  Dose  men  don't  think  I'm  grown  up,  don't  dey? 
Well,  we  men  of  de  brotherhood '11  show  'em  when  we  walk  out  tonight!" 

The  memorable  meeting  of  that  evening  was  one  which  Hibby  will 
never  forget.  To  be  sure,  there  were  a  number  of  drawbacks — such 
as  the  clouds  of  flies  which  swarmed  as  guests  of  honor  from  the  stables 
next  door  and  which  at  times  hid  the  speakers  from  sight.  Then  also 
there  was  the  intense  heat,  gradually  melting  the  celluloid  collars  and 
sending  forth  a  scorching  smell,  which  was  a  welcome  addition  to  other 
strong  odors,  whose  only  mission  seemed  to  be  that  of  recalling  to  the 
"brothers"  recent  tripe  and  onion  suppers. 

But,  as  far  as  the  meeting  went,  there  is  no  doubt  but  that  it  was  a 
huge  success.  Hibby  was  sure  he  had  never  heard  such  a  wealth  of 
eloquence;  indeed,  there  were  so  many  "brethern"  who  thought  that 
they  had  something  important  to  say  that  five  or  six  of  them  were  often 
on  their  feet  at  the  same  time,  until  it  finally  seemed  to  Hibby  that 
everybody  but  himself  had  taken  a  hand  in  the  argument. 

To  confess  the  truth,  Hibby  didn't  understand  much  of  the  little 
he  was  able  to  hear.  But  he  did  notice  almost  every  speaker  vigorously 
demanding  an  eight-hour  day,  and  instantly  the  idea  appealed  to  him 
strongly.  Hibby  got  out  the  old  oil-can  and  consulted  his  mathematical 
works.  Eight  went  into  twenty- four  three  times;  three  times  75  cents 
was  $2.25,  which  would  be  his  new  pay  if  the  old  twenty-four-hour 
day  were  split  into  three  parts.  Yes,  that  was  much  better;  that  was 
decidedly  worth  working  for!  Hibby  marvelled  to  himself  that  nobody 
had  ever  thought  of  this  scheme  before! 

The  meeting  of  the  brotherhood  was  only  adjourned  at  midnight 
when  the  smoke,  which  had  gathered  in  clouds  along  the  whole  ceiling, 
had  become  so  "husky"  and  powerful  that  Hibby  and  other  novices 
were  coughing  lustily.  "Gee!"  choked  Hibby  as  he  started  home,  "dat 
wez  awful!  I'll  hev  to  start  to  smoke  so  I  can  get  used  to  it;  I  never 
knew  der  were  so  many  things  a  feller  had  to  learn  before  he  could 
becum  a  man!" 

As  he  continued  home  Hibby  remembered  that  one  speaker  had  told 
them  that  they  ought  to  lay  off  work  until  further  notice,  and  it  sud- 
denly dawned  on  Hibby  how  much  it  would  cripple  the  railroads  if  he 
was  not  there  the  next  day  to  load  papers  on  the  trains  and  get  the  mail- 


"We  Men  of  De  Brotherhood"  135 

bags.  For  a  moment  he  felt  that  it  would  be  a  dirty  trick  to  go  back  on 
the  railroad  this  way,  but  only  a  moment  was  required  to  put  his  con- 
science asleep  again.  He  would  strike;  orders  were  orders, — and  every- 
body in  the  brotherhood  would  have  to  act  together  if  they  were  going 
to  accomplish  anything. 

Hibby  further  realized  the  great  need  of  spreading  the  gospel  as  he 
had  heard  it  that  night,  and  just  before  he  reached  home  he  found  his 
first  candidate  for  conversion  in  "Reds"  Nichols,  who  was  loafing  as 
usual  outside  the  corner  drugstore.  Hibby's  own  ideas  were  rather 
hazy  and  muddled,  but  he  determined  to  make  a  big  drive  on  the  eight- 
hour  day  argument,  which  he  felt  he  had  understood  thoroughly. 

"Ye  see,  Reds,"  he  exclaimed,  "it's  dis  way.  Ye  get  paid  fer 
three  days'  work  in  twenty-four  hours  instead  of  jest  fer  one."  By  this 
time  Hibby's  mind  had  grasped  still  more  of  the  intricate  details  of  the 
new  plan.  "And,  Reds,"  he  continued,  "if  ye  only  want  to  work  two 
of  de  three  eight-hour  days,  why,  ye  can  do  it  all  right  and  get  paid  for 
the  work  ye  do  in  de  other  two  eight-hour  days,  which  is  still  twice  as 
much  as  ye  would  get  wid  de  old  twenty-four-hour  day."  Hibby  gasped 
for  breath ;  his  vocal  organs  were  clearly  not  built  for  long-distance  runs. 
But  he  finished  gamely,  "It's  awful  simple!  Do  ye  see.  Reds?"  Un- 
fortunately, "Reds"  didn't,  as  this  was  deep  wading  for  his  feebler 
intellect,  but  he  had  found  a  life-line  in  the  baseball  game  possibility, 
and  this,  together  with  a  treat  of  an  ice-cream  soda,  sent  him  home  a 
ready  convert  after  a  hard  hour's  work.  "Gee,  dis  persuadin's  going 
to  be  some  job,"  muttered  Hibby,  "if  it  takes  dis  long  fer  all  of  'em." 

"Hibby  Hosses"  Henkels  overslept  the  next  morning  until  the 
outrageous  hour  of  eight,  but  he  felt  perfectly  justified  in  his  offence 
because  of  the  realization  that  he  was  now  a  real  striker.  After  teasing 
his  breakfast  with  the  easy  nonchalance  of  a  man  of  leisure,  Hibby 
started  off  towards  the  station  to  see  how  the  strike  was  progressing. 
To  be  sure,  his  sudden  lay-off  would  cripple  the  work  at  the  station,  but 
he  was  deeply  interested  to  see  if  any  train  service  could  possibly  be 
passing  through. 

Suddenly  Hibby  stopped  short.  What  was  that  train  just  pulling 
in?  Hibby  consulted  his  "Yankee."  Yes,  there  was  no  doubt  about 
it;  it  was  the  8.34  on  its  way  into  the  terminal;  and  what  was  even 
worse — it  was  on  time!  Wildly  Hibby  dashed  up  to  his  old  stand  at  the 
baggage  office.  Who  was  that  throwing  a  bag  of  mail  on  that  same 
8.34  just  drawing  out?  A  second  look  and  he  was  certain.  The  fellow 
who  had  thus  captured  his  job  was  no  other  than  "Reds"  Nichols 
himself!    Hibby's  head  began  to  spin  from  dizziness.     "What's  up?" 


136  The  Haverfordian 

he  asked  "Reds,"  as  he  groped  vainly  for  some  explanation  of  this 
puzzle.  "What's  up?"  echoed  "Reds"  with  a  snort;  "why,  y'er  up, 
ye  nut.  Der  ain't  no  strike,  and  de  bosses  and  de  men  are  going  to 
operate  de  whole  bus'ness  wi'  de  President." 

"Traitors  to  de  cause,  traitors — Reds  and  de  whole  blame  gang 
of  'em,"  were  the  only  words  at  all  intelligible  out  of  the  monologue 
with  which  "Hibby"  nursed  his  grief  on  the  way  home.  Sad  and  dis- 
pirited, he  steered  for  the  home  haven,  but  here  also  the  gods  cruelly 
arrayed  themselves  against  him,  and  not  even  an  honorable  retreat 
was  permitted  his  outraged  dignity.  For,  as  "Hibby  Hosses"  Henkels 
slunk  past  the  gate,  there  stood  his  mother  awaiting  him  on  the  doorstep, 
with  a  twinkle  in  her  eye  and  a  still  more  familiar  object  in  her  hand. 

"Samuel  Gompers,  Jr.,"  she  said  quietly,  "will  you  please  get  me 
a  bucket  of  coal?" 

—Kenneth  W.  Webb,  '18. 


An  anxious  hush!  A  muttered  word, 

A  light  within  the  sky; 
A  mother-heart' s  delighted  gasp, 

A  father's  relieved  sigh. 

A  sound  of  bells!  An  organ  peals 

The  wedding's  merry  tide; 
A  blushing  bride  who  feels  with  joy 

Her  husband  by  her  side. 

A  solemn  hush!  A  tear-stained  face, 

The  organ's  solemn  tone; — 
Another  soul  has  left  the  clay, 

Another's  work  is  done. 

— Robert  Gibson,  '17. 


€iaiiiti&m  in  tfje  ^reat  0tti  of  Sifofjn  Witats 

THE  most  casual  reader  will  observe  that  Keats  is  primarily  a 
romanticist.  Many  of  his  admirers  will  see  that  realism  is  also 
a  fundamental  element  in  all  of  his  poetry.  The  critic  knows 
that  there  is  also  a  vein  of  classicism  lurking  here  and  there  among  his 
gorgeous  colorings.  In  the  light  of  the  best  modern  interpretations  of 
romanticism,  classicism,  and  realism,  there  is  an  abundance  of  proof  to 
substantiate  the  claim  that  Keats'  great  odes  are  primarily  classical. 
Prof.  William  Allen  Neilson,  of  Harvard  University,  in  his  "Essentials 
of  Poetry,"  gives  an  admirable  working  definition  of  these  three  terms. 
The  primary  element  of  romanticism  is  imagination;  of  classicism, 
intellectual  appeal ;  and  of  realism,  the  sense  of  fact.  The  predominat- 
ing element  is  the  determining  factor  in  deciding  into  which  of  the 
three  classes  the  poem  falls.  If  there  is  a  predominance  of  imagination, 
the  poem  is  romantic;  if  there  is  a  predominance  of  intellectual  appeal, 
the  poem  is  classic;  and  if  there  is  a  predominance  of  the  sense  of  fact, 
the  poem  is  realistic. 

In  the  odes  Keats  makes  a  sudden  transition  from  the  primarily 
sensuous  to  the  intellectual.  This  is  not  to  say  that  the  lover  of  sheer 
beauty  is  disappointed  in  finding  this  element  in  the  odes,  but  the  appeal 
and  the  interest  are  far  greater  to  one  in  whom  the  love  of  the  beautiful 
and  the  intellectual  are  fused.  The  odes  have  the  power  of  evoking 
deep  thought,  and  the  interest  is  primarily  intellectual,  though  the 
thought  is  couched  in  the  beautiful  phraseology  of  which  Keats  had 
now  become  complete  master.  The  most  striking  things  about  the 
odes  are  a  sense  of  quietness,  of  reserve,  restraint,  harmony,  and  a 
chaste,  austere  beauty  of  language  and  expression. 

In  most  of  the  odes  the  poet  develops  a  complete,  rounded  idea. 
No  undue  proportion  is  given  to  any  part,  but  all  parts  are  fused  to- 
gether to  form  a  complete,  harmonious,  and  perfect  whole.  In  the  ode 
to  "Psyche,"  Keats  reincarnates  the  spirit  of  the  ancient  Greek  who 
laments  that  Psyche  was  not  included  in  "Olympus'  faded  hierarchy." 
She  has  no  temple, 

"Nor  altar  heap'd  with  flowers; 
Nor  Virgin-choir  to  make  delicious  moan 

Upon  the  midnight  hours; 
No  voice,  no  lute,  no  pipe,  no  incense  sweet 

From  chain-swung  censer  teeming; 
No  shrine,  no  grove,  no  oracle,  no  heat 
Of  pale-mouth' d  prophet  dreaming." 


138  The  Haverfordian 

But  he  would  be  all  these  to  her,  and  there  would  be  for  her 

"all  soft  delight 
That  shadowy  thought  can  win, 
A  bright  torch,  and  a  casement  ope  at  night. 
To  let  the  warm  Love  in!" 
The  ode  "On  Melancholy"    is   emotional,  but  the  interest  centers, 
not  in  the  emotional  field,  but  in  the  intellectual,  for  the  poet  discloses 
a  psychological  truth.     He  grasps  the  truth  that  melancholy  does  not 
exist  in  the  morbid  aspects  of  life.    The  one  who  feels  the  keenest  sorrow 
is  the  one  who  has  felt  the  highest  ecstasies  of  joy.     Melancholy  dwells 
with  "Beauty  that  must  die,"  joy  that  is  taking  leave,  and  pleasure 
that  is  turning  to  pain.     No  more  classical  expression  could  be  wished 
for  than  the  terse  lines : 

"whose  strenuous  tongue 
Can  burst  Joy's  grape  against  his  palate  fine." 
It  is  the  very  essence  of  all  descriptions  of  sensuous  delights  crystallized 
into  a  phrase. 

It  would  be  folly  to  deny  that  the  "Ode  to  a  Nightingale"  is  richly 
romantic.  It  contains  three  of  the  most  romantic  lines  in  all  English 
poetry: 

"  The  same  that  oft-times  hath 
Charm'd  magic  casements,  opening  on  the  foam 
Of  perilous  seas,  in  faery  lands  forlorn." 
Analysis  cannot  be  applied  to  these  lines.      They  baffle  all  analysis. 
But  there  is  an  elusive,  haunting  suggestiveness  in  them  that  stirs  the 
imagination  and  the  emotions  to  their  depths,  leaving  an  unsatisfied 
yearning  of  soul.      On  the  other  hand,  it  would  be  equally  foolish  to 
deny  that  there  are  characteristics  that  are  essentially  classic.     It  follows 
a  clear  line  of  thought  along  spiritual  lines,  and  ends  with  a  psychological 
truth.     The  poet  is  analyzing  his  own  spiritual  self. 

The  poet's  soul  is  stirred  by  the  passionate  sweetness  of  the  night- 
ingale's song,  and  he  feels  a  thrill  of  ecstatic  happiness.  How  is  he  to 
have  a  continuance  of  this  happiness?  He  first  thinks  of  wine,  and 
hopes  with  this  to  fade  away  with  the  bird, 

"  Fade  far  away,  dissolve,  and  quite  forget 


The  weariness,  the  fever,  and  the  fret." 
of  the  sad  world.     But  he  sees  the  futility  of  this  means,  and  seizes 
upon  poetry  as  a  means  of  satisfying  this  longing.     He  forgets  for  the 
moment  the  visible  world  about  him,  turns  his  gaze  inward,  and  muses 


Classicism  in  the  Great  Odes  of  John  Keats  139 

upon  death,  which  under  the  spell  of  the  bird's  song  would  bring  no 
pain,  but  come  as  a  relief.  To  him  the  bird's  song  is  a  symbol  of  the 
eternal  beauty  and  joy  of  the  universe. 

"  The  voice  I  hear  this  passing  night  was  heard 

In  ancient  days  by  emperor  and  clown: 
Perhaps  the  self-sa7ne  song  that  found  a  path 

Through  the  sad  heart  of  Ruth,  when,  sick  for  home, 
She  stood  in  tears  amid  the  alien  corn." 

Then  the  departure  of  the  bird  shatters  the  illusion.  The  world  of 
reality  with  its  sorrows  and  struggles  and  grim  facts  of  life  forces  itself 
upon  the  poet's  attention,  and  he  realizes  with  bitter  regret  that  "fancy 
cannot  cheat  so  well  as  she  is  famed  to  do."  If  unity,  wholeness  of  idea, 
and  intellectual  appeal  are  classical  tendencies,  this  ode  contains  some 
elements  of  classicism. 

It  is  undoubtedly  in  the  "Ode  on  a  Grecian  Urn"  that  Keats  reaches 
his  most  perfect  classical  expression.  In  this  ode  he  has  caught  the 
true  Grecian  spirit, — the  philosophy  of  beauty,  the  spirit  of  harmony, 
the  supreme  value  of  art.  The  ode  is  his  expression  of  his  philosophy 
of  the  ideal.  He  muses  upon  the  carvings  on  a  Grecian  urn.  There 
are  the  boughs  of  trees  that  can  never  shed  their  leaves,  the  fair  youth 
that  pipes  a  never-tiring  song,  the  lover  ever  pursuing  but  never  grasp- 
ing the  maiden,  the  sacrificial  altar,  the  priest  leading  the  garlanded 
heifer  and  the  following  multitude.  The  poet  is  gripped  by  the  revela- 
tion that  art  is  able  to  confer  immortality,  that  the  carved  urn  is  a 
symbol  of  something  eternal.  The  deeper  realities  of  life  must  be  in 
the  realm  of  idealism.  Realization  is  not  enduring.  The  greatest 
happiness  lies  in  the  pursuit  of  an  ideal,  not  in  its  attainment.  Realiza- 
tion is  in  the  field  of  temporal  objects;  ideals  are  eternal.  It  has  been 
said  that  this  ode  treats  a  classical  idea  in  a  romantic  manner.  To 
such  as  hold  that  view  this  question  may  be  put:  Which  element  is 
more  prominent,  the  imagination  or  the  reason,  the  intellectual  appeal? 
Realism  likewise  is  prominent.  The  urn  is  minutely  described;  it 
stands  out  in  sharp  relief.  It  is  true  that  realism  often  sets  the  imagina- 
tion working,  but  here  the  imagination  is  curbed  by  the  deep  thought 
of  the  poem,  and  it  seems  the  inevitable  conclusion  to  admit  that  classi- 
cism is  the  predominating  feature. 

— Albert  H.  Stone,  '16. 


tlTfje  ^ons  of  ttie  S>ubmarine 

We  have  cut  our  cables  to  the  wind. 

While  -we  plow  for  the  open  sea; 
Beneath  wind-hounded  comber  tops, 

Our  homers  the  churn  of  the  Channel  chops, 
Grim  guards  of  the  fleet  are  we. 

The  song  of  the  chase,  of  the  wild,  hard  chase, 

Burns  through  our  motor's  drum. 
The  Teuton  fleet  may  be  far  or  near. 

Its  death  blood  cost  may  be  high  and  dear. 
For  our  task  is  but  yet  begun. 

The  wild,  white  horses  hide  our  trail, 

For  sisters  of  death  are  we; 
Tonight  we  must  slink  from  the  searchlight's  glare, 

From  its  shifting,  blinding,  ghastly  stare. 
Till  our  chance  in  the  gloom  we  see. 

Then  unleashed  death  shall  leap  from  our  wombs. 

For  the  great,  grey  monsters'  breasts; 
Till  with  grinding  roar  and  writhing  steel. 

With  hurtling  men  and  shattered  keel. 
They  plunge  through  the  cold,  green  depths. 

0,  we've  cut  our  cables  loose  to  the  winds. 

We  are  lurching  far  and  free; 
'Neath  the  thund'ring  combers  crashing  by, 

'Neath  the  howling  gales  and  cloud-rent  sky. 
We  are  queens  of  the  great  high  sea. 

—A.  D.  Oliver,  '19. 


3^um 

IT  was  that  dead  period  in  the  life  of  the  metropoUs  between  mid- 
night  and  the  early  signs  of  stirring  humanity.  The  sky  itself  was 
dark,  impenetrable,  but  above,  the  glittering  electric  bulbs  still 
flourished  forth  the  war-cries  of  commerce.  The  broad  avenue  was 
empty.  Its  emptiness  amused  me  and  I  laughed.  The  illuminations 
above  me,  the  long  line  of  ornamental  arc  posts  that  stretched  out  in 
two  long  lines  until  they  met  in  one  bright  streak  in  the  distance  amused 
me.  I  laughed  again,  uproariously.  Very  funny.  A  figure  strode 
rapidly  along  toward  me.  At  first  I  could  only  distinguish  the  general 
mass.  My  drink-sodden  nerves  refused  to  concentrate  under  the  direc- 
tion of  my  half-paralyzed  brain.  Deucedly  humorous.  I  gave  vent 
to  another  burst  of  mirth.  The  figure,  whatever  it  was,  now  stood 
immediately  before  me,  but  I  could  no  longer  see  the  lights  of  the  prom- 
enade. 

"Come,  come.  I  had  better  call  a  cab,  sir.  It  is  getting  quite 
late  and  it  will  rain  shortly." 

Rain?  Rain,  when  all  the  lights  of  the  town  forbade  it?  How 
stupid!  No.  It  was  humorous.  I  sat  down  on  the  curb,  leaned  against 
the  cold  iron  of  the  arc  post  and  laughed  hysterically.  Again  I  heard 
the  voice.     It  had  become  quite  gruff. 

"I'll  have  to  run  you  in  unless  you  get  along,  sir.  If  you  have  a 
card  I'll  send  you  home." 

My  trembling,  flabby  hand  brushed  along  the  filthy  cement  and 
came  in  contact  with  a  bit  of  paper.  My  fingers  involuntarily  clenched 
it  in  a  spasmodic  grip.  I  could  no  longer  speak,  but  I  could  hear.  I 
sensed  the  hovering  presence  of  the  unreal  mass  which  spoke  to  me. 
I  felt  him  take  the  particle  of  paper  from  my  nerveless  finger  tips.  I 
heard  him  read  the  scrap  aloud.  It  contained  an  address  and  he  thought 
it  mine.  I  wanted  to  laugh  again,  but  I  was  sleepy.  A  long  time  after 
I  felt  myself  placed  in  a  conveyance,  but  I  soon  fell  into  a  state  of  com- 
plete unconsciousness. 

My  head  ached.  I  could  not  move  because  of  bonds  that  were 
fastened  about  my  ankles  and  wrists.  I  tried  to  roll  over  to  a  side,  but 
my  muscles  refused  to  perform  their  function  under  the  terrible  con- 
ditions of  inflammation.  I  opened  my  burning  eyes  and  tried  to  under- 
stand my  situation.  A  kind  of  twilight  surrounded  me.  The  place 
was  damp,  and  mould  covered  the  rough  bagging  on  which  I  lay.  A 
sickening  odor  of  decaying  matter  pervaded  the  air.     In  a  rage  I  raised 


142  The  Haverfordian 

myself  partly,  in  spite  of  the  pain,  and   kicked   out  savagely  with  my 
feet.     They  encountered  nothing  and  fell  back  to  the  floor. 

Added  to  my  other  misfortunes  was  my  unquenched  craving  for 
liquor.  My  tongue,  like  a  felt  wad,  irritated  my  palate  and  the  dry 
roof  of  my  mouth.  The  vivid  pictures  of  various  beverages  danced 
before  my  eyes.  I  became  absolutely  furious.  I  shouted,  shrieked 
and  howled.  I  kicked  about  in  all  directions  without  producing  any 
effect  excepting  the  torture  of  my  crying  muscles.  The  hours  passed 
one  by  one  until  it  seemed  an  eternity  must  have  passed.  At  length 
a  scratching  somewhere  in  the  dark  unknown  before  me  became  apparent. 
A  heavy  weight  fell  and  rolled  some  distance.  The  deep,  hollow  blast 
of  a  marine  whistle  reverberated  through  the  ensuing  stillness.  A 
monotonous  swishing  which  I  had  overlooked  and  had  not  listened  to 
carefully  before,  now  became  greater.  The  floor  on  which  I  rested 
tipped  from  end  to  end.  A  sudden  lurch  threw  me  against  a  wet,  slimy 
surface  and  instinctively  I  recoiled.  The  finding  of  at  least  one  vertical 
surface  gave  me  a  certain  sense  of  relief.  I  rolled  over  and  over  until  I 
again  came  in  contact  with  the  wet  object.  I  rubbed  my  face  against 
the  thing  and  felt  the  rough  iron  of  the  hoop  and  the  parallel  crevices 
where  the  staves  touched  each  other  and  came  to  the  conclusion  that 
the  article  was  a  keg. 

Convinced  that  here  was  something  to  alleviate  my  suffering,  I 
began  to  reason  as  to  the  best  method  to  accomplish  my  end.  I  en- 
deavored to  stand  up,  but,  being  tightly  bound,  I  fell  repeatedly  before 
I  had  even  reached  a  stooping  position.  By  this  time  the  exercise  had 
somewhat  limbered  me,  and  finally,  after  many  attempts,  I  reached 
an  erect  posture.  By  leaning  forward  my  shoulder  touched  the  top 
end  of  the  keg.  Summoning  all  my  strength,  I  gave  a  heave  and  pushed 
upward  with  my  legs.  I  had  not  exerted  my  force  on  the  centre  of  the 
keg  and  it  merely  revolved.  I  hopped  nearer  and  tried  again.  Little 
by  little,  exerting  myself  so  that  the  thing  would  not  turn,  I  forced  it 
to  a  tipping  angle.  With  a  final  shove  it  fell  and  rolled  off  into  the 
dark  unknown.  I  too  had  fallen  to  the  floor,  and  now  I  looked  about, 
but,  as  before,  could  see  nothing.  I  spent  the  greater  part  of  what 
seemed  to  me  several  hours  rolling  here  and  there  after  the  elusive  keg. 
At  last  I  found  it,  and,  rubbing  my  face  over  it,  found  the  bung.  I 
tried  to  draw  out  the  cone  of  wood  with  my  teeth,  but  it  was  too  firmly 
hammered  in.  I  then  rolled  on  to  my  back  and  kicked  the  stopper 
from  side  to  side  until  I  felt  it  loosen.  I  was  now  able  to  move  the 
thing  with  my  teeth  and  as  I  clenched  it  in  my  wide-opened  mouth  I 
already  could  feel  the  water  trickling  out.     With  a  twisting  pull  I  re- 


Rum  143 

moved  the  plug.  The  water  gushed  out  over  my  face,  breast  and  arms 
and  almost  choked  me.  Wet,  cold,  and  miserable,  but  with  my  burn- 
ing thirst  quenched,  I  lay  there. 

A  sound  as  of  someone  descending  a  stairway  aroused  me.  A 
key  rattled  in  a  lock.  A  door  opened  and  the  sudden  light,  although 
not  intense,  blinded  me.  After  a  time  I  opened  my  eyes  and  saw  before 
me  a  short,  bearded  fellow  with  white,  baggy  trousers  and  blue  blouse. 
Upon  the  left  arm  I  could  distinguish  chevrons.  His  hair  was  close- 
cropped  and  very  black.  His  bare  feet  pattered  as  he  walked  past  me 
and  examined  the  keg  I  had  emptied.  His  little  black  eyes  twinkled 
mischievously  as  he  looked  from  one  comer  to  the  other  of  the  com- 
partment. He  spoke  several  times  in  a  strange  tongue,  more  to  him- 
self, I  judged,  than  to  address  me.  Then  he  came  over  and  untied  my 
bonds,  carefully  rolling  the  rope  into  a  loop,  which  he  placed  under  his 
arm.  He  spoke  again  and  by  means  of  his  gestures  I  understood  that 
I  was  to  stand  up.  He  took  my  arm  and  led  me  through  the  same  door 
by  which  he  had  entered,  carefully  locking  it  behind  him.  We  could 
not  go  up  the  narrow  steps  side  by  side,  so  he  politely  stepped  to  one 
side  and  allowed  me  to  precede  him.  As  I  reached  the  top  I  stepped 
out  upon  a  grey  deck.  Ventilating  funnels  protruded  from  the  surface 
at  intervals.  The  paint  was  peeling  off  from  rails  and  woodwork  alike. 
A  few  rusty  three-inch  guns  were  covered  with  tarpaulins  and  were 
at  various  angles  in  relation  to  the  turrets. 

After  a  time  I  glanced  back  for  the  bearded  guide,  but  found  that 
he  had  disappeared.  A  narrow  gray  strip  of  land  could  just  be  dis- 
cerned from  the  port  side.  Trembling  for  want  of  my  accustomed 
stimulation,  but  firm  in  purpose,  I  strode  forward.  Three  ofificers  were 
standing  close  together  on  the  low  and  inconspicuous  bridge.  Without 
stopping  I  climbed  the  ladder  that  led  upward  and  stepped  upon  the 
platform.  To  my  surprise  I  was  not  even  accosted  by  the  three  men, 
who  appeared  to  take  my  presence  as  a  matter  of  course.  I  stepped 
directly  in  front  of  a  tall,  lean  fellow  and  glared  at  him. 

"What  do  you  think  you  are  doing  with  me?"  I  roared. 

The  fellow  stooped  politely  and  spoke  in  what  I  believe  was  Spanish. 
He  then  turned  and  strode  away.  I  placed  myself  in  front  of  the  second 
and  repeated  my  former  question.  The  second  merely  bowed,  and, 
saying  nothing  likewise,  strode  away.  When  I  addressed  the  third,  a 
portly  old  gentleman  with  gray  hair  and  a  ferocious  black  mustache, 
I  received  a  far  different  result.  He  glared  back  at  me  until  I  trembled 
for  my  safety.  His  hands  moved  convulsively  as  if  he  would  like  to 
seize  me  by  the  throat.     He  spoke  in  the  same  strange  tongue  which 


-144  The  Haveefordian 

1  was  unable  to  understand.  Since  I  answered  nothing  and  merely 
■gazed  blankly  at  him,  he  became  more  angry  than  ever.  Then,  with  a 
suddenness  that  almost  staggered  me,  he  spoke  in  excellent  English. 

"Well,  Victor  d'Estrada,  you  may  carry  this  farce  as  far  as  you 
like,  but  you  are  going  back.     Do  you  hear?    You  are  going  back." 

"Going  back?     Back  where? " 

"Back  where?"  he  shrieked. 

' '  Yes.    Back  where  ? ' ' 

He  broke  forth  with  a  new  flood  of  indistinguishable  words.  Again 
I  thought  that  he  would  strike  me  and  I  flinched  before  his  flaming 
eyes  of  hate.  Unconsciously,  I  could  not  return  that  strange,  angry 
glance. 

I  fumbled  in  an  inner  pocket  and  found  my  wallet.  It  was  soggy 
with  water.  I  opened  it  and  tried  to  pull  out  one  of  my  cards,  but 
the  moisture  had  attacked  the  paper  and  reduced  it  to  mere  pulp.  Angrily 
I  tossed  the  mass  into  the  sea. 

"I  want  some  drink,"  I  said  finally. 

"Traitor!"  sneered  the  old  gentleman,  and  spoke  rapidly  to  a 
sailor  below.  The  sailor  ascended  part-way  up  the  ladder  and  stood 
there.  The  two  other  officers,  who,  during  the  unpleasant  scene  with 
the  irritable  old  fellow,  had  stood  to  one  side,  now  came  forward,  and, 
grasping  me  by  both  arms,  forced  me  to  the  ladder,  which  I  slowly 
descended  as  the  sailor  below  pulled  me  downward  by  my  coat. 

"Can't  you  get  me  something  to  drink?"    I  inquired  of  the  fellow. 

He  shrugged  his  shoulders,  as  if  to  say,  "I  cannot  understand  you." 

I  was  placed  in  a  square  cabin  that  contained  a  very  small  port 
hole  and  a  cot.  The  door  was  locked  from  the  outside.  My  craving 
for  rum  maddened  me.  I  cared  not  for  what  might  become  of  me,  but 
I  had  to  have  rum.  I  seized  the  narrow  cot  and  threw  it  against  the 
door.  It  gave.  I  picked  up  a  piece  of  metal  that  had  been  broken 
from  a  lever,  and  with  desperation  forced  the  door.  I  crouched  in  a 
bend  between  two  turrets  as  a  bare-footed  sailor  pattered  by.  At  length 
I  reached  the  galley  and  crept  in.  In  a  narrow  cupboard  I  saw  bottles 
of  wine  and  whiskey  flasks.  Between  us  stood  a  white-aproned  negro 
cook.  Stealthily  I  crept  upon  him.  As  I  stood  but  a  foot  behind  him 
I  struck  with  the  iron  and  he  fell  at  my  feet  with  a  groan.  I  seized  a 
bottle  and  drank  greedily.  Just  as  I  had  drained  it  a  sailor  entered  and, 
seeing  me,  stood  aghast.  The  heavy  bottle  made  an  excellent  weapon. 
I  rushed  toward  him,  not  so  much  for  self-defense  as  for  the  blood  lust 
that  the  liquor  instilled  in  me.  I  raised  the  bottle  aloft  and  brought 
it  down  upon  his  head  with  all  the  strength  of  fury.     The  glass  broke 


Rum  145 

into  fragments,  but  did  not  entirely  overcome  my  opponent,  who  shouted 
and  backed  out  to  the  deck,  where  he  suddenly  fell  prone  upon  his 
face.  I  locked  the  door  and  began  to  empty  another  bottle.  I  could 
hear  the  blows  of  axes  on  the  door,  but  it  was  covered  with  heavy  metal 
and  they  made  slight  headway.  I  drank  on  and  on  and  on.  At  length 
I  slid  slowly  to  the  floor,  completely  overpowered  by  the  liquor. 
******** 

My  head  was  propped  up  with  several  soft  pillows.  A  rolling 
motion  made  me  terribly  sick.  The  walls  were  white  and  spotless.  A 
heavy  roll  of  gauze  was  tightly  wound  about  my  head.  I  raised  my 
hand  to  my  forehead. 

"Don't  move,  if  you  please,"  said  a  pleasant  voice  at  my  side. 
"I  might  mention  that  the  less  you  speak  the  better,  since  there  are 
several  stitches  in  your  lip  and  your  nose  is  broken.  In  case  you  are 
curious  to  know  what  happened  to  you,  I  will  explain  briefly  the  cir- 
cumstances. You  were  picked  up  in  an  intoxicated  condition  and 
driven  to  what  the  driver  evidently  believed  to  be  your  address.  It 
happened  that  you  resembled  a  certain  fugitive  from  Nicaraguan  jus- 
tice, if  such  a  thing  exists.  The  place  to  which  you  were  taken  was  the 
residence  of  the  Nicaraguan  representative  of  commercial  interests  and 
you  were  removed  to  a  vessel  bound  for  Matino  Bay.  In  a  wild  orgie 
you  killed  a  negro  chef  and  almost  did  the  same  with  a  common  sailor. 
You  are  now  on  the  cruiser  Canada,  which  overhauled  the  Puerto  Her- 
radura  for  irregularities  in  her  clearance  papers.  We  just  about  got 
you  in  time,  though." 

He  saw  that  I  was  about  to  speak,  and  motioned  for  me  to  stop. 
I  persisted  and   mumbled  through  my  crippled  lips  in  a  weak  manner. 

"Say,  Doc,  can't  I  have  something  to  drink?" 

—H.  P.  Schenck,  '18. 


mt  tfte  ©eatf)  of  C — 

I. 

It  was  but  yesterday  .... 

A  peal  of  laughter  gay, 

The  rustle  of  a  soft  and  silken  dress, 

Upon  my  cheek  the  fragrance  of  her  breath, 

Her  eyes  moist  with  eternal  tenderness, 

Whilst  in  the  shadows  leered  the  face  of  Death. 

II. 

Before  you  leave  this  place. 

Look  but  once  more  upon  her  pallid  face. 

Lay  but  once  more  your  cheek  against  her  breast 

And  say: 

"May  she  find  peace  and  rest — 

And  pardon  all  the  bitter  things  I  said  .  .  .  .  " 

Bend  low. 

Kiss  her  cold  mouth  and  hold  her  heavy  head, 

Then  go 

Away 

And  leave  me  here  together  with  my  dead  .... 

III. 

She  died  last  night,  my  friend — 
And  yet  I  hear  her  step  upon  the  stair, 

And  yet  I  smell  the  fragrance  of  her  hair 

Surely  this  cannot  be  the  end. 

— /.  G.  Clemenceau  Le  Clercq,  '18. 


Jflat  i?o.  4 

You  say  he  was  quite  dead  when  he  was  discovered.     I  suppose  he 
had  no  known  enemies?" 
"No,  and  that  is  what  makes  it  look  so  bad  for  young  John- 
son.   But  I  really  do  not  believe  that  the  kid  did  it.     He  isn't  that  kind." 

"  Do  you  mind  going  over  the  details  once  more?  The  case  interests 
me  and  I  am  afraid  I  missed  something." 

Harden  sat  back  in  his  big  armchair,  took  a  last  regretful  pufif  at 
his  cigarette;  then,  tossing  it  into  the  flaming  wood  fire  before  him, 
he  looked  over  at  his  fiancee  where  she  lay  huddled  in  one  corner  of  the 
big  divan,  her  chin  in  her  hand,  gazing  meditatively  into  the  fire,  and 
began. 

"Well,  you  see  it  was  like  this.  Last  night  about  ten  the  patrol- 
man at  Twelfth  and  Maple  called  me  up  and  asked  me  to  come  immedi- 
ately to  1215  Maple.  I  went,  and  it  turned  out  to  be  this  murder  case. 
The  house  is  an  apartment  house  for  bachelors,  and  the  murdered  man 
was  a  Jacob  Hepworth.  It  seems  that  there  had  been  a  poker  game 
earlier  in  the  evening  and  Johnson,  who  rooms  in  the  same  house,  had 
lost  heavily.  Some  of  the  participants  had  engagements  for  the  eve- 
ning and  the  game  broke  up  about  nine-thirty.  About  nine-forty  the 
policeman  on  that  beat  heard  a  shot,  and  shortly  afterwards  was  called 
to  the  house  by  the  butler.  He  found  Hepworth  sitting  bolt  upright 
in  a  chair,  stone  dead.  On  the  table  before  him  was  a  pile  of  poker 
chips  and  money,  and  in  his  hand  was  a  revolver  in  which  one  chamber 
was  empty.  Johnson,  who  rooms  below  him,  was  the  first  man  to 
reach  him  after  the  shot.  He  was  in  the  room  when  the  servants  and 
other  occupants  of  the  house  entered.  He  says  he  was  quite  dead  when 
he  arrived. 

"At  first  the  case  looked  like  a  simple  suicide,  but  that  theory  was 
soon  dispelled.  The  shot  had  not  been  fired  from  the  weapon  in  the 
dead  man's  hand,  for  the  barrel  was  perfectly  clean,  and  although  the 
bullet  had  entered  Hepworth 's  brain  through  his  eye,  there  were  no 
powder  marks  on  his  face.  Besides,  very  few  people  will  choose  the 
eye  for  a  mark  when  committing  suicide.  There  is  something  too 
awful  and  terrible  in  the  thought  of  anything  piercing  the  eye. 

"Of  course,  Johnson  was  arrested,  and  the  case  against  him  looks 
pretty  bad.  You  see,  no  one  had  seen  him  leave  the  room  after  the 
game,  for  he  was  the  last  to  leave.  Then  he  was  on  bad  terms  with  his 
father  and  feared  to  face  him  after  incurring  such  hea\^  gambling 
debts.      It  is  thought  that  he  stayed  and  quarreled  with  Hepworth 


148  The  Haverfordian 

over  the  money,  finally  shooting  him  in  a  fit  of  rage.  We  found  the 
missing  cartridge  from  the  dead  man's  revolver  in  his  room,  though 
how—" 

"And  did  you  find  the  revolver  he  was  shot  with?"  interrupted 
Yvette. 

"No,  and  that  is  the  one  big  point  in  his  favor.  The  weapon  has 
not  been  found." 

"Who  are  the  other  occupants  of  the  house?" 

"A  rheumatic  civil  war  veteran  who  lives  next  door  to  him,  two 
young  men  who  live  below,  and  the  butler  who  lives  in  the  third  story. 
The  house  is  of  the  type  known  as  a  "twin,"  with  two  apartments,  one 
over  the  other,  on  each  side.  Hepworth  had  the  upper  left  hand  apart- 
ment. It  was  in  his  rooms  that  the  game  was  held.  Murdock,  the 
old  soldier  I  mentioned,  has  the  upper  right  hand  rooms,  downstairs  on 
the  left  a  young  lawyer  named  Arden  lives,  and  in  the  other  apartment 
a  man  named  Somes.  On  the  third  floor  the  butler  has  his  quarters. 
His  den  is  directly  over  the  partition  between  the  lower  four  apartments, 
so  that  any  occupant  of  the  house  can  call  him  at  any  time  through 
the  speaking  tube  that  runs  up  through  the  partition.  He  was  the 
second  man  to  arrive  on  the  scene  and  the  one  who  summoned  the  police." 

"You  spoke  of  the  servants  appearing." 

"I  was  slightly  inaccurate.  All  the  men  take  their  meals  out  and 
there  is  but  the  one  servant,  but  that  evening  he  had  a  friend  staying 
with  him — his  nephew,  I  believe." 

Yvette  changed  her  position  to  one,  which,  if  not  dignified,  was  at 
least  graceful  and  easily  to  be  forgiven  one  who  looked  so  very  much 
like  a  tired  child. 

"I  have  had  a  hard  day  and  I  have  not  been  good  company  for 
you,  but  I  am  very  much  interested  in  this  story.  Now  let  us  take  up 
the  case  of  each  person  who  is  concerned  so  far  as  we  know." 

"  I  think  that  you  are  setting  about  the  solution  in  the  only  possible 
way,  for  from  the  circumstances  it  seems  impossible  that  that  particular 
wound  could  have  been  inflicted  from  outside  the  house  or  that  the 
murderer  could  have  gotten  away  from  the  house  after  the  commission 
of  the  crime.  Really,  the  only  solution  I  can  see  is  Johnson.  As  I 
said,  the  case  is  very  strong  against  him  and well,  let  us  take  Mur- 
dock first." 

"What  do  you  know  of  him?" 

"Practically  nothing  at  all  except  that  he  is  an  old  soldier  and 
seldom  goes  away  from  the  house.  The  only  possible  case  I  can  see 
against  him  is  that  he  may  have  an  ancient  grievance  against  Hep- 


Flat  No.  4  149 

worth  and  have  shot  him,  then  concealed  himself  in  an  adjoining  room 
till  the  butler  entered  and  left  again  to  summon  the  police.  He  was 
the  first  man  on  the  scene.  I  think  I  shall  look  up  his  past  life  to- 
morrow." 

"So  far,  so  good.     Now  who  is  the  next  man?" 

"Let  us  take  Somes,  who  lives  under  Murdock.  He  was  one  of 
the  poker  players.  The  supposition  in  this  case  would  be  that  he  came 
back  after  Johnson  had  left,  and  threatened  Hepworth  with  a  loaded 
revolver,  meaning  to  rob  him.  Probably  due  to  some  accident,  the 
thing  went  off  and  Somes,  frightened  at  the  deed,  did  not  dare  take 
the  money,  but  waited  in  one  of  the  adjoining  rooms  till  an  opportunity 
presented  itself  and  then  escaped." 

"Where  does  he  say  he  was  at  the  time  of  the  murder?" 

"Oh,  he  has  a  good  enough  alibi,  but  that  may  be  accounted  for 
by  the  fact  that  he  purposely  misled  the  man  he  was  with  into  thinking 
that  it  was  earlier  in  the  evening  than  was  actually  the  case.  He  may 
have  set  back  his  watch  and  then  showed  it  to  him,  for  instance." 

"How  about  the  other  man,  Arden?" 

"There  is  the  man  I  suspect.  He  gave  us  an  alibi  which  I  have 
proved  to  be  utterly  false.  Besides  that,  he  is  a  criminal  lawyer,  as  is 
Hepworth.  It  is  possible  that  the  latter  antagonized  him  in  some 
way  till  his  hatred  led  him  to  the  killing  stage.  His  getaway  was  prob- 
ably arranged  as  I  indicated  before.  He  must  have  waited  a  favorable 
opportunity  and  then  slipped  out." 

"Does  not  that  getaway  idea  sound  a  little  improbable  to  you?" 

"Not  very.  And  besides,  although  no  one  saw  Arden  during  the 
excitement  or  saw  him  come  in  later  when  the  house  was  under  guard, 
he  was  found  in  his  room  under  Hepworth's  the  next  morning.  He 
may  simply  have  gone  downstairs  to  his  room  after  the  shooting.  Nothing 
downstairs  was  searched  that  night.  Besides,  why  should  he  offer  that 
totally  false  alibi?" 

"First  instinct  of  a  criminal  lawyer.  Now,  how  about  the  butler 
and  his  friend?" 

"It  does  not  seem  to  me  that  they  can  possibly  be  implicated. 
However,  we  may  suppose  a  case  by  supposing  a  plot  to  rob  the  old 
man  and  then  being  scared  by  the  crime  they  had  committed  and 
calling  the  police.    What  is  your  judgment?" 

"  I  can  form  none  as  yet.  I  want  to  go  with  you  and  visit  John- 
son and  the  scene  of  the  murder  in  the  morning.  And  now  let  us  talk 
of  something  more  cheerful." 


150  The  Havertordian 

PART  II 

The  next  morning  promptly  at  ten  Harden  called  for  his  fiancee 
and  they  went  to  the  house  at  1215  Maple,  stopping  on  their  way  for  a 
short  interview  with  Johnson  in  his  cell.  The  young  man  was  half 
desperate  with  anxiety,  and,  due  no  doubt  to  his  excited  state  of 
mind,  could  scarcely  tell  a  connected  story.  His  version  was  that 
he  had  left  Hepworth  and  was  in  his  room  when  he  heard  a  shot 
fired  in  the  room  above  him.  He  had  rushed  upstairs  and  had  found 
the  room  empty  except  for  the  dead  Hepworth.  Then  the  butler  had 
appeared,  gone  out  again  and  reappeared  with  the  police  and  he  had 
been  arrested.  He  did  not  remember  smelling  any  powder  smoke  in 
the  room. 

Just  as  Harden  and  Yvette  were  turning  into  the  apartment  they 
saw  a  man  going  in  the  other  side. 

"Who  is  he?"  asked  Yvette. 

"Arden,  but  he  lives  on  this  side  of  the  house.  I  wonder  why  he 
is  going  in  that  door." 

"Well,  let's  go  in  and  take  a  look  at  the  place.  I  suppose  the  body 
has  been  removed." 

"Certainly,  or  I  should  not  have  brought  you." 

They  found  the  room  in  which  the  murder  had  been  committed 
very  much  like  many  other  living-rooms  they  had  seen.  In  the  center 
was  the  card  table,  with  the  revolver  found  in  the  dead  man's  hand 
lying  upon  it.  Back  of  it  was  the  armchair  in  which  the  body  was 
found.  Yvette  started  at  one  comer  and  worked  her  way  slowly  around 
the  room,  examining  everything  in  it  minutely.  Finally  she  paused, 
lifted  a  picture  and  addressed  Harden. 

"Did  any  of  the  witnesses  say  anything  about  two  shots  being 
fired?" 

"No.    Why?" 

"Because  the  murderer  evidently  missed  the  first  time  he  shot. 
See,  behind  this  picture,  which  has  been  moved  to  cover  it,  is  the  other 
bullet.  It  would  be  almost  directly  in  line  with  the  direction  you  pointed 
out  as  that  the  fatal  shot  was  supposed  to  have  taken." 

"You're  right.  How  did  you  happen  to  notice  that  the  picture 
had  been  moved?    We  didn't." 

"If  you  examine  the  paper  closely  you  will  see  that  it  is  brighter 
in  the  spot  which  the  picture  used  to  cover.  Very  simple  indeed,  if 
one  uses  common  sense.      I  wonder " 

She  moved  on  tiptoe  to  the  fireplace,  picked  up  a  poker,  moved 
silently  to  the  speaking  tube  across  the  room  and,  raising  the  whistle 


Flat  No.  4  151 

which  covered  it,  suddenly  shoved  the  poker  violently  through  it.  Some- 
one in  the  other  room  uttered  a  startled  exclamation  of  rage. 

"I  think  I  know  what  your  friend  Mr.  Arden  is  doing  on  the  other 
side.  He  wished  to  overhear  our  conversation  through  the  tube.  I 
have  had  enough  of  this  place.  If  you  will  collect  the  tenants  of  this 
place  in  your  office  tonight  at  eight  I  will  solve  your  little  mystery  for 
you." 

"But  who ,"  Harden  started  to  say,  but  bit  it  off  in  the  middle. 

"I  know  you  love  to  be  mysterious,  so  I  will  not  ask  you  for  details 
now.  I  know  from  our  previous  cases  together  that  I  can  rely  on  you. 
I  shall  do  as  you  wish.  But  do  you  know  what  this  will  mean  to  us? 
Do  you  know  that  old  Johnson  offered  a  reward  of  ten  thousand  dollars 
to  anyone  who  would  free  his  son  of  the  charge  against  him?  It  was 
in  the  papers  this  morning." 

"Fine.  We  can  give  up  detecting  and  buy  that  little  farm  we 
have  talked  of  so  long.  And  I  think  we  will  be  married  very  soon. 
But  I  have  to  go  home  now.  No,  don't  come  with  me.  I  will  see  you 
at  eight,  then?" 

"Very  well." 

At  eight  the  party  was  assembled  in  Harden's  office.  Johnson 
was  there  by  special  permit,  guarded  by  two  patrolmen,  and  his  father 
was  also  present.  Arden,  Murdock,  Somes,  Harden  and  Yvette  com- 
pleted the  party.     Yvette  wasted  no  time. 

"I  know  precisely  how  this  murder  was  committed.  But  I  should 
much  prefer  to  hear  the  story,  together  with  the  motive,  from  the  crim- 
inal. Murdock,  will  you  tell  us  why  and  how  you  killed  Jacob  Hep- 
worth  night  before  last?" 

Everyone  turned  toward  the  old  man.  He  did  not  flinch;  rather, 
he  seemed  to  straighten  up. 

"I  see  you  have  discovered  me.  I  am  glad  to  have  this  oppor- 
tunity to  tell  my  story.     Listen." 

He  stood  up  from  his  chair  and  faced  the  people  sitting  around  the 
office. 

"Thirty  years  ago  the  man  whom  you  know  as  Hepworth,  and  who 
at  that  time  was  a  young  lawyer  in  the  office  of  the  district  attorney, 
sent  me  to  prison  for  twenty  years  on  a  charge  of  manslaughter.  I 
was  innocent,  and  he  knew  it,  but  he  wanted  the  reputation  that  the 
case  would  bring  him,  so  he  brought  forward  false  witnesses  and  I  was 
railroaded  to  jail.  Besides,  there  had  been  bad  feeling  between  us 
before.  I  lived  through  that  twenty  years  of  Hell  to  get  him,  and  I 
have.     I  am  not  sorry.     When  I  got  out   of    jail  I  found  him  living 


152  The  Haverfordian 

here.  I  lived  for  ten  years  next  to  him  and  he  never  suspected  my 
identity.  But  he  had  other  enemies,  and,  being  a  cautious  man,  he 
always  kept  that  loaded  revolver  with  him.  One  day  I  got  hold  of  it 
and  took  one  cartridge  from  it  and  hid  it  in  Mr.  Johnson's  room.  That 
was  a  week  ago.  I  thought  the  police  would  make  out  a  case  against 
him  after  I  shot  Hepworth  if  they  found  a  cartridge  of  the  right  size  in 
his  room.     I  have  a  rifle  of  the  same  caliber. 

"The  other  day  when  no  one  was  at  home  I  tried  shooting  through 
the  speaking  tube  with  it.  Oh,  yes,  it  can  be  done  easily,  but  of  course 
there  is  just  one  line  for  such  a  bullet  to  follow. 

"By  experiment  I  found  that  line,  covered  the  bullets  in  the  wall 
with  a  picture,  and  moved  Hepworth's  chair  just  a  little  till  it  was 
squarely  in  the  line  of  fire. 

"He  just  discovered  the  theft  of  the  cartridge  tonight  after  the 
game  and  was  looking  at  his  gun  when  I  poked  the  muzzle  of  mine 
through  the  speaking  tube  and  fired.  Just  before  1  shot  I  shouted  my 
name  at  him.  I  know  he  understood  by  the  terrible  expression  that  was 
on  the  face  of  the  corpse.     I  thank  God  that  I  have  had  my  revenge." 

The  policemen  guarding  Johnson  released  him  and  seized  Murdock. 
Yvette  took  the  floor  again. 

"Why  did  you  listen  in  Mr.  Murdock's  room  this  morning,  Mr. 
Arden?" 

"I  knew  he  was  out  and  thought  that  possibly  I  could  do  a  little 
amateur  detective  work  and  earn  the  big  reward." 

"I  will  say  for  your  enlightenment,  Mr.  Murdock,  that  I  discovered 
you  because  I  found  the  bullet  in  the  wall  and  because  I  smelled  the 
burned  powder  in  the  speaking  tube.     I  have  a  sensitive  nose  for  odors." 

As  the  party  broke  up  and  Murdock  was  led  away,  Johnson  came 
forward  and  thanked  Yvette  for  rescuing  him,  while  his  father  added 
the  assurance  that  his  son's  release  was  worth  far  more  to  him  than 
the  reward  he  had  offered,  and  proved  his  statement  by  handing  Harden 
a  check. 

Murdock  was  never  brought  to  trial.  On  the  way  to  jail  he  swal- 
lowed potassium  cyanide  and  died  immediately. 

— E.  F.  Lawrence,  ex- 17. 


Coup  W0ti{  B'iabteu 

i" Fare  Thee  Well") 

His  words  of  farewell  no  doubt  were  trite — 
Farewells  are  usually  commonplace — 
But  out  of  his  eyes  there  shone  a  light, 
And  oh!   the  look  in  his  face.  .  .  . 
I  do  not  remember  the  words  he  said, 
But  I  wished  that  God  might  strike  me  dead. 

The  glimpse  I  caught  of  his  face  was  brief; 
I  looked  in  his  eyes  for  reproach  or  blame — 
For  I  was  his  friend  and  a  miserable  thief 
And  had  stolen  his  all  when  I  came: 
The  soul  he  loved  I  had  made  love  me, 
Yet  the  look  in  his  eyes  was  wondrous  to  see. 

It  would  not  have  hurt  to  see  anger  or  strife 

In  his  glance  as  he  looked  at  a  thief  and  a  friend.  .  .  . 

But  he  looked  at  me — atui  it  cut  like  a  knife — 

With  a  love  that  knows  no  end. 

With  tears  of  compassion  his  eyes  were  bright 

As  he  vanished  slowly  into  the  night. 

—J.  G.  C.  Le  Clercq,  '18. 


petoarc  tfje  l^oman! 

MARCUS  LOWE,  secret  service  agent,  paused  on  the  comer 
of  Twelfth  and  Chestnut  and  looked  around.  He  had 
his  victim  spotted.  Oh!  yes,  of  that  he  was  sure.  The 
said  victim  had  slipped  into  that  little  shop  across  the  street.  Just  a 
moment's  rest  from  the  hunt  now  to  relax  his  nerves  from  their  un- 
wonted strain.  It  was  the  Christmas  shopping  season,  4.30  P.  M.,  of  a 
Saturday.  To  say  "crowds"  would  be  superfluity.  Lowe  leaned 
against  a  cold  grey  portal  of  the  Stock  Exchange  Building*  to  avoid 
being  swept  along  in  the  current  of  gay  passers-by. 

"Oh!  Marcy,"  a  feminine  voice  whispered  in  his  left  ear.  This 
point  is  significant,  for  Marcus  was  particularly  and  inexcusably  deaf 
in  his  left  ear.  "Hello!  Marcy,"  reiterated  the  voice.  Turning  abruptly 
and  rather  unceremoniously,  he  found  himself  gazing  into  the  hazel 
eyes  of  an  exceedingly  pretty  young  woman. 

"What  the "  he  began,  then,  "I  beg  pardon,  but  do  I  have 

the  pleasure  of  your  acquaintance?" 

"Oh!  everybody  knows  Marcy  Lowe,"  with  a  shrug  and  tinkling 
laugh.  There  was  something  decidedly  aggravating  about  that  laugh. 
Still  Marcus  was  not  entirely  displeased. 

"Honoured,  I  am  sure.  Miss ?" 

"Oh!  just  call  me  V.;  it's  not  well  to  disclose  too  much  to  a  detec- 
tive." Just  a  faint  suspicion  of  a  smile  quivered  for  a  moment  in  the 
comer  of  her  mouth.     Was  she  laughing  at  him? 

"Oh  dear!  I  simply  must  go  to  Wanamaker's!  I  have  all  my 
Christmas  shopping  to  do,  and  the  crowds  are  simply  awful!" 

"Why,  Miss  ,  can't  I  accompany  you?     Perhaps  I  could  be 

of  some  assistance  in  the  jam?" 

"Oh,  you're  so  kind,  Mr.  Lowe.     It  would  be  grand  of  you." 

"Come  on,  then,"  said  Marcus,  taking  her  arm.  They  stepped 
out  into  the  densely  crowded  pavement,  and  became  part  of  the  never- 
ceasing  stream  of  shoppers. 

"Mr.  Lowe,  you're  a  wonderful  man,  aren't  you?"  she  whispered. 
Very  close  to  his  ear  her  face  seemed.  Marcus  was  somewhat  em- 
barrassed by  this  abrupt  query  concerning  his  estimate  of  himself; 
and,  as  a  gentleman  should,  he  promptly  disclaimed  the  honor.  He 
could  not  refrain,  however,  from  taking  a  look  into  her  eyes,  deep  hazel 
eyes,  and — very  close  to  his. 


*No,  Harold,  the  building  really  isn't  there. 


■  15i:\\AKK  THic  Woman  155 

"Hcrt'  we  are.  Now  for  a  tussle!"  this  from  Marcus,  as  he  carefully 
pushed  her  into  a  compartment  of  the  re\oKing  door  leading  into  the 
linen  department.  Me  jinnped  into  the  next  sjjace,  and  as  he  did  so 
the  ps>chological  moment  arri\ctl.  \' —  dropped  her  haiulkerchief. 
He  stopped  to  pick  it  up,  and  the  door  hit  liim  amidships,  sending  him 
sprawling  into  the  store.  Marcus  reco\'ered  himself  and  apologized  as 
best  he  could  to  the  discomfited  persons  who  had  suffered  from  his 
precipitous  entrance.  Then  he  looked  around  for  V — .  She  had  dis- 
appeared. 

He  pushed  his  way  further  down  the  main  aisle,  thinking  of  course 
to  find  her.  But  after  searching  vainly  upwards  of  half  an  hour,  he  was 
(jbliged  to  abandon  the  search  as  fruitless.  Cursing  his  luck,  he  walked 
liack  downtown  toward  his  former  position;  the  place  she  had  found 
him.  This  was  one  of  the  times  when  a  man  feels  that  he  is  the  un- 
luckiest  dog  in  the  world.  Just  to  ha\'e  a  glimpse  of  the  smiling  face  of 
Fortune,  onl\'  to  ha\'e  it  obscured  the  next  moment  by  a  cloud  of  dis- 
appointment.    To  a  man  in  that  state  of  mind,  e\erybody  is  an  enemy. 

So  felt  Marcus  as  he  almost  rushed  into  an  urchin  newsboy  who 
came  around  the  Stock  Exchange  Building  just  as  Marcus  reached  his 
[loint  of  vantage.  Marcus  grabbed  for  him  with  a  growl,  intending  to 
deposit  a  sound  slap,  but,  instead  of  the  bo>'s  arm,  he  held  only  an 
envelope,  and  the  newsboy  had  disappeared. 

Marcus  looked  it  o\-er  suspiciously,  and  decided  it  was  not  loaded. 
SnifT!  Yes!  there  was  a  decided  aroma  of  perfumery  about  it, — a  pleas- 
ant, elusive  odor  of  jierftime.  Where  had  he  whift'ed  that  fragrance 
before? 

Tearing  it  open,  Marcus  read,  neath  written  on  a  correspondence 
card;  "  Ta!  Tal  Marcy.  You  had  a  nice  fat  wad,  but  I  wasn't  expect- 
in'^  to  pull  an  Ingersoll.  You  need  not  try  to  find  me,  for  I  am  already 
en  route  for  Reno.'' 

V — ,  alias  "Second-story  Jim." 

"Well,  I'm — "  began  Marcy,  as  he  stuck  his  hand  in  the  void 
where  his  wallet  should  have  been;  then,  a  thought  striking  him,  he 
ran  across  to  the  shop  he  had  seen  Jim  enter.  He  glanced  at  the  sign 
and  these  words  met  his  horrified  gaze; 

Grubbs  and  McNlCHOL 
Decorators  and  Stage-Outfitters 
Feminine  Make-ups  a  Specialty 

"One  on  me!"  growled  Marcy.  "But  he  certainly  did  the  voice- 
stuff  well." 

—R.   G.,   '17. 


^olanb  M  i^ot  f  et  Host! 

THIS  story  is  so  wildly  improbable  that  I  am  sure  you  will  all 
regard  it  as  the  product  of  a  diseased  imagination.  I  can  only 
plead  in  excuse  that  it  was  told  me  by  my  friend,  Lieutenant 
Ackerman,  of  the  Eighty-Fourth  Prussian  Infantry;  and  that  the 
Lieutenant  was  the  last  man  in  the  world  to  invent  a  tale  of  fancy. 
We  were  sitting  in  a  cafe  in  Berlin  shortly  after  the  close  of  the  Gieat 
War.  Our  talk  fell  upon  the  new  kingdom  of  Poland,  recently  recon- 
structed under  Russian  suzerainty.  Watching  a  cloud  of  tobacco  smoke 
curl  away  towards  the  ceiling,  my  friend  turned  his  eyes  upon  me  and 
observed : 

"By  the  wa}',  I  believe  you  always  used  to  insist  that  there  was 
something  peculiarly  romantic  and  mysterious  about  those  Poles.  Well, 
while  we  were  in  Russia  I  had  an  odd  experience  that  almost  convinces 
me  that  you  are  right. 

"You  remember  how,  in  the  summer  of  1915,  we  swept  far  into 
Russia,  occupying  all  of  Poland  and  a  large  slice  of  the  Baltic  provinces. 
We  thought  it  meant  the  end  of  the  War;  but  that  is  another  story. 
It  happened  that  my  regiment  was  quartered  in  and  about  an  old  Polish 
chateau,  which  belonged  to  the  famous  Potocki  family.  There  was  a 
legend  that  it  was  in  this  chateau  that  the  composer  Chopin  first  met 
the  young  and  beautiful  Countess  Potocki,  who  inspired  some  of  his 
most  exquisite  nocturnes  and  mazurkas.  And  it  was  an  historic  fact 
that  the  heart  of  the  great  musician  was  buried  here  in  the  family  vault 
of  the  Potockies.  However,  none  of  us  cared  much  just  then  for  the 
loves  and  sorrows  of  a  dead  Polish  composer.  We  were  at  the  very 
flush  and  high  tide  of  our  military  success.  Hindenburg  was  at  the 
gates  of  Riga,  Mackensen  was  driving  on  Kiev;  and  everyone  thought 
it  was  only  a  question  of  time  until  we  would  reach  Petrograd.  One 
mild  summer  evening  a  group  of  us  were  sitting  in  the  huge  parloi  of 
the  ancient  aristocratic  mansion.  We  had  toasted  the  Kaiser  and 
Hindenburg  and  the  future  of  the  Fatherland  in  the  fine  old  wine  of  the 
Potockies;  and  our  hearts  were  full  of  youth  and  enthusiasm  and  the 
pride  of  invincible  power.  And  every  one  of  us  felt  a  tremendous  access 
of  loyalty  and  devotion  to  his  native  Germany,  the  country  that  had 
produced  the  greatest  musicians,  the  greatest  thinkers,  the  greatest 
soldiers  of  the  modern  world.  It  was  Friedberg  who  sounded  the  first 
warning  note  in  our  symphony  of  national  pride  and  self-glorification; 
Friedberg,  the  soft-voiced  poet  who  was  suspected  of  leanings  towards 
socialism  and  pacifism. 


Poland   Is   Not   Yi;t   Lost!  157 

"'There  are  a  few  artistic  nuances,'  he  ohser\-e(l,  'of  which  the 
Fatherland  is  not  ciuite  capable.  No  one  but  a  Pole  could  play  Chopin 
here,  on  such  a  night.' 

"'Pshaw!'  replied  our  Colonel,  V^on  Eyrick.  'These  decadent 
Slavs  can  only  dream  of  lofty  achie\'ements;  we  Germans  have  both 
the  dreams  and  the  realization.  I  will  undertake  to  play  Chopin  now, 
as  artistically  as  any  Pole  could  require.' 

"With  these  words  the  Colonel  approached  the  piano;  and  we 
gathered  about  to  hear  him  make  good  his  boast.  Few  of  us  had  any 
doubt  of  his  success;  Von  P2yrick  was  even  better  known  as  a  brilliant 
pianist  than  as  a  dashing  and  competent  soldier.  With  an  air  of  assur- 
ance he  commenced  a  mazurka;  the  exquisite  meloch-  suddenh-  degen- 
erated into  a  paltry  Viennese  waltz.  The  colonel  frowned  and  tried  a 
nocturne.  The  notes  were  played  correctly  enough;  but  the  dullest 
listener  could  not  fail  to  realize  that  the  poetry  and  romance  of  the 
composition  were  somehow  hopelessly  larking.  Von  Eyrick  flew  into  a 
passion;  with  trembling  fingers  he  struck  the  first  chords  of  the  terrific 
A  Minor  Etude.  But  here  the  pianist  was  interrupted  by  an  occurrence 
so  strange  and  impossible  that  I  can  not  hope  for  the  smallest  measure 
of  faith  on  your  part.  .'Knd  yet  every  man  who  was  in  the  Potocki 
chateau  that  night  and  who  has  not  been  killed  since,  will  tell  you  sub- 
stantially the  same  story. 

"The  first  imexpected  sound  that  met  our  ears  was  a  chorus  of 
\oiccs  chanting  the  long  forbidden  national  hymn:  'Poland  Is  Not 
Yet  Lost.'  At  first  the  sound  was  faint  and  mournful;  gradually  it 
assumed  a  more  triumphant  tone;  and  now  appeared  column  after 
column  of  mailed  horsemen,  with  huge  wings  attached  to  their  armor: 
the  in\incilile  Polish  ca\'alry  of  the  Middle  Ages.  And  over  the  whole 
mysterious  army  floated  the  white  eagles  of  Poland,  while  the  heroic 
anthem,  in  a  thousand  variations,  swelled  and  echoed  through  the 
historic  mansion.  And  now  the  medieval  knights  give  way  to  warriors 
in  more  modern  costume;  the  national  anthem  changes  into  a  crusading 
hymn.  The  chi\-alrous  Sobieski  appears  at  the  head  of  his  Polish  army, 
reatly  to  set  out  for  the  deliverance  of  Christendom  from  the  Turkish 
menace.  Yet  another  change;  the  ill-fated  Polish  Republic  is  making 
its  last  stand  at  Warsaw  against  Suvarov's  invading  hordes.  The  day 
goes  against  Poland;  the  remnant  of  the  devoted  patriots  set  fire  to 
their  ammunition  and  offer  themselves  and  their  tyrants  as  a  common 
holocaust  on  the  altar  of  freedom.  The  phantasmagoria  of  Poland's 
past  glory  fades  away  like  a  mirage;  but  stop!  A  solitary  horseman 
appears;  in  his  hands  he  bears  a  flaming  heart.     It  needed  no  interpreter 


158  The  Haverfordian 

to  tell  us  that  it  was  the  heart  of  Chopin.  And  all  the  varied  music  of 
the  great  composer  seemed  to  blend  into  one  mighty  song  of  triumph 
and  of  faith :  Poland  is  not  yet  lost !  I  can  not  tell  you  how  petty  and 
worthless  all  our  vaunted  prowess  seemed  before  this  vision  of  the  un- 
conquerable soul  of  a  people  whose  spirit  had  victoriously  repulsed  the 
power  of  three  great  empires." 

We  were  both  silent  for  several  minutes.  I  took  refuge  in  a  banal 
commonplace : 

"But  this  vision — how  do  you  account  for  it?" 

Ackerman  spread  out    his    hands  in  a  gesture  of  complete  despair. 

"Ach!"  he  exclaimed,  "how  do  I  know?  I  am  an  educated  man, 
not  a  superstitious  peasant.  I  was  in  Belgium,  in  Russia,  at  Verdun. 
There  is  little  of  the  horror  and  glory  of  war  that  I  have  not  seen.  And 
yet  none  of  the  real  wonders  that  I  have  witnessed  and  experienced 
have  affected  me  as  has  this  wild  vision  in  the  chateau  of  the  Potockies. 
I  know  it  could  not  have  happened — and  yet  it  is  theie,  an  indestructible 
fact  in  my  consciousness.  Perhaps  it  is  one  of  the  nuances,  of  which 
we  Teutons  are  not  quite  capable." 

—  W.  H.  Chamherlin,  '17. 


(irlje  Eentf)  plague 

(THE  CHESTNUT  BLIGHT) 

/  watched  it  go 

And  my  heart  sank  low 

As  I  heard  the  Old  Tree  crash; 

I  had  played  all  day 
There,  many  a  May, 
And  it  stung  me  like  a  lash. 

But  the  Blight  had  come 

For  its  decimal  sum, 

And  the  Tree  payed  up  in  Cash. 

See!  That  great  scarred  trunk 
With  its  gnarled  limbs  shrunk 
From  a  blaze-bright  Lightning  Flash. . 

And  every  Fall 

Came  the  keen  Frost's  call, 

With  his  gale-swung,  sword-like  slash. 

To  my  Tree  first. 

And  its  green  burrs  burst 

In  a  criss-cross  brown-tipped  gash. 

As  it  killed  my  One, 
So  to  all  has  it  done, 
And  the  Hills  lie  bare  to  the  Sun. 

—D.  C.   Wendell,  '16. 


JLUMNI 


The  sad  death  of  Sherman  Parker 
Morgan,  of  the  Class  of  1916,  oc- 
curred in  Grand  Rapids,  Mich.,  on 
August  13th.  Morgan  was  on  a 
short  trip  to  Michigan,  where  he 
was  stricken  with  fever.  He  sank 
rapidly  and  in  a  few  days  died. 
Morgan  was  to  have  assumed  a 
position  with  the  Girard  Trust 
Company,  Philadelphia.  Mem- 
bers of  Morgan's  class  and  all  who 
knew  him  feel  a  deep  personal  loss, 
for  he  was  well  liked  and  respected 
among  his  fellows.  While  in 
College  Morgan  held  a  corporation 
scholarship,  and  was  elected  to  the 
Phi  Beta  Kappa  Societ}'. 


Judge  William  B.  Broomall,  '61, 
delivered  the  dedicatory  address  as 
the  presentation  of  the  Deshong 
Memorial  Art  Gallery  at  the  city 
of  Chester,  Pennsylvania,  on  Sep- 
tember 27th.  The  new  building, 
which  was  erected  by  the  trustees 
of  the  Deshong  estate,  contains  a 
collection  of  paintings,  bric-a-brac 
and  tapestry  valued  at  more  than 
$300,000. 

Charles  James  Rhoads,  '93,  is  on 
President  Taft's  Committee  on 
Enforced  Peace. 


Roswell  Cheney  McCrea,  '97,  has 
been  called  to  Columbia  Univer- 
sity as  Professor  of  Economics. 

Dr.  Spiers,  '02,  and  Dr.  Gum- 
mere,  '02,  have  been  at  Columbia 
University  during  the  past  sum- 
mer, where  they  have  been  con- 
ducting summer   courses. 

Edgar  Earl  Trout,  '02,  Dr.  Reed 
and  Richard  Mott  Gummere,  '02, 
were  delegates  to  the  Tri-annual 
Convention  of  the  Phi  Beta  Kappa 
Society.  Haverford  entertained 
the  delegates  at  a  tea  given  by  Dr. 
Reed.  Dr.  Gummere,  '72,  and 
Warner  Fite,  '89,  were  also  dele- 
gates. Dr.  Gummere  representing 
Harvard  and  Prof.  Fite  represent- 
ing Indiana.  Prof.  Fite  is  at 
Princeton. 

Lucius  Rogers  Shcro,  '11,  who 
won  a  Rhoades  Scholarship,  will 
receive  his  B.  S.  from  Oxford, 
shortly. 

L.  Arnold  Post,  '11,  who  was  in 
the  Anierican  Ambulance  Service 
last  summer,  is  now  connected  with 
the  British  Y.  M.  C.  A.  work  at 
Bombay,  India.  He  had  been  de- 
tailed to  the  Mesopotamia  dis- 
trict. Mr.  Post  has  received  his 
degree  from  Oxford.      His  perma- 


Alumni 


161 


ncnt  address  is  still  New  College, 
Oxford,  England. 

William  Mck.  Bray  was  recently 
married  to  Miss  Eleanor  Wells 
Walker,  of  Devon,  Pa.  B.  L. 
Corson,  '16,  was  an  usher. 

The  Ahivini  Quurierly  will  ap- 
pear within  a  few  days.Tt  will  con- 
tain an  editorial  by  President 
Sharpless,  the  business  of  the 
Alumni  Meeting,  a  number  of 
book  reviews,  and  an  article  b\' 
Hugh  McKinstrN',  '17,  on  "Student 
Acti\ities." 

A  new  book  by  Dr.  Jones  has 
been  recently  annoimced. 

The  following  is  an  excerpt 
from  a  letter  recei\'ed  recently 
from  Ulric  J.  Mengert,  who  re- 
ceived the  Cope  Fellowship  this 
year  and  is  now  at  Har\ard : 

"Wendell,  James  Carey,  Frank 
Carey,  and  I  are  pleasantly  situ- 
ated in  rooms  near  Harvard  Square. 
It  is  almost  as  good  as  coming 
back  to  Ha\erford  when  I  see  so 
manv  familiar  faces  around.      Van 


Hollen  and  Howson  are  in  the 
Law  School;  Hall,  '13,  and  Vail, 
'15,  are  taking  Chemistry  in  the 
Graduate  School;  Beatt>',  Van 
Sickle,  W'aples,  and  Norman  Tay- 
lor are  studying  in  the  \arious 
other  departments  of  the  L^niver- 
sity.  Our  chief  regret  is  that  we 
probably  won't  see  the  Swarth- 
more  game." 

J.  Walter  Tebbetts  (A.  M.,  '11) 
has  been  admitted  by  examina- 
tion as  a  fellow  of  the  American 
Actuarial  Society. 

'98 
Joseph  Howell  Haines  was  mar- 
ried to  Miss  Helen  M.  W'hitall,  of 
Germantown,  on  June  3rd. 

'99 
Twins    were    recently    born    to 
Mr.  and  Mrs.  F.  Algernon  Evans, 
named    William    and    Jonathan. 

'03 
Henry  Joel   Cadbury  was  mar- 
ried on  June  17th  to  Miss  L\'dia 
Caroline  Brown,  daughter  of  Thom- 
as   K.    Brown.       The\-   will    be   at 


We  will  rent  you  a  late  model 

Underwood  Typewriter 

7,  Months  for  $5.00 

and  apply  the  first  rental 
payment  on  the  purchase 
price  if  you  desire  to  buy 
the  machine. 

MARCUS  &  CO. 

STAT  1  ON  ERS— TYPEW  R I TERS 
1303  Market  St.,  Philadelphia 


162 


The  Haverfordian 


home    after    November    1st    at    3 
College  Circle,  Haverford,   Pa. 

'04 
J.  R.  Thomas  is  a  candidate  for 
State  Senator  from  Chester  County. 

'08 
Cecil  K.   Drinker  is  an  instruc- 
tor in  the  Harvard  Medical  School. 

'10 
Edward  Wandell  David  was 
m'arried  on  June  28th  to  Miss 
Annie  Frances  Merrill,  daughter 
of  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Olin  Merrill,  of 
Enosburg  Falls,  Vermont. 

William  Lloyd  Garrison  Wil- 
liams was  married  at  Cincinnati 
on  June  13th  to  Miss  Anne  Chris- 
tine Sykes,  daughter  of  Mr.  and 
Mrs.  Gerrit  Smith  Sykes. 

'11 
Wilmer  J.  Young  has  announced 
his  engagement  to  Miss  Mabel  A. 
Holloway,  of  Ohio. 

H.  S.  Barnard  acted  as  foreman 
of  the  Grand  Jury  in  the  recent 
vice  investigation  in  Philadelphia. 

'12 
Lloyd  M.  Smith  has  been  located 
by  the  American  Episcopal  Church 
as  missionary  at  Nara,  Japan. 
At  Karinzawa,  Japan,  in  August, 
he  took  three  prizes  in  the  athletic 
contests:  first  prize  in  running; 
second  prize  in  the  pole  vault ; 
third  prize  in  jumping. 

'13 
■    Joseph    Tatnall,    secretary    and 
treasurer  of  the  Class  of  '13,  has 


changed  his    address  to    1306  Me- 
dary  Ave.,  Philadelphia. 

Lewis  F.  Fallon,  ex-'13,  has  been 
appointed  interne  at  the  Peter 
Bent  Brigham  Hospital,  Boston. 

Paul  H.  Brown  has  been  changed 
from  Director  of  Manual  Training 
to  Purchasing  Agent  at  Earlham 
College,  Richmond,  Ind. 

BARCLAY  HALL  AZPELL,  Proprietor 

Musical    Supplies 

SHEET  MUSIC  PLAYER-ROLLS 

TALKING  MACHINES 
and  RECORDS 

Weyman  &  Gibson   Instruments 

No.  4  Cricket  Avenue 

ARDMORE,  PA. 

Open  Evenings  Phone  1303-W 

Pictures  Framed 

to  order,  and  in  an  artistic 
manner,  and  at  reasonable 
prices. 

J.  E.  BARKMAN, 

24  W.  Lancaster  Avenue 

Ardmore,  Pa. 

Pictures,    Stationery,    Gifts 

Joseph  C  Ferguson,  Jr. 

6-8-10    South  Fifteenth  Street 

d^ptital  anb 
$f)otosrapf)ic  (^oobsi 

OF  EVERY   DESCRIPTION 
Below  Market  Street 


Alumni 


163 


Philip  Collins  ("liffonl  was  mar- 
ried to  Miss  Helen  Sarah  Thomas, 
of  Pro\-idence,  Rhock-  Island,  on 
June  7th. 

William  Richards  was  married 
to  Miss  Johanne  Jensen,  on  July 
25th,  at  St.  Jacob's  Church,  Copen- 
hagen, Denmark. 

George  Montgomer>'  was  mar- 
ried to  Miss  Pearl  H.  Daub,  of 
Norristown,  on  June  28th. 

Charles  Henry  Crosman,  of  Hav- 
erford,  was  married  to  Miss  Dor- 
othy   Pierce    Cra\-en,    of    Dayton, 

Ohio,  on  June  8th. 

'14 
A  son  was  born  on  July  1st  to 
Mr.  and  Mrs.  Alfred  W.  Elkinton. 

Charles  K.  Trueblood  has  been 
appointed  instructor  in  English  at 
the  University  of  Wisconsin. 

Thomas  R.  Kelly  is  stud>ing  at 
Hartford   Theological  Seminary. 

Howard  West  Elkinton  was  mar- 
ried on  October  14th  to  Miss 
Katharine  Wistar  Mason,  of  Ger- 
mantown,  Pa. 

'15 
Donald     Galbraith     Baird     was 
married    on    June     7th     to     Miss 
Emilie  Obrie  Wagner,  daughter  of 
Mr.  and  Mrs.  Samuel  Wagner. 

'16 
Wilmar    Mason    Allen    has    en- 
tered the  Medical  School  of  Johns 
Hopkins  University. 


Bryn  Mawr  Motor  Co.,  Inc. 

Main  Line  Agents 

BUICK 
AUTOMOBILES 

Branch    of 

HALE  MOTOR  CO.  Wayne,  Pa. 

You  run  no  risks  on 

TARTAN  BRANDS 

Canned  Goods 

Coffee 

Macaroni 

Tea 

Olive  Oil 


Alfred  Lowry  &  Bro. 


PHILADELPHIA 


Shop  at  Warner's 

Necessities  for    the    Vacation    Trip 

Eastman  Kodaks  and  Supplies 
Battling  Caps,  50c.,  SLOO,  $L25 

Toilet  Articles         Red  Cross  Supplies 
Shaving  Brush  Holders 

C.  G.  WARNER,  Pharmacist 

HAVERFORD,  PA. 


Bell  Phone,  Anlmore  269-\\' 

B„_  J_^>„       QU.^LITY  CANDIES 
aeaer  s,     our  own  m.\ke 

Special  Orders  for  Teas,  etc.,  given  our  prompt 
attention. 

26  E.  Lancaster  Avenue,       Ardmore 
Main  Store,    PHILADELPHIA 


164 


The  Haverfordian 


Ralph  Vandervort  Bangham  has 
been  appointed  assistant  in  Bac- 
teriology at  Haverford. 

Frederick  Cyrus  Buffum,  Jr.,  is 
at  Westerly,  R.  I. 


Headquarters  for  Everything 
Mlusical 

Banjos,  Ukuleles,  Mandolins,  Violins 
Mandolutes,  Guitars,  Cornets,  etc. 

Pianos  and  Player-Pianos 
Victrolas  for  Victor  Records 


James  Carey,  3rd,  is  at  Harvard.  Popular,  Classical  and  Operatic  Sheet  Mu 


Frank  Wing  Cary  has  entered 
the  Boston  School  of  Technology. 

Joseph  Arthur  Cooper  is  asso- 
ciated with  a  firm  of  bankers  in 
Coatesville,  Pa. 

George  Arthur  Dunlap  is  on  the 
staff  of  the  Philadelphia  Public 
Ledger. 

James  Sprague  Ellison,  Jr.,  is 
associated  with  Mulford  &  Co., 
Glenolden  and   Philadelphia. 

Walter- Reichner  Faries  hasen- 
tered  the  Law  School  of  the  Uni- 
versity of  Pennsylvania. 

Albert  Graham  Garrigues  has 
become  associated  with  the  Hires 
Company. 

William  Townsend  Hannum  has 
been  appointed  assistant  in  Biology 
at  Haverford. 

William  Thompson  Kirk,  3rd, 
has  become  associated  with  a  firm 
of  brokers. 

Henry  Earle  Knowlton  has  been 
appointed  an  assistant  at  Haver- 
ford. 

John  Kuhns  is  associated  with 
the  Pennsylvania  Children's  Aid 
Society. 


mYMANN 

1108  Chestnut  Street,       Philadelphia 


Aside  from  its  careful  work  in  filling  pre- 
scriptions 

Haverford  Pharmacy 

has  become  known  as  a  place  where  many 
of  the  solid  comforts  of  life  may  be  ob- 
tained. One  worth  mentioning  is  the  fa- 
mous Lotion  for  sunburn,  chapped  hands 
and  face,  and  other  irritations  of  the  skin. 
Decline,  gently  but  firmly,  any  other  said 
to  be    "just  as  good." 

WILSON  L.  HARBAUGH. 

INSURANCE 

Fire  or  Burglary  Insurance  on  stu- 
dents* personal  effects  while  at  college 
or  elsewhere. 

Tourists'  Floating  Insurance  on  per- 
sonal effects  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  prop- 
erty or  for  injuries  to  persons. 

LONGACRE  &2EWING 
Bullitt  Bldg.,       141  So.  Fourth  Street 

PHILADELPHIA 


EYtGLA^ 


\m- 


lDaniel  E.Weston  J 


Alumni 


165 


Philip  Ludwcll  Lciiiy  has  entered 
the  Law  School  of  llie  Uiii\ersity 
of  PenTis\l\ania. 

John  (jra\'  Lo\e,  Jr.,  is  in  the 
Law  Department  of  the  Lni\ersity 
of  Pennsylvania. 

Kdward  I''ell  Lukens  is  associated 
wilii  {hv  Hires  C'onipanN-. 


nnnonpDnnnnnnnannannnnnDDDDDQn 


IHric    Johnson     Mengert     is 
Har\ard. 


at 


Edward     Randolph 
entered  business. 


M< 


has 


Charles  Herman  Oberholtzer,  Jr., 
is  associated  with  a  broker's  firm 
in  Phocni.wille,  Pa. 

Francis  Par\in  Sharpless  is  with 
the  Biddle  Hardware  Company. 

Joseph  Stokes,  Jr.,  is  at  the 
Medical  School  of  the  Lniversit\- 
of  Pennsyhania. 

Frank  Harrison  Thiers  is  In- 
structor in  Sciences  at  Wichita, 
Kansas. 

Samuel  Wagner,  Jr.,  is  studying 
at  the  Architectural  School  of  the 
Uni\'ersily  of  Pennsyl\-ania. 

Douglas  Cary  \\'endell  has  en- 
tered the  Graduate  Department  of 
Har\ard. 

Joseph  Densmorc  Wocxl  has  been 
appointed  an  instructor  at  Wil- 
mington College. 

Henry  Alden  Johnson  is  associa- 
ted with  the  Standard  Oil  Com- 
pany of  .New  Jersey. 

Clinicin  Pri'sc(jtt  Knight,  Jr., 
has  entered  business  in  Provi- 
dence, R.  L 


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she  will   like  better — 

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if   you   send   her 

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this   box! 

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$1.00  the   package  at 

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Eato  ^cJjool 

College  graduates  only  admitted. 

Faculty  composed  of  nine  Professors 

Law  Library  oi    5X, ()(){)  volumes. 

Special  course  Courses  lead  to  the 
degrees  of  LL.B.  anil  LL.M.  in  Penn- 
syhania Practice. 

For  full  particulars  address 

B.  M.  SNOVER 

Secretary, 

3400    Chestnut  Street. 
PHILADELPHIA,  -  -  PA. 


The  Haverfordian 


Camping  Specialist 

Sporting : :  Goods 

of  Every  Description 
EDW.  K.  TRYON  CO., 

609  and  611  MARKET  STREET 
10  and  12  North  6th  Street 

Get  acquainted  with 

THE  JRDMORE 

RATIONAL 

BANK 

ARDMORE,  PA. 

Our  Vacation  Club  is  a 
Splendid  Idea. 

3%  Saving  Accounts  2%  Checking  Accounts 

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 


The   Dresden  Tea   Rooms 

10  East  Lancaster  Avenue,    ARDMORE,  PA. 
CANDIES,  CAKES,  ICE  CREAM  J 

MAGAZINES  " 

Special   Prices   on    Pennants 

C.   N.   DAVIS 

Dealer  in 

Automobile     Accessories, 

Oils   and    Greases 
314  W.  Lancaster  Avenue,        Ardmore,  Pa. 

BRADBURN  &  NIGRO 

Cor.   13th  and  Sansom  Streets 
P.  H.  YOH  PHILADELPHIA 


MEN'S  GARMENTS  of  BETTER  KIND 

Made  to  Measure 

$25  to  $50 

ARDMORE  HARDWARE  CO. 

ARDMORE,  PA. 

Hardware,  Sporting  Goods, 

Housefurnishing 

HARRY  HARRISON 

DEPARTMENT  STORE 

Dry  Goods,  Notions,  Clothing  and  Shoes,  Ladies' 
Millinery  and  Trimmings 


Lancaster  Ave. 


Ardmore,  Pa. 


^ 


.^RHOADS 

G£L.T 

RUNNING 

SINCE  1882 


THEY 
LAST 


This  ancient  belt  drives  a  flour  mill  at 
Doylestown,  Pa.  It  was  originally  an  18- 
inch  double.  After  considerable  service  it 
was  reinforced  with  a  6-inch  strip  on  each 
edge.  In  this  form  it  has  completed 
thirty-four  years  of  service,  and  looks 
good  for  years  to  come. 

For  the  last  twenty  years  it  has  been  treated  at 
proper  intervals  with  Rhoads  Leather  Belt  Pre- 
server.   This  is  one  reason  for  its  strength  in  old 

;ige. 


J.  E.  RHOADS  &  SONS, 

PHILADELPHIA,  NEW  YORK,  CHICAGO, 

1 2  North  Third  Street  1 02   Beekman  Street  322  W.   Randolph  Street 

FACTORY  AND   TANNERY,   WILMINGTON,  DEL. 


When  Patronizing  Advertisers  Kindly  Mention  The  Haverfordian 


ff 


3z: 


^aberforbian 


Contents^ 


Lament  for  Deirdre W.  S.  Nevin,  '18  156 

"  Thou  Hast  Conquered,  Galilaean!".   W.  H.  Chamberlin,  '17  167 

The  Organ                                                     A.   Douglas  Oliver,  '19  173 

The  New  Patriotism Christipher  Roberts,  '20  174 

Europe  After  1914 Richard  R.  Wood,  '20  177 

Alice  Who? C.  Van  Dam,  '17  178 

The  Palisades Albert  H.  Stone,  '16  181 

A  Propos  Des  Bottes                    J.  G.  C.  Shuman  Le  Clercq,  '18  182 

Triolet W.    S.    Nevin, '18  184 

The    Coward H.    W.    Brecht, '20  185 

The     Harvest Albert     H.     Stone, '16  188 

Snores     Anonymous  189 

Lyric Robert    Gibson,  '17  190 

The  Haunted  House Roy  Griffith,  '18  191 

Almost Elmer    H.     Thorpe, '18  193 

Bordhed  of  '49 H.  P.  Schenck,  '18  197 

Lines  to  Biology  I Anon  199 

Sappho     Jacque    LeClercq,  '18  200 

Helas                   John   W.   Alexander,  '18  200 

Alumni                  201 


Jtobemtjer 

1916 


M 


arceau 


Photographer 


^17 


I  609  Chestnut  Street 
Philadelphia 

Special  rates  to  students 
Phone,  Spruce  5606 


Capital 
$1,000,000 


Surplus  and  Undivided 

Dividends 

$476,000 


Logan  Trust  Company 
of  Philadelphia 

1431-33   Chestnut  Street 


IVe  Intite  Correspondence  »r  an  Iniertitu  Rxlaiite 
to  Opening  Accounts. 

Offican 

ROWLAND  COMLY.  President. 
HUGH  McILVAIN,  1st  Vice-President. 
WILLIAM  BRADWAY,  2nd  Vice-President. 
JOHN  H.  WOOD,  Secretary. 
ALFRED  G.  WHITE,  Assistant  Trust  Officer. 
S.  HARVEY  THOMAS.  JR.,  Assistant  Treasurer. 
GEORGE  W.  BROWN,  JR.,  Asst.  Treas. 
H.  B.  V.  MECKE,  Asst.  Secretary. 


SAILOR  SUITS 
a  Specialty 

No  Agencies      Made  to  Order  Only 

PETER    THOMSON 
TAILOR 

— TO— 

Men,  Women  and 
Children 


Walnut  St.  at  12th,        Phila. 

New  York  House: 
634    FIFTH  AVENUE 

Opposite  St.  Patrick's  Cathedral 


■ST*«4,I«M(0  I8t3 


tati£»  Sg^ntisljlitg  ^cft*, 

,  PORTY.FOURTH  (THUT 

Telephone  Murray  Hill  8800    \ 


Everything  for  Men's  and  Boys'  Wear  in  Town 

and  Country 

Clothing,  Furnishings,  Hats,  Shoes 

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THE  HAVERFORDIAN 


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EDITORS 
Robert  Gibson,  1917  Edilor-in- Chief 
W.  H.  Chamberlin,  1917  J.  G.  C.  LeClerc(^,  1918 

C.  D.  Van  Dam,  1917  Walter  S.  Nevin,  1918 

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BUSINESS  MANAGERS 
Arthur  E.  Spellissy,  1917  (Mgr.)  H.  Beale  Brodhead,  1917  {Sub.  Mgr.) 

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The  Haverfordian  is  published  on  the  twentieth  of  each  month  during  college 
and  year.  Its  purpose  is  to  foster  the  literary  spirit  among  the  undergraduates 
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 
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Entered  at  the  Haverford  Post-Office,  for  transmission  through  the  mails  as  second-dass  matter 


Vol.  XXXVIII        HAVERFORD,  PA.,  NOVEMBER,  1916. 


No.  5 


Hament  for  ©eirbre 

Deirdre's  dead, 

Faded  are  the  lips  once  red, 

Golden  hair  turns  into  dust — 

High  the  cairn  above  her  head.  j 

Eyes  of  light. 

Once  so  bright,  so  tender  grey,  \ 

Darkened  are  by  lashes  thick — •  ;, 

Gone  the  morning  glow  of  May.  iv 


Moans  the  sea, 
Wails  the  wind  in  every  tree. 
Cuckoos  mourn  in  Glen  Da  Roe — 
Lonely  sunlight  on  the  lea. 

Blackbirds  call 

From  the  trees  where  once  a  hall 
Reared  its  towers  against  the  sky — 
Solitude  broods  over  all. 

—W.  S.  Nevin. 


THE    HAVERFORDIAN 


Vol.  XXXVni.  HAVERFORD.  PA..  NOVEMBER.  1916  No.  S 


"i;i)ou  ?|agt  Conquereb,  (§aUlaean!" 

ON  a  warm  summer  evening  in  the  fourth  century  A.D.,  two 
young  men  were  wandering  near  the  ruins  of  an  old  Phrygian 
temple.  The  elder,  who  wore  a  white  robe  with  a  purple 
stripe  down  the  front,  turned  to  his  companion  and  cried  out: 

"In  what  a  degenerate  age  are  we  born,  dear  Ariston,  when  it  is 
only  by  stealth  that  we  can  escape  the  spies  of  the  new  faith  and  practise 
the  worship  of  the  true  and  immortal  gods!  When  I  think  of  the  stupid- 
ity, the  superstition,  the  falsehood  of  this  degenerate  Jewish  cult 
which  has  replaced  the  faith  and  wisdom  of  the  old  heroes  and  philoso- 
phers, I  feel  as  if  I  ought  to  emulate  Empedocles  and  cast  away  a  life 
that  promises  nothing  but  shame  and  deceit." 

His  companion  replied : 

"Ah,  but,  Julian,  remem.ber  that  this  triumph  of  the  base  and  vul- 
gar is  only  temporary.  When  you  assume  the  imperial  office  that  the 
weak  and  cruel  Constantius  is  now  degrading,  there  will  be  a  universal 
return  to  the  old  beliefs." 

A  momentary  flash  of  indignant  scorn  disturbed  the  classic  serenity 
of  Julian's  countenance. 

"Yes,  no  doubt  the  same  crowd  of  fawning  flatterers  will  press 
forward  to  offer  to  Julian  and  Jupiter  the  same  devotion  that  they  now 
profess  towards  Christ  and  Constantius.  It  is  for  no  such  empty  out- 
ward sign  that  I  crave,  Ariston;  it  is  for  a  return  of  the  old  Greek  spirit, 
the  spirit  that  enabled  three  hundred  men  to  defy  the  power  of  Asia, 
the  spirit  that  has  given  us  everything  that  makes  life  noble  and  beauti- 
ful. Where  is  that  spirit  now?  There  is  more  strength  of  conviction 
on  the  part  of  these  ignorant  Galilaean  fanatics  than  there  is  on  our 
own." 

"All  this  is  only  too  true;  but  why  have  we  come  here  to-night, 
when  the  Emperor's  spies  are  on  the  lookout  for  all  professors  of  the 
old  faith?" 

"Surely,  Ariston,  you  have  heard  of  Maximus?" 


168  The  Haverfordian 

"The  great  priest,  upon  whose  head  Constantius  has  set  a  huge 
price?" 

"The  same.  He  is  to  be  here  to-night;  and  under  this  crumbling 
altar  of  Cybele  I  will  learn  my  future  duty." 

As  Julian  spoke  these  last  words  a  third  figure  appeared,  closely 
muffled  in  a  long  cloak.  As  soon  as  he  recognized  the  two  young  men 
the  stranger  threw  back  his  disguise  and  revealed  the  tall,  imposing 
frame  and  commanding  features  of  Maximus,  the  idol  of  the  pagans  and 
the  Antichrist  of  the  Christians.  Julian  and  his  companion  bowed  to 
the  ground  before  their  master.  Raising  Julian,  the  priest  transfixed 
him  with  the  gaze  of  his  keen  dark  eyes. 

"What  is  it  that  you  seek  from  me,  my  son?"  he  enquired  in  a 
deep,  yet  sympathetic  voice. 

"To  know  my  duty  towards  gods  and  men.  To  know  whether,  as 
a  pagan  and  a  philosopher,  it  is  right  for  me  to  go  on  living  in  our  deca- 
dent era.  To  know  if  there  be  any  power  that  can  check  the  onrush  of 
the  Galilaean  superstition.  You  alone,  who  are  alike  prophet,  priest, 
and  thinker,  can  solve  these  problems  that  have  been  tormenting  my 
soul." 

"My  son,  Christianity  is  a  negative  faith,  forced  on  a  negative 
age  by  the  genius  of  one  perverted,  positive  man,  Paul  of  Tarsus.  The 
age  that  has  been  corrupted  by  one  strong  man  can  be  redeemed  by  an- 
other. It  is  a  herculean  task;  but  it  is  a  task  that  no  true  Greek  will 
shrink  from.  Turn  the  people's  minds  from  thoughts  of  their  imaginary 
heaven  and  hell  by  displaying  to  them  the  infinite  possibilities  of  the 
present  life.  Wake  them  from  their  unhealthy  admiration  of  those 
fanatical  enthusiasts  and  martyrs  by  showing  them  the  deeds  of  a  true 
hero.  Crush  the  subtle  poison  that  is  enervating  the  whole  civilized 
world  and  you  will  have  rendered  humanity  a  service  that  can  not  be 
estimated!" 

An  expression  of  passionate  ardor  appeared  in  Julian's  clear  blue 
eyes. 

"Master,"  he  said,  "you  have  given  me  the  inspiration  of  my  life." 
The  sage  spread  out  his  hands  in  benediction  and  vanished.  The  moon 
and  stars  illuminated  the  ruins  of  the  temple  with  the  soft  and  volup- 
tuous glow  of  an  oriental  night.  But  Julian  and  his  friend,  untouched 
by  the  softer  aspects  of  the  scene,  moved  on,  their  young  hearts  filled 
with  wholehearted  devotion  to  a  great  object. 

^  5fC  »|C  JJ-  ^  3fC  5fc 

Several  years  have  passed.  Constantius  has  gone  to  his  last  account, 
and  Julian  now  sits  upon  the  imperial  throne.     But  there  is  no  exulta- 


"Thou  Hast  Conquered,  Galilaean!"  169 

tion  in  the  countenance  of  the  young  Emperor  as  he  appears  in  his 
simple  room  in  the  vast  palace  of  the  Caesars,  conversing  with  his  dear 
friend  Ariston  and  his  revered  master  Maximus. 

"Is  it  true,  as  our  enemies  mockingly  proclaim,  that  our  gods  are 
blind  and  deaf?  Three  months  the  temples  have  resounded  with  hymns 
and  exuded  the  fragrance  of  incense;  three  months  hecatombs  have 
smoked  in  their  honor;  and  still  this  impious  and  senseless  superstition 
persists.  Nay,  it  grows  stronger!  Ever  since  our  efforts  to  rebuild  the 
temple  of  Jerusalem  were  unaccountably  frustrated,  there  has  been  an 
increasing  chorus  of  praise  and  worship  of  the  Crucified  One.  What 
can  we  do?  I  will  not  stoop  to  the  baseness  and  folly  of  the  Galilaeans 
and  employ  persecution;  but  how  can  we  stem  the  onrushing  tide  of 
this  accursed  oriental  superstition?" 

It  was  the  Emperor  who  had  spoken;  and  for  several  minutes 
there  was  a  profound  silence.  The  busts  of  Homer  and  Plato  which 
were  the  only  ornaments  in  the  private  apartment  of  the  austerely 
philosophical  ruler  looked  down  with  an  expression  of  kindliness  and 
pity.     Finally  Maximus  spoke: 

"Sometimes  the  stress  of  a  great  national  crisis  will  bring  a  people 
back  from  a  harmful  and  degrading  superstition.  Persia  is  still  the 
legitimate  enemy  of  a  Greek  prince.  A  successful  war  can  not  but 
confound  these  Galilaean  teachers  whose  Master  told  them  to  love 
their  enemies  and  to  repay  insults  and  injuries  with  benefits." 

A  light  of  mystical  exaltation  broke  over  Julian's  countenance. 

"Now,"  he  cried,  "I  understand  the  dream  which  Pallas  Athene 
sent  to  me  last  night.  For  I  seemed  to  be  entering  great  Babylon  as  a 
conqueror,  and  a  great  chorus  of  white-robed  figures  sang  a  Doric  hymn, 
with  the  refrain:  'Hail  to  the  immortal  gods  and  to  their  servant 
Julian!'  Surely  it  was  a  direct  summons  from  on  high  to  go  forth  and 
renew  the  glories  of  Miltiades  and  Alexander." 

"There  can  be  no  question  of  your  duty,"  cried  Maximus,  with 
militant  enthusiasm.  "Go  forth  and  prove  to  these  pale-faced  fanatics 
that  Jupiter  and  Mars  are  still  omnipotent!" 

The  plans  for  the  expedition  were  quickly  discussed.  Julian's 
active  and  well-informed  mind  seized  upon  the  weakest  points  of  the 
Persian  empire;  and,  with  the  assistance  of  his  two  companions,  a 
brilliant  scheme  of  invasion  was  soon  worked  out.  The  philosopher 
then  rose  to  go.  But  Ariston,  remaining,  begged  Julian  for  a  few  words 
in  private. 

"Master,"  he  began. 

"Say  rather,  friend." 


170  The  Haverfordian 

"Master  and  friend,  I  implore  you  not  to  go  on  this  distant  expe- 
dition. The  army  is  full  of  fanatics  who  would  certainly  seize  the 
opportunity  to  murder  you.  And  I,  too,  last  night  had  a  dream,  an 
ominous  vision  from  the  gods.  For  I  saw  all  the  gods,  all  the  goddesses, 
the  nymphs  and  dryads  mourning  the  loss  of  their  last  worshipper." 

Julian  shook  his  head  sadly  and  replied : 

"To  shrink  from  danger  for  fear  of  death — surely  that  is  not  the 
wisdom  we  have  learned  from  the  great  Greek  past  which  we  both  love ! 
It  may  be  that  my  life  is  required  for  a  sacrifice,  a  purification  for  the 
sins  of  the  people.  And  though  the  gods  themselves  have  forsaken  me, 
I  will  not  swerve  one  hair's  breadth  from  the  course  of  honor.  If  we 
must  die  we  can  at  least  die  greatly,  heroically,  like  Leonidas." 

Ariston  sighed  and  left  him.  But  far  into  the  night  the  Emperor 
paced  up  and  down  his  chamber,  reflecting  on  the  disappointments  of 
the  past  and  the  dark  prospects  of  the  future.  The  new  faith,  which 
he  had  so  confidently  expected  to  crush  with  little  effort,  had  proved 
to  have  elements  of  latent  power  and  stubbornness  that  amazed,  while 
it  irritated,  the  pagan  mind  of  Julian.  Despite  the  ardent  support  of 
the  government,  it  was  evident  that  the  old  faith  was  crumbling  fast. 
The  only  hope  seemed  to  lie  in  a  last  desperate  gamble  with  fate  in  the 
shape  of  a  great  military  expedition  against  Persia,  the  historic  foe  of 
Hellenic  culture  and  civilization.  Before  he  retired  the  Emperor  read 
the  passages  of  Herodotus  which  give  such  a  moving  description  of  the 
Greek  wars  of  independence  in  the  fifth  century  B.C.  Leonidas  and 
the  Three  Hundred  called  to  him  over  the  vacant  stretch  of  time;  and, 
calmed  and  exalted  by  their  inspiration,  he  slept  soundly,  untroubled 
by  harassing  dreams  and  phantasies. 

The  Persian  desert  stretched  out,  vast,  silent,  mysterious.  Upon 
the  shifting  sands  beat  down  the  torrid  rays  of  the  unchanging  sun. 
Nothing  broke  the  universal  sameness  of  the  scene,  a  monotone  of 
oriental  fatalism.  But  suddenly  clouds  of  dust  appeared  on  the  distant 
horizon.  It  was  the  vanguard  of  Julian's  retreating  army.  After  a 
brilliant  opening  the  campaign  had  failed  through  the  injudicious  rash- 
ness of  the  Emperor,  the  difficulties  of  the  country,  and  the  tactics  of 
the  light  Persian  cavalry.  Gradually  the  whole  force  came  into  view. 
The  soldiers  moved  sullenly,  dejectedly,  like  beaten  men.  One  cohort 
struck  up  a  Christian  hymn.  And  throughout  the  ranks  propagandists 
of  the  new  faith  assiduously  whispered  that  all  the  m.isfortunes  of  the 
expedition  were  due  to  the  blasphemies  of  the  pagan  Emperor.  A  halt 
was  called  at  a  spot  that  was  slightly  less  barren  than  the  mass  of  the 


"Thou  Hast  Conquered,  Galilaean!"  171 

desert.  Julian  entered  the  imperial  tent  and  sank  down,  too  crushed 
even  to  think  coherently.  He  had  expected  at  least  the  thrill  and  glow 
of  actual  battle.  And  instead  there  had  been  nothing  but  country  laid 
waste  before  the  invading  army,  hunger  and  thirst  and  intolerable 
hardships  for  his  troops,  and  finally — this  ignominious  retreat.  And 
always  the  disaffected  murmurs,  the  silent  curses  of  the  army,  which 
now  took  no  trouble  to  conceal  its  Christian  predilections.  So  this 
was  the  end  of  his  magnificent  scheme  to  restore  the  worship  of  the 
true  and  immortal  gods!  Verily  Oljmpus  had  fallen;  and  the  blue- 
eyed  divinities  had  fled  to  other  lands. 

An  alarm  was  sounded.  The  Emperor  sprang  up  and  rushed  out 
without  stopping  to  put  on  his  armor.  The  Persians,  emboldened  by  the 
retreat  of  the  Roman  army,  were  making  an  attack  upon  the  camp. 
For  the  moment  the  religious  differences  between  the  Emperor  and  his 
soldiers  were  forgotten  in  the  presence  of  a  common  peril.  Heedless  of 
danger,  Julian  rallied  his  chosen  troops  about  him  and  rushed  to  the 
scene  of  the  attack.  The  Persians  gave  way  before  the  resolute  charge; 
and,  as  he  saw  the  flying  barbarians,  the  Emperor  had  a  momentary 
vision  of  the  glorious  fields  of  Marathon  and  Platea.  A  voice  sounded 
in  his  ear,  the  voice  of  a  crazed  fanatic: 

"For  Christ  with  Christ!" 

With  a  groan  Julian  sank  back  into  the  arms  of  his  faithful  friend 
Ariston  as  the  spearpoint  of  the  assassin  entered  his  side.  Slowly  and 
sadly  the  troops  bore  their  wounded  leader  to  his  tent.  At  the  same 
moment  one  mighty  chant  seemed  to  burst  from  the  whole  army.  Julian 
raised  his  head  to  listen.  Was  it  the  paean?  No!  It  was  the  famous 
hymn,  "Christus  Regnat."  With  a  gesture  and  cry  of  utter  despair  the 
dying  Emperor  fell  back  on  his  couch. 

"Thou  hast  conquered,  Galilaean!"  came  from  his  lips  in  a  tone 
of  poignant  anguish. 

Encouraged  by  the  words,  a  veteran  centurion,  Severus  by  name, 
approached  Julian's  bedside.  Himself  a  sincere  Christian,  he  was  unable 
to  repress  a  feeling  of  admiration  and  love  for  the  chivalrous  pagan 
emperor;  and  it  grieved  his  soul  to  think  of  the  eternal  torments  which 
Julian's  infidelity  would  bring  upon  him. 

"Lord,"  he  said,  "will  you  not  take  this  last  opportunity  to  become 
reconciled  to  the  true  Master  and  Saviour  of  us  all?  Surely  you  see 
now  that,  in  comparison  with  the  invincible  power  of  Christ,  your  pagan 
gods  are  mere  figments,  unable  to  help,  console  or  save.  In  this  awful 
hour  of  death  give  up  the  vain  pride  of  intellect  and  power  and  humble 
yourself  before  Him  who  forgave  even  his  worst  enemies." 


172  The  Haverfordian 

During  the  first  part  of  the  Christian's  speech  Julian  had  passively- 
reclined  on  his  couch,  making  little  apparent  effort  to  understand  or 
reply.  But,  as  Severus  concluded  his  exhortation,  the  Emperor  raised 
his  body  and  replied,  in  a  voice  that  vibrated  with  proud  defiance: 

"Certainly  it  would  be  an  easy  price  to  pay  for  the  assurance  of 
future  life — merely  to  kiss  the  feet  of  the  Crucified  One.  An  oriental 
slave  would  seize  upon  the  chance ;  but  a  hero  and  philosopher  disdains 
it.  The  Galilaean  has  conquered  the  degenerate  soul  of  the  Greek  and 
Roman  world;  but  he  has  not  conquered  the  spirit  of  Julian.  Apostate 
and  pagan  I  have  lived;  apostate  and  pagan  I  will  die.  I  do  not  know 
whence  I  came  into  this  world ;  and  I  do  not  know  whither  I  am  going 
out  of  it.  But,  whether  I  descend  into  Pluto's  dark  realms  or  into 
the  Islands  of  the  Blessed,  whether  I  am  doomed  to  pass  my  future  life 
in  the  hell  of  the  Christians,  or,  as  some  have  taught,  in  a  disembodied 
life  of  the  spirit,  I  will  keep  my  soul  free  from  degrading  superstition. 
Alone  and  unattended,  but  resolute  and  dauntless,  I  set  out  on  the 
voyage  to  the  Great  Unknown." 

"No!  Not  alone,  my  friend  and  master!"  cried  Ariston;  and, 
rushing  forward,  he  threw  himself  on  his  sword  and  sank  down  at  Julian's 
feet.  Overcome  by  this  last  testimony  of  devoted  loyalty,  the  Emperor 
himself  expired,  breathing  forth  a  verse  from  Homer. 

The  group  of  officers  gazed  upon  the  two  corpses  with  feelings  of 
mingled  pity  and  awe.  Severus  was  the  first  to  break  the  silence.  "It 
seems  hard  that  such  noble  souls  should  be  doomed  to  pass  through 
an  eternity  of  torment  because  they  failed  to  see  the  true  light.  But  it 
is  the  will  of  God." 

— W.  H.  Chamherlin,  '17. 


"All  the  wide  range  of  human  fancy,  thought  and  passion  are  por- 
trayed in  the  voice  of  a  great  organ." 

0,  organ,  pealing  through  the  air, 
What  do  your  tall,  gold  pipes  declare? 
Your  throats  all  blent  in  one  deep  chord, 
Are  you  the  voice  of  our  mighty  Lord 
Calling  us? — "  Come,  how  low  and  pray 
Ere  the  fading  close  of  this  glorious  day." 

And  then  you  crash  and  mounting  blare, 
Leaping,  thundering, — do  I  dare 
To  hear  the  soul  of  your  mighty  prayer. 
In  tortured  anguish,  struggling  bare? 
Then  warbling,  fluting,  mild  as  May, 
Your  great  voice  thrills  with  passion's  play; 
'  Till  love  steals  sobbing  through  your  strain. 
Fierce  joy  and  longing — bitter  pain. 
Rent  with  envy,  pulsing,  hopirig — 
Through  mad-wild  music  vainly  groping 
To  pour  its  soul  into  shimm'ring  air 
From  your  mellow  throats,  ecstatic,  rare — • 

0,  organ,  throbbing  soft  and  low. 
Tears  are  your  deep  reward,  I  know. 

— A.  Douglas  Oliver,  '19. 


THE  love  of  country  is  instinctive  in  everyone,  yet  there  are  few 
subjects  on  which  authorities  differ  so  widely  as  on  that  of 
patriotism.  In  fact,  there  is  every  gradation  of  opinion  from 
the  conviction  of  those  who  extol  it  as  a  beautiful  and  ennobling  virtue 
to  those  who  maintain  with  Tolstoi  that  patriotism  is  a  vice.  In  dealing 
with  this  subject  it  is  well  to  trace  the  matter  to  its  sources  in  human 
nature. 

One  of  the  qualities  in  man  that  makes  for  a  love  of  country  is  that 
of  group  loyalty.  All  history  has  shown  the  gradual  and  constant 
development  of  this  instinct.  Students  of  the  psychology  of  crowds  say 
that  the  mob,  or  even  the  team,  is  something  more  than  the  sum  of  the 
units  of  which  it  is  composed.  Thus,  the  best  interests  of  the  individual 
may  be  served  by  co-operation  in  large  groups.  Developing  along  this 
line,  we  have  progressed  from  the  family  to  the  tribe,  and  from  the 
tribe  through  the  many  stages  of  feudalism  to  the  modern  nation,  the 
individual  always  showing  loyalty  to  a  group.  But  in  patriotism  this 
tendency  is  closely  associated  with  a  natural  fighting  instinct.  Some 
of  us  get  all  the  fighting  we  need  with  our  friends  and  relatives,  but 
most  of  us  need  other  outlets.  The  soldier  must  have  a  battle,  while 
the  pacifist  fights  for  peace.  But  no  matter  what  the  form  of  the  struggle, 
it  is  born  in  all  of  us  to  love  some  kind  of  a  conflict  and  to  be  loyal  to 
some  group. 

These  tendencies,  however,  are  reenforced  by  other  sources  of 
patriotism,  one  of  which  is  the  desire  for  self-glorification.  In  most 
things  of  this  world  the  man  who  merely  does  his  duty  receives  little 
special  attention.  But  in  the  case  of  a  patriotic  duty,  this  is  quite 
another  matter.  Every  regular  is  a  hero  in  the  eyes  of  his  friends  and 
family;  and,  therefore,  his  value  is  greatly  enhanced  in  his  own  eyes. 
The  most  miserable,  poverty-stricken  wretch  becomes  a  person  of 
importance  when  he  joins  a  patriotic  cause  and  has  the  opportunity  of 
seeing  himself  in  a  higher  and  nobler  light,  in  a  kind  of  glorified  publicity. 
In  a  gallery  of  war  pictures  in  Paris  is  a  drawing  of  a  couple  of  destitute 
hoboes,  hobbling  along  a  country  road  discussing  the  war. 

"We're  bound  to  win  in  the  long  run,"  says  one. 

"Sure!  We're  so  rich,"  says  the  other.  This  patriotic  we  so  up- 
lifts the  individual  in  a  common  cause  that  he  reflects  to  himself  much 
of  the  greatness  attending  the  deeds  going  on  about  him.  This  is  one 
of  the  holds  of  patriotism;  it  gives  the  individual  a  larger  sense  of  his 
own  importance. 


The  New  Patriotism  175 

But  surely  this  is  not  the  whole  story,  for  the  generosities  and 
devotions  of  patriotism  have  not  been  mentioned.  Deep  down  in  all 
men  is  something  which  causes  them  to  rise  to  heights  of  self-sacrifice 
and  to  throw  life  itself  in  the  balance  for  the  sake  of  a  cause  or  a  prin- 
ciple. To  save  his  comrade  from  death  in  the  trenches,  the  soldier  will 
run  every  risk  of  personal  danger  and  will  consider  his  own  life  cheap 
in  the  engrossing  task  of  rescue.  In  every  war  the  instinct  of  self- 
sacrifice  responds  eagerly  to  the  many  opportunities  for  heroism. 

Is  there  any  wonder  that  the  force  of  patriotism  is  so  great?  The 
almost  paradoxical  combination  of  these  two  characteristics,  the  one 
a  selfish  desire  for  magnifying  oneself,  the  other  a  desire  for  altruism! 
To  quote  from  Max  Eastman:  "  In  patriotism  we  have  both  the  emotion 
of  losing  ourselves,  which  has  been  celebrated  by  the  saints  in  all  ages, 
and  the  emotion  of  magnifying  ourselves  so  large  that  there  is  no  possible 
danger  of  our  getting  lost,  which  is  more  enjoyable  if  not  so  celebrated." 
These  two  desires  are  satisfied  in  the  expression  of  the  one  emotion. 
From  this  fact,  together  with  the  natural  tendencies  of  love  of  conflict 
and  group  loyalty,  arises  the  strength  of  the  appeal  of  patriotism. 

Such  being  its  sources,  we  have  next  to  consider  the  love  of  country 
as  an  operative  force.  We  find  a  queer  passion  of  zeal  and  enthusiasm, 
sometimes  tempered  with  reason,  sometimes  not.  The  national  rivalry, 
inseparable  from  a  patriotic  affection  for  one's  country,  makes  a  sus- 
picion of  other  countries  almost  inevitable.  Differences  between  two 
nations  are  invariably  accentuated,  never  modified,  by  the  blind  love  of 
country.  Intelligent  minds  under  the  influence  of  this  emotion  will 
sometimics  maintain  that  their  country  is  in  the  right  when  it  does  two 
diametrically  opposed  things  at  the  same  time.  In  short,  present-day 
patriotism  arouses  brutality,  bitterness,  and  hatred.  Among  its  in- 
congruous features  may  be  cited  the  case  of  the  treacherous  floating 
mines  recently  picked  up  in  the  Black  Sea,  upon  each  of  which  was  the 
inscription,  Christ  is  risen!  But  the  main  and  far-reaching  defect  of 
patriotism  is  its  failure  to  develop  ideals  in  keeping  with  the  revolution- 
ary changes  noticeable  in  everything  else.  Our  present  ideas  of  loyalty 
to  the  fatherland  are  but  the  Greek  and  Roman  ideas  slightly  advanced. 

With  all  the  many  leagues  of  ancient  Greece  the  patriotism  of  a 
higher  unit  was  never  substituted  for  that  of  the  many  and  diverse  little 
states.  It  remained  for  the  United  States  to  furnish  the  world  an 
example  of  the  practicability  of  this  ideal.  When  we  think  of  the  great 
difficulties  in  the  path  of  the  unification  of  the  original  colonies,  the 
accomplishment  seems  almost  a  miracle.  Puritan  New  England  united 
with  Catholic  Maryland!  The  slave-trading  South  with  the  abolitionist 
North!     Massachusetts  with  its  pure  democracy  united  with  Virginia, 


176  The  Haverfordian 

the  stronghold  of  aristocracy!  Here  were  differences  great  indeed ;  yet 
the  patriotisms  of  the  small  colonies  were  blended  into  one  great  devo- 
tion, operating  for  the  benefit  of  all.  This  enlargement  of  the  object 
of  patriotism  is  a  tried  and  proved  method  of  removing  many  of  the 
evils  from  the  extreme  rivalries  of  small  states.  The  gradual  substitu- 
tion of  larger  and  larger  units  on  which  the  force  of  patriotism  may 
act  seems  to  be  the  one  way  to  procure  beneficial  results,  the  one  way 
to  rob  patriotism  of  many  of  its  limitations. 

This  is  but  a  new  step  in  the  evolution  of  our  social  obligations, 
which  have  developed  through  the  stage  of  duty  to  the  family,  to  the 
tribe,  and  to  the  nation.  We  have  only  to  take  one  step  forward  to 
extend  our  sense  of  social  obligation  to  human  society  on  an  international 
scope.  All  modem  systems  of  government,  education,  science,  trans- 
portation, and  intercourse  are  important  factors  working  toward  the 
possibility  of  a  future  unification  and  a  new  non-militant  patriotism. 
But  how  does  this  touch  the  individual?  Each  of  us  should  take  a 
stand  for  the  strictest  justice  in  international  affairs.  Too  many  men 
regard  the  square  deal  only  as  something  they  ought  to  get  from  the 
other  fellow.  Everyone  can  exert  a  broadening  influence  in  the  commu- 
nity by  practicing  a  new  patriotism  that  implies  no  form  of  hostility  to 
other  human  groups.  This  is  the  only  way  to  progress ;  for,  as  Norman 
Angell  writes:  "The  only  permanent  revolutions  in  the  history  of 
civilization  are  those  that  result  from  a  revolution  of  ideas." 

It  is  true  that  it  is  very  difficult  to  fall  down  and  worship  the  mass 
of  humanity  with  any  great  fervor.  But  a  wider  nationalism  or  some 
form  of  actual  federation  is  inevitably  the  next  step  forward;  and  the 
internationalism  of  the  future  will  be  but  the  patriotism  of  today  some- 
what refined  and  operating  in  a  wider  range,  carrying  with  it  a  sense 
of  larger  world  citizenship  in  place  of  a  provincial  pride.  Then  the 
heroisms  of  patriotism  will  be  shorn  of  all  wild,  unreasoning  tendencies; 
and  the  love  of  country  will  be  a  thing  of  "good  repute,  fair,  and  honor- 
able." 

— Christopher  Roberts,  '20. 


€urope  ^fter  1914 

My  heart  is  bowed  with  the  weight  and  toil 

Of  years  that  are  still  to  be; 
I  feel  the  woe  of  a  ravaged  race, 

And  gloom  conies  over  me 
To  think  of  the  lot  they  will  have  to  face, 

In  labor  and  sorrow,  huddled,  forlorn, 
The  best  of  them  dead  on  the  battlefield, 

The  land  of  its  strongest  and  bravest  shorn. 
The  weak  will  triumph,  and  grow,  and  thrive. 

And  the  nations  be  overrun 
With  a  little  race  of  enfeebled  men, 

Who  will  fiercely  push  as  they  feebly  can. 
And,  barely  able  to  keep  alive. 

Demand  their  place  in  the  sun. 

—Richard  R.  Wood,  '20. 


mitt  ww^ 

WITH  a  sudden  warm  glow  about  my  heart  I  climbed  the  flight 
of  steps  where  we  had  sat  so  many  hours  and  talked  and  fought 
and  laughed  and  sometimes  cried.  The  steps  were  a  bit  more 
worn.  The  old  traces  of  paint  were  nearly  wiped  out,  but  our  initials 
were  still  there,  and  the  notches  we  had  hacked  along  the  edges  with  our 
new  jack-knives.  A  girl  answered  my  ring.  She  was  young  and  bloom- 
ing, and  returned  my  glance  with  a  mild  frankness,  tinged  with  curiosity. 

"Is  David  home?"  I  inquired. 

"Yes.     Won't  you  come  in?"  she  answered,  with  a  cordial  smile. 

I  subconsciously  hung  my  hat  on  my  hook  without  the  faintest 
notion  that  it  might  have  been  moved  in  ten  years,  and  stepped  into 
the  parlor  with  the  restful  surety  that  radiates  from  places  and  people 
long  tried  and  well  beloved.  While  I  sat  wondering  how  David  had  so 
skillfully  evaded  my  every  effort  to  trace  him  after  I  left  town,  the 
culprit  himself  appeared  in  the  doorway.  For  several  seconds  he  eyed 
me  in  such  perplexity  that  I  could  almost  hear  his  mind  churning  in  an 
effort  to  connect  the  similarities  in  my  face  with  the  boy  of  fifteen  who 
had  once  known  him  far  better  than  his  own  mother.  An  incredulous 
smile  slowly  sifted  into  his  eyes,  then  his  face  beamed  eloquently  as  he 
seized  my  hand  in  a  death-like  grip. 

"Well,  I  be — "  said  David;  and  I  saw  that  time  had  at  last  taught 
him  how  to  express  himself  like  a  normal  human  being. 

I  gave  him  a  commonplace  greeting,  characteristic  of  me  in  supreme 
moments,  and  we  sat  down  to  have  it  out. 

"I  came  back  here  with  two  ideas  in  view,"  said  I  in  response  to 
his  eager  inquiry  some  minutes  later.  "First  to  find  you,  you  rascal, — 
and  then  to  find  Alice  Eaves.  The  people  of  this  town  never  meant 
much  to  me  in  the  old  days,  but  you  and  Alice  I  loved  and  have  never 
forgotten,  in  spite  of  not  hearing  a  word.  You  were  almost  a  minister 
when  I  left  you.    What  happened?" 

He  had  a  mysterious  look  about  him  as  he  vaguely  answered  me. 
"New  ideas  come  with  new  experiences.  I  changed  my  mind  after  I  had 
nearly  finished  my  training." 

"How  did  it  happen?"  I  inquired,  incredulous  that  anything  short 
of  a  cataclysm  could  shake  the  high  faith  and  exalted  determination  to 
preach  the  gospel,  which  had  so  strongly  marked  his  youth. 

"Well,  you  see,  I  fell  in  love — something  I  never  reckoned  on,  and 
it  sort  of  spilled  my  plans." 

"What!   and  you  used  to  hate  the  girls  most  royally.     How  I  did 


Alice  Who?  .     179 

swear  and  shock  you  when  you  wouldn't  come  with  me  to  call  on  the 
various  beauties  of  the  town!  You  would  piously  turn  up  your  nose 
and  say  that  girls  had  no  place  in  a  minister's  life.  Well,  you  fell  in 
love?     Quite  human!     What  of  it?" 

"I  married  of  it." 

"Married!  You!"  I  should  hav^e  marveled  had  he  told  me  he 
had  held  some  girl's  hand;  he  never  showed  the  faintest  symptoms  of 
such  courage  in  the  days  when  I  knew  him:  but  to  have  him  sit  there 
and  tell  me  that  he  was  married,  as  calmly  as  though  he  had  never  been 
a  child  of  God  who  scorned  any  woman's  love,  was,  to  say  the  least, 
a  refreshing  triumph  for  womankind. 

"Who  was  she?"  I  clamored,  with  my  memory  struggling  at  the 
old  names  for  a  possible  candidate. 

"You  don't  know  her,"  he  declared  casually.  "Tell  me  about 
yourself.  What  are  you  doing?  Did  you  finish  college?  Where's 
your  family  and  where  have  you  lived  all  this  time?     What  profession — " 

"Stop!"  I  cried.  "I  have  first  bat  in  this  game  and  I'm  not  out 
yet.     Where  is  Alice?     Is  she  still  in  town?" 

"Alice?    Alice  who?" 

"Alice  Eaves!  You  remember!  You  used  to  hate  her  so,  and  say 
she  starched  her  hair- ribbons  to  make  them  stand  up." 

"She  did!"  he  declared,  in  defense  of  his  youthful  perceptions. 

"All  right.     Have  you  seen  or  heard  of  her?" 

"Yes,  she's  still  in  town.     Been  married  three  years." 

"Has  she!  I  might  have  guessed  it!  I  suppose  they're  all  married 
by  now." 

"Guess  that's  what  they're  made  for!"  he  mumbled,  and  I  thought 
there  was  a  fatalistic  note  in  his  voice. 

"You  speak  from  experience,  eh?"  I  la'ughed.  "Well,  why  did 
you  desert  the  church?  Most  ministers  have  wives  and  thrive  beauti- 
fully." 

"Jim,"  he  looked  at  me  with  his  eyebrows  scowling  and  his  jaws 
set  grimly,  "I  was  just  a  bundle  of  dried-up  creed,  as  narrow  as  a  line. 
I  had  my  little  trail  to  heaven  all  blazed  and  was  treading  it  peacefully 
with  a  Bible  in  one  hand  and  a  staff  in  the  other.  Then  I  fell  in  love  and 
thought  I  had  no  business  to.  It  woke  me  up  to  the  fact  that  I  was  in 
this  world  and  not  of  it.  I'd  been  told  I  was  a  premature  misplaced 
angel  and  wouldn't  believe  it.  But  I  fell  in  love  with  my  wife;  some- 
one almost  got  her  ahead  of  me;  I  discovered  the  trouble,  dropped  my 
studies  and  showed  her  I  was  a  red-blooded  man.  I  was  only  just 
in  time;   my  blood  was  a  little  redder  than  his,  when  it  came  to  a  show- 


180  The  Haverfordian 

down.     Never  mind  the  details.    She's  mine  now,  that's  all  that  matters." 

"Congratulations,  old  boy!"     I  said.  "It's  better  this  way." 

"Think  so?"  he  smiled  good-naturedly.  I  saw  in  a  flash  how  great 
was  the  change  in  him.  He  had  awakened  from  his  boyish  dreams  in- 
to a  man,  wise,  tender,  and  strong. 

The  curtains  parted  at  the  back  of  the  sitting-room  and  the  girl 
came  in. 

"Won't  you  ask  your  friend  to  dinner?"  she  inquired  of  David, 
with  her  eyes  fixed  on  me. 

I  looked  at  David  after  successfully  tearing  my  glance  from  her 
face,  and  was  surprised  to  see  that  his  eyes  were  filled  with  tears. 

"God!     Will  I!"  he  said  slowly.  "Jim,  this  is  Alice,  my  wife." 

She  came  over  and  shook  my  hand.  I  almost  forgot  to  let  it  go, 
in  my  surprise. 

"0  Jim,  I  didn't  know  you!"  she  exclaimed  in  wonder.  Women 
can  always  find  words  where  men  are  speechless. 

"Nor  I  you,"  I  declared  at  last.  Although  she  was  young  and 
charming,  and  bore  a  resemblance  to  the  Alice  I  had  known,  I  felt  that 
we  were  strangers  to  each  other. 

"Why  didn't  you  tell  me,  David?"  I  stormed,  to  hide  the  semi- 
tragic  feeling  in  my  heart  which  such  meetings  always  bring.  One 
must  act  enthusiastic  at  all  costs! 

"I  didn't  know  just  how.  You  came  at  me  so  suddenly  with  your 
questions." 

"What  changed  you?" 

"Changed  me?"  he  repeated. 

"Yes,  you!  You  used  to  hate  her  so."  I  think  I  blushed  then,  but 
it  was  no  time  to  mince  matters. 

"Well,  I  think  it  was  because  she  was  always  talking  of  you  so 
much,"  he  answered  slowly. 

As  she  put  her  arms  about  him  in  perfect  faith,  I  saw  that  I  had 
done  no  harm.  I  saw  too  that  she  was  little  interested  in  me,  and  mutely 
thanked  God  that  men  don't  change  as  women  do. 

—C.  Van  Dam,  '19. 


Tall  mo7iumenls  of  long-forgotten  time, 

Shrouded  in  midst,  or  crowned  with  winter's  snow; 

Or,  standing  bare  in  dizzy  height  sublime, 

To  greet  the  first  pale  streaks  of  morning's  glow: 

Ye  saw  brave  Hudson  and  his  gallant  band 

Plow  first  the  furrow  through  thy  virgin  stream, 

Ye  saw  the  red  men  driven  from  their  land, — 

Thy  walls  have  echoed  back  the  eagle's  scream; 

Ye  saw  a  nation  struggle  to  its  birth, 

And  build  its  bastions  strong  on  truth  and  right; 

Ye  saw  the  blood  of  brothers  stain  the  earth. 

To  give  a  bandaged  people  freedom's  light: 

And  may  that  nation  stand  as  firm  and  true 

As  thy  tall  summits  tow' ring  in  the  blue! 

—Albert  H.  Stone,  '16. 


^  ^ropog  beg  iiotteg 

T  the  present  time  there  are  two  plays  enjoying  popularity  in 
Philadelphia.  The  first  is  "Common  Clay,"  the  Harvard 
prize  play  of  last  year,  by  Mr.  Clives  Kinkhead.  The  other  is 
"Experience,"  by  Mr.  George  V.  Hobart.  They  are  playing  to  crowded 
houses.     Why? 

I  must  confess  that  there  is  some  merit  in  "Common  Clay";  the 
dialogue  is  fair,  the  technique  good,  the  play  extremely  well  handled. 
But  the  author  has  had  his  eye  on  the  audience  while  writing  it.  That 
is  why  the  play  is  so  much  worse  than  it  might  be.  The  audience  is 
composed  of  people  who  do  not  care  a  fig  for  the  drama,  who  merely 
go  for  the  sake  of  being  entertained  anyhow,  by  hook  or  crook,  for  two 
and  a  half  hours.  By  appealing  to  that  element  the  author  damns 
his  play — not  financially,  not  as  far  as  popularity  goes,  but  as  far  as 
the  excellence  of  the  play  is  concerned. 

Miss  Cowl  gives  a  tolerably  good  performance,  the  scenery  is  the 
usual  thing  we  get,  lacking  in  individuality,  heavy,  dull ;  but  the  play  is 
well  written.  Yet,  of  all  the  subjects  presented  to  us  under  a  thousand 
and  qne  different  disguises,  the  one  Mr.  Kinkhead  chose  is  the  most 
usual,  the  most  boring,  the  most  played-out.  At  the  end  of  the  per- 
formance we  give  a  gasp  of  relief:  another  of  them  done  with — only 
to  find  yet  another  announced  for  next  week. 

And  so,  one  day,  an  enterprising  drama-monger  comes  along  and 
decides  to  do  something  else.  He  goes  back  to  the  origin  of  the  drama 
in  Europe  and  gives  us  a  morality  play.  "  Everyman,"  "  Everywoman," 
and  now  "Experience." 

The  play  is  badly  written:  it  abounds  in  platitudes  that  insult 
the  playgoer  of  average  intelligence,  mixed  metaphors  and  stupid  para- 
doxes. The  lines  are  boring  and  are  as  tediously  recited.  In  fact  the 
thing  is  very  badly  acted:  Miss  Eleanore  Christie  as  Intoxicatiqn:  and 
later  as  Frailty  is  the  only  artist  in  the  company.  The  rest  are  fair, 
poor,  and  Mr.  Ernest  Glendenning,  the  star,  is  grotesque.  The  popu- 
larity of  such  a  play  only  goes  to  prove  how  gullible  this  dear  old  public 
of  ours  can  be. 

But  I  am  taking  the  thing  far  too  seriously. — The  only  good  plays 
we  see  in  America  are  written  by  Englishmen:  Galsworthy,  Pinero, 
Sir  James  Barrie;  or  by  Irishmen:  J.  M.  Synge,  W.  B.  Yeats,  Lady 
Gregory,  Lord  Dunsany,  Padraic  Colum.  And  the  Irish  Players  merely 
succeeded  because  of  the  bluestockings  and  their  assurances  that  it  was 
quite  the  thing  to  do  to  go  and  see  them.  The  French  plays  that  are 
translated  are  only  the  annoying  successes  of  the  Boulevard:  indeed,  a 
company  of  French  artists  acting  in  French  at  their  own  theatre  in  New 
York  give  that  kind  of  play  almost  exclusively. 

True,  there  are  a  few  rare  Americans  who  have  done  great  things 


A  Propos  des  Bottes  183 

in  the  drama:  the  late  Mr.  Clyde  Fitch  almost  did  it  once  or  twice,  and 
another  writer,  Mr.  Langdon  Mitchell,  in  "The  New  York  Idea,"  may 
pride  himself  upon  having  written  the  only  great  American  play.  This 
play  did  not  have  the  success  it  deserved,  in  spite  of  the  talent  of 
the  creatrice  of  the  principal  part;  yet  it  is  a  splendid  piece  of  work.  One 
would  doubt  its  being  the  work  of  one  of  our  compatriots. 

But  Mr.  Mitchell  has  not  produced  anything  except  dramatizations 
of  novels  since;  "The  New  York  Idea"  was  too  good,  the  public  failed 
to  appreciate  it,  and  so  the  author  is  silent.  Still  it  is  well  to  have  tried 
and  succeeded.  That  immediate  success  should  come  is  nothing;  that 
the  play  is  well  written,  well  suited  to  the  tastes  of  the  few  who  go  to 
the  play  for  more  than  to  while  away  a  tedious  evening,  is  indeed  an 
achievement. 

One  of  the  most  astonishing  pieces  of  news  is  that  "Pierrot  the 
Prodigal"  has  had  such  success  this  year  in  New  York.  It  is  a 
pantomime  which  was  presented  about  a  decade  ago  and  which  failed 
dismally.     Why  has  it  now  succeeded? 

Miss  Marjorie  Patterson's  gloomy  Pierrot  is  the  most  superb  piece  of 
work  I  have  ever  seen  in  that  line;  M.  Paul  Clerget  has  authority  and 
poise.  M.  Andre  Wormser's  music  is  delightful.  Have  these  things 
made  the  play  successful?  Has  the  American  theatre-going  public 
rebelled  against  plays  on  sex,  on  crime,  on  horrors  of  the  day?  We  hope 
— but  should  we  hope?  "Experience"  had  success;  look  at  "Common 
Clay,"  et  al.     But  possibly  these  are  the  coup  de  grace. 

Another  good  symptom  is  to  be  noted :  the  success  of  the  Washing- 
ton Square  Players.  A  band  of  young  artists  with  dreams  of  reforms 
scenically,  dramatically,  and  in  various  other  ways,  united  and  formed 
the  company.  As  amateurs  they  were  at  the  Bandbox  Theatre  for  two 
years,  and  at  the  Comedy  Theatre  they  are  having  their  present  season. 
In  spite  of  the  inaccessibility  of  their  former  playhouse,  they  had  success. 
Faithful  to  their  program  of  giving  plays  which  would  otherwise  not 
receive  a  hearing,  they  have  given  a  series  of  plays  which  had  never 
been  played  before  in  America.  It  needed  audacity  to  give  Tchekov's 
"The  Sea  Gull,"  Maeterlinck's  "Interior,"  Alfred  De  Musset's  "Whims" 
— delightfully  translated  and  played; — it  needed  genius  to  give  Maeter- 
linck's "  Aglavaine  et  Selysette"  with  such  eclat  and  success.  Arthur 
Schnitzler,  Roberto  Bracco,  Percy  Mackaye,  Tchekov,  Maeterlinck, 
Alice  Brown,  Avreineff,  de  Porto-Riche,  Alfred  de  Musset — here  are 
only  a  few  of  the  dramatists  that  they  have  interpreted,  but  they 
dared  to  present  a  farce  of  the  earliest  ages  of  French  literature,  viz., 
"Maitre  Patelin" — and  favorably!  What  the  future  and  Broadway 
holds  for  these  enthusiasts  from  Greenwich  Village  will  be  later  seen, 
but  their  popularity  has  been  so  great  as  to  warrant  tours  in  the  prov- 


184  The  Haveiifordian 

inces.     And  for  their  type  of  play  to  succeed  in  this  country  anywhere 
but  in  New  York  is  little  short  of  marvelous. 

To  be  sure  they  have  made  mistakes,  but  they  are  faithfully  and 
brilliantly, — though  possibly  unconsciously — educating  an  indifferent 
pubhc  to  kneel  at  the  altars  of  Art;  that  the  public  follows  such  vo- 
taries augurs  well.  Philadelphia  will  perhaps  not  accord  them  the 
success  that  is  reserved  for  "Common  Clay"  and  "Experience";  pos- 
sibly even  "Marie  Odile"  and  "The  Song  of  Songs"  (poorly  drama- 
tized) would  seem  more  acceptable  here;  but  Philadelphians  have 
seen  Art.  They  have  a  superb  Orchestra  of  their  own;  they  have 
seen  Mr.  George  Arliss,  Mr.  Leo  Dietrichstein  and  Mr.  E.  H.  Sothern; 
they  have  an  Opera  where  Caruso  has  sung;  in  spite  of  the  success 
of  the  stupid  crudities  or  the  slipshod  atrocities — with  here  and  there 
something  better — which  they  have  had  to  swallow,  they  will  appre- 
ciate these  young  players  who  will  have  served  their  Art  here  by  the 
time  these  hurried  lines  are  printed. 

If  they  do  not,  it  is  doubtful  when  we  can  hope  for  a  really  good 
drama — if  they  do,  perhaps  ....  well,  possibly  realism  will  cease  to 
be  the  main  source  of  inspiration  for  our  dramatists.  Happily,  there  is 
a  change  appreciable  now;  the  theatre  is  becoming  more  romantic: 
Mr.  Otis  Skinner,  Mr.  Arliss  and  Mr.  Leo  Dietrichstein  are  doing 
nothing  but  pure  romance,  however  poorly  their  plays  may  be  written 
regarded  from  the  critic's  point  of  view.     And  they  act  them  with  art. 

America,  like  France  after  its  Augier,  Hervieu,  Bataille,  Porto- 
Riche,  Kistemaeckers,  Mirbeau,  etc.,  needs  a  Rostand.  It  might  have 
been  Mr.  Booth  Tarkington,  were  the  latter  less  widely  known  and  not 
a  famous  novelist  thrown  into  commercialism  by  magazines  like  the 
Cosmopolitan. 

A  fine  artist  in  America  is  of  more  immediate  need  than  a  good 
president;  we  can  get  along  with  almost  anyone  as  president,  but  we 
must  have  a  great  artist. 

— /.  G.  C.  Schuman  Le  Clercq,  '18. 


triolet 

The  peaks  are  dim  and  Jar  away, 
And  dim  and  dull  the  sky. 
A  sadness  broods  o'er  all  to-day — • 
The  peaks  are  dim  and  far  away. 
One  haunting  thought  of  eyes  of  gray 
Of  tender  smile,  of  last  good-hy — 
The  peaks  are  dim  and  far  away, 
And  dim  and  dull  the  sky. 

—W.  S.  Nevin,  '18. 


I 


Z\)t  Cotoarb 

IT  was  night.  On  the  morning,  Jean,  my  friend,  would  be  hanged — 
hanged  till  he  died,  so  the  judge  had  said,  and  smiled  and  picked 
his  teeth  as  he  said  it.  I  cursed  the  hours  as  they  sped,  and  I 
went  to  his  prison,  and  the  newsboys  and  gamins  of  the  street,  who  knew 
me  of  old,  threw  mud  after  me,  and  shouted  after  me,  "Coward!"  And 
I  cursed  them,  and  I  cursed  myself  for  that  I  feared  them,  and  I  cursed 
Jean's  judge,  and  the  prison  in  which  he  lay,  and  I  cursed  its  gaolers  body 
and  soul,  and  I  cursed  myself  for  the  driveling,  fawning  obsequiousness 
I  had  been  driven  to,  that  I  might  gain  the  privilege  I  was  using  now. 

After  a  walk  that  seemed  unending  I  was  at  the  prison;  and,  hardly 
seeing  or  hearing,  I  followed  the  turnkey,  a  garrulous  man,  and  at  last  a 
heaxy  door  swung  noiselessly  back  on  well-oiled  hinges,  and  I  was  alone 
with  him,  my  friend.  And  when  I  saw  him  lying  upon  the  little  iron 
bed,  his  hands  clasped  behind  his  head,  as  of  old,  and  with  his  face  look- 
ing upward  with  its  quizzical,  half-sneering  expression,  as  though  he 
saw  nothing  worth  his  looking — when  I  saw  these  things,  a  lump  rose  in 
my  throat,  that  mingled  with  the  curses  there,  and  I  was  fain  to  cough 
violently,  as  one  coughs  who  is  on  the  border  of  tears. 

He  glanced  toward  me  at  the  sound.  "I'm  glad  to  see  you;  sit 
down,  Billy,"  he  invited  smilingly.  His  voice  was  as  rich  and  sweet  as 
that  of  any  divinely-called,  highly-paid  minister,  and  in  it  he  could 
express  every  emotion  of  the  human  heart.  There  was  no  note  of  sad- 
ness in  it  now. 

"What  are  you — doing?"  I  stammered.  It  seemed  a  most  foolish 
thing  to  say,  yet  the  ever-increasing  lump  in  my  throat  impelled  me  to 
words. 

"Thinking,    Billy,   thinking.      Thinking  where   I'll   be   to-morrow, 
this  time,  and  how  much  I  love  the  world,  and  how  clean  my  cell  is,  and 
oh,  yes,  what  I'll  order  for  breakfast.      They  are  kind  to  me;      they 
hang  me,  but  still  I  shall  get  what  I  want  for  breakfast." 

The  conversation  had  not  turned  itself  the  way  I  thought  it  would, 
yet  perhaps  it  was  better  so.  At  least  it  was  as  Jean  wished,  and  Jean 
knew.  We  sat  for  some  little  time  in  silence,  each  occupied  with  his 
own  thoughts. 

I  thought  of  the  number  of  times  he  had  professed  no  hunger,  and  I 
had  eaten  his  portion,  with  mine,  and  his  was  always  the  smaller.  And 
I  thought  how  often  he  had  shared  his  narrow  bed  with  me,  when  my 
dear  brothers  and  sisters,  the  world,  had  pointed  me  my  way  to  hell. 
And  as  I  thought  of  him,  my  single  friend,  who  was  about  to  be  taken 


186  The  Haverfordian 

away  from  me,  the  ache  of  the  lump  in  my  throat  surged  so  heavily, 
that  I  burst  into  a  torrent  of  cursing,  against  all  the  world.  I  damned 
Him  who  made  it,  and  Him  who  would  destroy  it.  I  damned  its  people, 
past,  present,  and  to  come,  heart  and  soul,  to  the  nethermost  depths  of 
hell.  I  damned  the  present  race,  and  I  damned  its  mothers  for  whores 
and  its  fathers  for  swine,  and  its  offspring  for  the  same.  And  most  I 
damned  those  who  administered  the  mockery  of  Law  and  Justice,  and 
I  damned  those  who  owned  this  cursed  mockery,  by  whom  and  by  which 
Jean  was  condemned;  and  I  damned  them  twice  and  thrice,  that  the 
worm  might  never  die  on  their  cheeks,  nor  the  fire  ever  surfeit  and 
quench  itself  at  their  vitals;  that  their  boys  might  become  lewd  felons, 
and  their  girls  shameless  harlots;  that  their  gold  might  be  molten  flame 
that  never  ceased  its  burning;  that  their  God  might  hurl  them  into  the 
bottomless  pit,  and  the  devil  and  his  friends  might  rend  their  seared 
souls  in  hot  hell  forever.  And  when  I  had  finished,  and  the  cowardice 
and  futility  of  my  cursing  had  showed  itself  to  me,  I  succumbed  at  last 
to  the  ever-growing  lump  in  my  throat,  and,  bowing  my  face  upon  my 
hands,  I  wept. 

Seeing  me,  Jean,  who  had  been  listening  with  his  quiet,  sneering 
smile,  sprang  up,  and  patted  my  shoulder  with  his  hand,  that  was  large 
and  strangely  gentle.  And  thus  it  came  to  pass,  that  he,  a  man  con- 
demned to  die,  was  consoling  me  who  had  come  to  console  him.  "Billy, 
boy,  don't  cry  so,"  he  said,  stroking  my  hair  back  from  my  forehead. 
"What  pretty  hair  you  have,  Billy!  Like — "  his  sweet  voice  faltered 
a  moment,  and  then  went  on — "like  hers,  Charlotte's." 

My  tears  flowed  afresh  at  the  thought  of  his  sweetheart — Charlotte, 
with  brown  hair,  and  deep  brown  eyes,  Charlotte  who — .  "But  you  are 
innocent,"  I  said. 

"Of  course,  Billy,"  he  agreed,  still  standing  near  me.  "But  it  had 
to  be  someone,  and  young  Carlite  has  a  father  and  a  mother,  and  a 
future,  which  is  more  than  these  two." 

"  But  why  was  it  you?"  I  cried,  afire  with  the  injustice  of  it. 

"They  chose  well,  Billy.  Someone  else  would  no  doubt  have  pre- 
ferred living  rather  than  hanging,  while  either  mattered  little  to  me. 
It  would  only  be  idle  boasting  to  deny  that  I  am  not  rather  afraid,  but 
it  will  soon  pass — my  death-agony,  I  mean — and  then — ,"  he  did  not 
finish  the  sentence.     "And  too,  Billy,  I  have  lived  thirty  years." 

"But  your  luck  might  have  changed,"  said  L 

"It  has,"  he  said  gravely.  "I  had  decided  that  I  had  drawn  a 
blank  in  the  lottery  of  life;  to  kill  myself  would  be  too  cowardly — I 
scorn  a  coward,  Billy;   I  had  decided  that  I  must  live  out  my  life  as  best 


The  Coward  187 

I  might — and  now  they're  going  to  hang  me.  You'll  hardly  deny  that 
it  isn't  lucky.  Of  course,"  he  added,  thinking  of  others,  as  ever,  "I  am 
sorry  to  leave  you,  Billy.     I'd  stay  if  I  could." 

Turning  my  head  away,  I  clasped  his  hand  in  mine,  while,  some- 
where in  the  prison,  a  clock  rang  out  the  hour  in  heavy,  throbbing 
beats.  "Six  more  hours  to  live,"  said  Jean,  when  at  last  it  stopped. 
Then,  with  a  half-ironical  smile  at  himself:  "  It  is  remarkable  with  what 
mingled  feelings  of  longing  and  fear  that  I  wait  for  my  death." 

"It — it  may  sound  foolish,"  I  said,  without  looking  up,  "but  if  I 
could,  I'd  die  for  you." 

"I  know  you  would,  Billy,"  he- said,  smiling  the  strange,  twisted 
smile  he  kept — I  thought — for  me  alone.  "But  don't  be  sorry  for  me. 
I  have  drunk  long  and  deep  of  the  bitter  waters  that  are  my  life,  and  it  is 
only  too  gladly  that  I  die." 

I  glanced  pleadingly  up  into  the  quiet,  kind  eyes  that  transfigured 
his  roughly-featured  face.  "You'll  be  up  in  Paradise  with  Christ,  yet 
you  won't  forget  me,  will  you,  Jean?" 

"Never,  Billy." 

"Poor  Jean!"  I  whispered,  fondling  his  rough  hand  in  mine.  His 
hand  roughened  in  guarding — 

"Ah,  Billy  boy.  .  .  .There  may  be  better  ways  to  serve  one's  coun- 
try— and  one's  friends,  than  to  be  hanged,  but  there  is  no  better  way  to 
serve  one's  self."  He  was  stroking  my  hair  again.  "So  like  hers,  Billy!" 
This  time  the  brave  voice  did  not  falter,  but  on  the  hand  I  felt  a  tear 
that  was  not  my  own. 

The  officious  turnkey  thrust  his  head  in  the  door.  "Time  nearly 
up,  gents." 

I  was  on  my  knees  before  him.  "Jean,  Jean,  I  can't  leave  you! 
I'll  stay  and  die  with  you,"  I  cried  in  my  agony. 

"Billy,  my  boy."  He  helped  me  to  my  feet,  and  gently  guided  me 
to  the  door.  "If  I  believed,  Billy," — he  turned  on  me  the  fullness  of  his 
twisted  smile,  never  so  twisted  as  now — "  I'd  tell  you  I'd  wait  at  Heaven's 
gate  for  you.     Good-bye,  Billy,  little  lad." 

"My  friend,  good-bye."  I  spoke  to  the  closed  door,  piece  of  the 
unbroken  wall  behind  me.  I  had  left  my  Jean  forever,  and  the  garrulous 
turnkey  led  me  forth.  Blind  fool!  He  never  knew  how  near  he  was  to 
death  that  night,  and  I  believe  if  he  had  breathed  one  word  against  Jean, 
I  would  have  left  him  with  a  cut  throat,  and  they  would  have  hanged 
me,  too.  His  Providence  or  mine  guarded  his  tongue,  and  shortly  the 
cool  night  air  struck  me  like  a  blow  in  the  face. 

I  gazed  at  the  arching  black,  grim,  sullen,  forbidding,  that  was 


188  The  Haverfordian 

Heaven,  and  in  it  all  there  was  no  sign  of  star  nor  gleam  of  moon,  but 
only  the  impenetrable,  illimitable  black,  black  as  the  blackness  of  death, 
or  black  as  the  blackness  of  my  soul.  And  I  raised  my  clenched  fist  in 
curses,  once  again,  and  I  cursed  it  and  its  Maker,  but  the  black  void  gave 
no  sign,  and  the  silence  was  unbroken,  save  for  the  hissing  breath  of  my 
curses,  and  I  cursed  myself  for  my  impotence. 

Then,  changing,  I  prayed  that  Jean's  life  might  be  saved  by  some 
miracle,  like  those  of  the  Bible,  or,  better,  that  I  might  die  with  him, 
and  I  prayed  with  the  ardent  fervor  of  misery  as  black  as  the  night  for 
some  manifestation,  outward  or  inward,  that  my  prayers  were  heard. 
And  the  black  firmament,  deaf  alike  to  my  curses  and  prayers,  gave  no 
sign,  so  at  last  I  looked  toward  the  ground,  shutting  the  sky  from  my 
eyes  with  my  hands  that  but  a  moment  before  had  been  in  Jean's,  and 
I  laughed,  a  long  and  bitter  laugh. 

And  I  hastened  on  my  way,  passing  a  house-of-call  that  flaunted  its 
red  light  in  the  darkness,  a  house  that  I  knew  too  well.  But  now  I 
heeded  it  not,  but  walked  ever  on,  on  my  road  to  hell;  on  to  the  silent- 
flowing  river,  black  and  grim  like  the  arching  sky,  from  which  it  seemed 
to  come,  and  in  which  it  seemed  to  merge;  and  in  this  river,  unmindful 
and  unpausing,  I  might  drown  the  mockery  of  my  life. 

And  as  I  walked,  the  street-boys,  in  the  voice  of  my  Jean,  shouted, 
"Coward!" 

—H.  W.  Brecht,  '20. 


Blood  of  France,  'tis  not  in  vain 
Thou  slain' si  the  glebe  where  once  the  grain 
Was  wont  to  wave  its  golden  head, — ■ 
Where  now  keep  watch  the  sacred  dead. 

Fields  of  France,  'tis  not  the  plow 
That  turns  thy  mellow  furrow  now! 
And  yet  thy  harvest  rich  shall  be, — 
The  priceless  pearl  of  liberty! 

—Albert  H.  Stone,  '16. 


i 


Snores! 

To  one  of  an  observing  temper  the  habits  and  foibles  of  his  fellow- 
men  cannot  help  but  be  of  interest.  Therefore,  priding  myself, 
as  most  do,  upon  a  remarkable  ability  to  see  the  faults  of  others 
with  the  discreet  exclusion  of  myself,  I  am  tempted  to  remark  on  the 
curious  and  universal  habit  of  snoring.  The  snore  is  a  most  sociable 
companion.  He  is  the  most  democratic  fellow  imaginable,  invading 
alike  the  palace  of  the  king  and  the  cot  of  the  humble,  without  so  much 
as  "How  de  do"  or  "By  your  leave."  He  is  a  most  engaging  fellow,  in 
fact  when  once  contracted  he  is  most  difficult  to  get  rid  of.  He  is  so 
damnably  sociable  that  he  refuses  to  leave,  until  expelled  by  force  such 
as  ice-water  or  murder.  Now  there  are  three  kinds  of  sociability:  1. 
The  delightful;    2.     The  endurable;    3.  The  unbearable. 

Curiously  enough,  the  snore  can  be  any  one  of  these  three.  I  will 
now  undertake  the  difficult  task  of  forcing  my  readers  to  admit  that  a 
snore  may  be  delightful.  Did  you  ever,  dear  friend,  sit  by  your  grand- 
mamma's side  as  she  worked  at  the  spinning  wheel?  The  gentle  swish! 
swish!  swish!  of  the  treadle  and  the  steady  humming  of  the  revolving 
spindle  would  soothe  your  tired  little  brain  as  a  bed-time  lullaby.  Then 
her  feet  would  stop,  but  swish!  swish!  swish!  the  murmured  monody 
continued,  then  you  laughed  softly,  for  grandma,  dear  old  soul  that  she 
was,  had  fallen  fast  asleep,  and  she  snored  in  perfect  resonance  with  the 
long-silenced  wheel,  so  you  scarce  could  tell  when  the  latter  stopped 
and  the  snoring  began. 

Now,  secondly,  there  is  the  endurable  snore.  When  we  endure 
something  it  is  either,  first,  that  we  want  to  stop  it  and  can't,  or,  second, 
that  we  can't  stop  it  and  want  to.  With  careful  consideration,  after 
mature  and  deliberate  judgment,  it  is  readily  seen  that  every  case  of 
"enduring"  must  be  reduced  in  the  last  analysis  to  these  two  fundamental 
causes.  Now,  for  convenience,  I  have  given  examples  of  the  three 
types  of  snoring  before  burdening  my  readers  with  more  details.  They 
are: 

Eg.  1  of  delightful  snores.      Your  sweetheart's  before  marriage. 

Eg.  2  of  endurable  snores.  A  small  boy's  father,  with  small 
boy  and  father  in  same  room  or  in  adjoining  rooms  with  door  open. 
Small  boy  awake.     Father  asleep. 

Eg.  3.    Unendurable  "snores."     Your  sweetheart's  after  marriage. 

Now  having  su'omitted  these  examples  for  your  eschewment,  let 
me  hasten  to  the  third  and  most  important  class,  which  embraces  by 
far  the  greatest  number  of  snores  extant — short  snores,   long  snores, 


190  The  Haverfordian 

gay  old  rounders,  light  young  friskers,  et  al.  Now  the  head  of  this 
class  is  the  "  Fatherofallsnores."  You  all  know  it — the  ripping,  grind- 
ing crash  of  an  antiquated  sawmill  cutting  pine  knots  for  its  crescendo; 
and  the  ear-splitting  whistle  of  a  leaky  radiator  for  its  diminuendo. 
The  "Fatherofallsnores"  is  found  most  frequently  in  the  best  families, 
and  very  seldom  among  the  poor  and  ill-nurtured.  Its  special  "hobbies " 
are  toothless  grandpas,  gouty  uncles,  and  young  caf^-runners.  The 
nearest  relative  of  the  "Fatherofallsnores"  is  the  lame  snore.  The  lame 
snore  is  very  unreliable.  It  may  be  going  along  at  a  good  steady  pace, 
with  a  sound  between  a  death-rattle  and  shaking  the  kitchen  stove, 
and  suddenly  stop.  You  are  almost  surprised  into  slumber.  But,  with 
a  precipitance  like  hell  turned  loose,  it  starts  again  with  four  thousand 
fighting  dogs  and  three  hundred  yowling  cats  for  its  theme.  Then 
zip!  the  saw  hits  a  knot  and  the  snore  glides  over  it  with  a  groan,  and 
stops  to  split  three  oak  boards  with  a  hatchet  before  it  gurgles  its  way 
down  the  bath-tub  waste-pipe. 


I  laughed  with  you  in  play, 
And  wept  with  you  in  sorrow; 
I'll  do  the  same  again  today, 
And,  like  as  not,  tomorrow. 
I  kissed  you  in  the  morning, 
I  angered  you  at  night. 
At  noon  I  gave  you  warning, 
At  three  I  called  you  right. 
I  hungered  when  you  fasted, 
You  fasted  when  Fd  sup. 
At  noon  our  friendship  blasted. 
At  night  we  made  it  up. 
We  both  were  made  from  clay. 
Conceived  in  sin  and  sorrow; 
We'll  do  the  same  again  today, 
And,  like  as  not,  tomorrow. 

— Robert  Gibson,  '17. 


i 


DEAR  Watson,"  the  letter  began.  "Because  you  and  your 
mother  have  always  been  so  kind  to  us  I  do  not  hesitate  to  ask 
of  you  one  more  favor. 

"In  my  sad  departure  after  the  funeral,  having  so  many  other 
things  to  think  of,  I  forgot  to  bring  Mr.  Myers'  bedroom  slippers— 
the  ones  he  used  to  be  so  fond  of.  They  are  made  invaluable  to  me  by 
the  memories  connected  with  them.  Would  you  be  kind  enough  to  get 
them  for  me?  They  are  in  his  closet.  Mr.  Cassady  will  give  you  the 
key,  and  I  think  that  the  stamps  I  am  enclosing  will  be  sufficient  to 
cover  the  postage.     Thank  you  ever  so  much,  Watson. 

"Remember  me  to  your  mother  and  thank  her  for  her  kindness 
to  me. 

"Sincerely  yours, 

"Mary  C.  Myers." 

Dick  slowly  handed  back  the  letter  to  its  owner  as  the  two  walked 
home  from  the  post  office.  "  It  surely  was  tough  about  Mr.  Myers," 
he  said;  "I  feel  so  sorry  for  Mrs.  Myers — she  always  impressed  me  as 
such  a  nice  woman,  a  perfect  lady — and  for  little  Ruth  too." 

"Yes,  that's  right.  I've  never  heard  a  word  against  her.  And  he 
was  a  nice  man,  too.  Of  course  he  never  went  to  church,  but  he  was 
always  so  kind  to  his  wife.  I'll  tell  you  not  many  people  knew  how 
much  he  drank.  The  old  fellow  could  put  away  more  booze  and  still 
navigate  than  any  man  I  ever  saw.  They  say  he  inherited  the  taste 
from  his  grandfather." 

"I  guess  that's  why  he  got  the  pneumonia  so  easily  and  why  it 
took  him  off  so  quickly,  Wats." 

"Yes,  and  that's  why  they  could  keep  him  so  long — he  had  so 
much  alcohol  in  him.  He  drank  an  awful  lot  lately.  Father  was  over 
when  he  died,  you  know,  and  he  told  me  that  he  hoped  he  would  never 
see  such  a  death  again.  Old  Myers  was  raving  drunk.  He  would  not 
let  the  doctor  or  even  Mrs.  Myers  come  near  him,  and  he  blasphemed 
God   with  his  last  breath." 

"Gosh,  Wats,  who'd  ever  have  thought  it?  Poor  fellow! — Well,  I 
guess  I'll  have  to  leave  you  here.  When  you  go  for  those  slippers,  don't 
let  any  ghosts  get  you,  old  boy.    So  long." 

"Aw,  go  on!  I'll  not  let  a  little  thing  like  that  worry  me.  So  long 
yourself." 

But  as  Watson  walked  toward  home  he  did  indeed  look  a  little 
worried.  The  thought  of  fear  had  never  entered  his  head  until  now. 
What  if  the  stories  he  had  heard  about  the  strange  sounds  within  the 
house,  the  dim  light  at  night,  and  the  white  figure  at  Myers'  window, 
were  true  after  all?     He  tried  to  shake  off  the  effect  of  these  thoughts, 


192  The  Haverfordian 

but  in  vain.     He  had  to  admit  that  he  was  just  a  trifle  upset.     I  think 
I'll  not  go  over  until  to-morrow,  he  decided. 

Meanwhile  Dick,  who  lived  quite  near  Watson,  had  arrived  home 
and  was  talking  earnestly  at  the  telephone.  "All  right,  Mr.  Cassady," 
he  was  saying,  "thanks  very  much.  I'll  stay  around  home  to-day  and 
to-morrow  then,  so  as  to  be  in  when  you  call  me  up.  I  hope  I  haven't 
asked  too  much, — good-bye." 

Early  the  next  morning  Watson,  having  secured  the  key  from  Mr. 
Cassady,  walked  boldly  up  to  Myers'  front  door,  unlocked  it,  and  strode 
in  with  a  firm  step.  The  house  was  still  as  death.  Watson  paused  a 
moment  in  the  parlor — he  could  not  help  glancing  over  to  the  corner 
where  the  casket  had  stood.  Just  then  the  deathly  silence  was  broken 
by  a  noise — a  noise  that  was  unmistakably  that  produced  by  a  door 
being  closed  upstairs! 

Watson  started  like  one  thunderstruck,  looked  all  about  him,  and 
listened  intently.  In  spite  of  him,  his  knees  trembled.  It  must  have 
been  the  wind,  he  told  himself.  But  what  was  that?  A  low,  uncanny 
groan  came  from  above. 

Watson  looked  toward  the  open  street  door.  He  was  struggling 
with  a  great  temptation.  There  was  the  door — how  quiet  the  street 
seemed — but  how  Dick  would  laugh  at  him!  He  composed  himself  as 
best  he  could,  gritted  his  teeth,  and  started  up  the  stairs.  Half-way  up 
he  heard  another  one  of  those  sepulchral  groans.  Horrors!  it  came 
from  the  front  room — the  one  Myers  used. 

Again  he  thought  of  the  open  door — he  could  still  make  a  rush  for 
it.  But  he  managed  to  screw  up  his  courage  sufficiently  to  call  out, 
"Who's  here?  If  there's  anyone  here,  come  out  where  I  can  see  you!" 
How  queer  his  voice  sounded!  There  was  only  deathly  silence,  then  a 
very  low  groan. 

"Well,  here  goes  anyway,"  he  muttered,  and  dashed  up  the  stairs 
into  the  front  room.  There  was  evidently  nothing  wrong  here,  the 
room  seemed  completely  empty.  "Gosh,  my  imagination  must  have 
been  going  some!  What  a  fool  I  was!  But  I'd  swear  I  heard  that  door 
bang  and  those  groans." 

Over  in  the  corner  was  the  closet  door.  The  slippers  must  be  in 
there,  Watson  thought.  He  crossed  the  room  boldly  and  laid  his  hand 
on  the  knob.     Didn't  he  hear  a  faint  creak  within? 

He  threw  open  the  door.  Out  sprang  a  white  figure,  bony  fingers 
closed  on  his  throat,  and  he  was  borne  to  the  floor. 

Fearlessly  now  he  grappled  with  the  figure  and  then — "You,  you, 
you  rascal!     DICK!" 

—Roy  Griffith,  '20. 


iSImosit 

I'LL  be  damned  if  I'll  be  caught  again,"  swore  Hilary  Carson,  as  he 
was  hurled  along  the  country  highway  in  his  high-powered  racing 
car.  "Of  all  the  poor  asses,  I  think  that  I'm  entitled  to  the  first — " 
And  with  many  similar  expressions  of  self-depreciation,  he  continued 
on  at  a  high  rate  of  speed,  regardless  of  the  ruts  and  hollows  that  caused 
the   machine   to  sway  violently. 

Carson  was  a  wealthy  young  bachelor,  who  belonged  to  several 
very  exclusive  clubs  in  New  York.  His  business  was  such  that  he  had 
a  considerable  amount  of  extra  time  on  his  hands,  and,  as  he  was  usually 
jovial,  good-natured,  and  liberal  with  his  money,  he  always  had  a  party 
of  friends  to  help  him  while  away  his  spare  moments.  A  year  before 
he  had  been  disappointed  in  a  love  afifair,  and  he  had  then  felt  so  dis- 
gusted that  he  declared  he  was  done  with  women.  But  a  bright-eyed, 
chestnut-haired  little  beauty  from  Boston  had  made  him  entirely  forget 
his  former  trial,  and  he  had  started  out  bravely  and  with  great  excite- 
ment in  the  race  for  the  girl's  hand.  He  was  sentimental,  and,  as  a 
fellow-clubman  said,  "a  poor  fish,  who  just  couldn't  see  the  hook  and 
line."  But  he  took  particular  care  in  his  new  advances  and  felt  very  con- 
fident as  to  the  result  of  his  venture.  When  this  afifair  had  blown  over, 
and  he  again  found  himself  stranded,  so  to  speak,  we  can  see  what  justi- 
fication he  had  for  his  remark  concerning  his  gullibility. 

With  nothing  to  lose,  and  nothing  much  to  gain,  as  he  had  ex- 
pressed it,  he  had  decided  to  seek  the  seclusion  of  the  deepest  jungle 
in  New  England.  There  he  would  drown  out  his  woes  in  a  few  days  of 
fishing  and  hunting,  alone  and  in  peace.  And  so  he  had  packed  his 
car  with  the  necessaries  and  had  started  out,  loaded  and  primed  with 
gloom  and  despair. 

A  whole  day  he  spent  on  the  road,  and  when  it  was  late  in  the 
afternoon,  he  came  to  an  ideal  spot,  densely  wooded  and  near  a  beautiful 
lake.  He  ran  his  car  under  a  shelter  of  bushes  and  unpacked.  He 
dressed  in  his  camping  suit,  picked  up  his  fishing  pole  and  started  for 
the  lake.  Soon  he  was  perched  on  an  old  log,  playing  with  his  line, 
and  considering  the  fantastic  shapes  reflected  in  the  water.  He  often 
indulged  in  day-dreams  when  alone,  and  so  his  mind  began  to  picture 
all  sorts  of  impossible  things.  He  imagined  himself  a  castaway  on  a 
lonely  isle,  with  a  beautiful  girl  as  his  sole  companion.  No,  he  simply 
couldn't  keep  the  thought  of  the  fair  creatures  of  the  other  sex  out  of  his 
mind. 

A  sudden  tug  at  his  line  brought  him  back  to  full  consciousness, 
and  with  a  sweep  that  nearly  dislodged  him,  he  landed  a  fine  bass.  As 
he  was  taking  the  hook  from  the  fish's  mouth,  his  attention  was  drawn 
to  something  moving  out  on  the  lake.     About  a  hundred  yards  out  on 


194  The  Haverfoedian 

the  water  a  girl  was  passing  in  a  canoe.  It  was  a  great  distance  to  pass 
expert  judgment,  but  Hilary's  trained  eye  could  see  that  the  occupant 
of  the  canoe  was  "some  pippin,"  as  he  expressed  it.  Suddenly  the 
canoe  came  to  an  abrupt  stop,  and  the  girl  seemed  to  be  struggling  to 
swing  the  bow  of  the  craft  off  from  a  floating  object.  Then,  just  as 
suddenly,  and  as  Carson  had  feared,  the  canoe  tipped  over,  and  the 
girl  disappeared  in  the  lake.  Should  he  go  after  her?  Hilary  had 
almost  made  up  his  mind  to  turn  his  back.  But  his  sentimental  side 
got  the  better  of  him,  and  he  was  soon  out  by  the  upturned  boat,  to 
which  the  girl  was  holding. 

"May  I — er — could  I  be  of  any  assistance  to  you?"  he  managed 
to  pant. 

"Yes,  thank  you,"  said  the  girl,  smiling  as  sweetly  as  the  situation 
allowed,  and,  in  Carson's  opinion,*a  whole  lot  more  sweetly  than  the 
circumstance  warranted. 

"Can  you  swim  at  all?"  he  inquired.  "" 

"Not  a  stroke,"  she  assured  him. 

Well,  wasn't  that  fine!  He  had  feared  that  she  could  swim  and  his 
efforts  would  have  been  in  vain. 

"Suppose  you  hang  on  to  my  neck."  The  words  made  him  blush, 
even  though  the  lake  was  cold.  Then  he  blurted  out,  "Don't  try  to 
choke  me  either,  or  I'll — " 

"Oh,  I'll  t-try  to  b-b-be  careful,"  she  said,  shivering  a  little.  Soon 
Hilary  had  her  on  the  bank,  and  they  looked  at  each  other  sheepishly. 

"You're   cold,"    he   suggested. 

"Just  a  v-very,  very  little,"  she  murmured. 

"Come  to  my  camp  and  I'll  have  a  fire  in  a  jiffy,"  he  said,  and, 
greatly  excited,  ran  off  to  build  a  fire. 

The  warmth  of  a  crackling  wood  fire  was  cheering,  and  the  girl 
sat  down  on  a  log.  Hilary  could  see  that  she  was  very  cold.  An  idea 
came  to  him,  but  he  didn't  express  it. 

"Er — do  you  live  far  from  here?"  he  asked  her  across  the  blaze. 

"Oh,  ever  so  far,"  said  the  other,  as  she  dried  her  hair  with  a  towel 
he  had  provided. 

It  was  now  quite  dark,  and  he  wondered  what  the  girl  would  do. 
He  made  known  his  idea. 

"You  can  go  in  my  tent,  if  you  want  to.  There  you  will  find  some 
nice  big  blankets." 

"Oh,  that  would  be  so  comfortable,"  thanked  the  girl.  "I  feel 
so  mean  in  these  wet  clothes." 

Hilary  showed  her  his  little  tent.     She  went  in  and  closed  the  flaps. 

"I  left  a  lamp  in  there,"  he  called  to  her.     "  Is  that  enough  light?" 

"Oh,  it  is  perfectly  splendid,"  came  a  muffled  voice  from  within 
the  tent. 


Almost  195 

Carson  went  off  and  changed  his  wet  clothes  for  dr\-  ones.  When 
he  came  back,  he  saw  a  figure  seated  by  the  fire,  enjoying  the  depths 
of  a  big  blanket.  On  a  pole  nearby  were  several  pieces  of  feminine 
apparel  spread  out  to  dry.  A  little  pair  of  shoes  were  placed  neatly 
on  a  stone  a  few  feet  away.  On  seeing  Carson,  the  girl  looked  up  and 
smiled.      Her  long  hair  was  scattered  in  fluffy  waves  on  her  shoulders. 

"What  a  queen!"  thought  Hilary,  and  he  pinched  himself  to  see  if 
he  were  not  dreaming. 

"I  put  my  things  there  to  dry,"  said  the  girl,  nodding  towards 
the  drying  clothes.  "It's  awfully  dangerous  to  sit  in  wet  clothes,  and 
I  was  so  very  uncomfortable." 

"W'ell,  you  did  the  right  thing,"  said  Carson,  still  standing. 

"Do  sit  down,"  said  the  girl,  "and  enjoy  the  fire." 

Carson  sat  down  on  a  log  across  from  the  >oung  lad\-. 

"Care  if  I  smoke?"  he  inquired. 

"Please  do,"  she  insisted.  "I  love  the  smell  of  tolmcco.  It  is  so 
mannish." 

"Do  you  think  so.''"  chuckled  Carson,  as  he  lit  his  pipe.  "I  never 
heard  anyone  express  it  quite  that  way  before." 

The  girl  smiled  and  stuck  one  little  toe  out  of  the  blanket  to  be 
warmed.  The\'  chatted  for  an  hour,  until  the  clothes  on  the  pole  were 
perfectly  dry.     Carson  glanced  at  them  suggestively. 

"I  have  my  car  here,"  he  said,  and  pointed  to  a  dark  object  in  the 
bushes.      "I — er — I  might — " 

"Oh,  no,"  she  said,  and  stared  absently  at  the  fire.  She  hung 
her  head  a  moment,  and  then,  as  she  wriggled  a  toe  out  of  the  blanket, 
she  said  hesitantly,  "I  live  so  far,  I  could  not  get  home  till  'way  late. 
If  I  could  ha\e  this  blanket  until  morning — " 

"  By  Jove,  of  course,  and  my  tent  also,"  he  said,  jumping  up.  "Then 
I  can  taKe  you  back  in  the  morning." 

"That  would  be  splendid,"  laughed  the  girl.  "But  I  won't  take 
your    tent    from    you." 

"Oh,  don't  worry  about  me,"  he  said  bravely.  "I'm  used  to  sleep- 
ing out.     I  can  roll  up  in  a  blanket  and  watch  the  fire." 

The  girl  objected,  but  after  much  discussion,  Carson  prevailed,  and 
she  took  her  dry  clothes  and  hobbled  into  the  tent.  For  more  than  an 
hour  Hilary  sat  musing  before  the  fire.  Was  he  in  love  with  her.''  He 
feared  to  ask  himself  the  question.  He  blushed  guiltily  and  blew  a 
heavy  cloud  of  smoke. 

"A  pipe  dream,  that's  what  it  is,"  he  thought.  "And  she  is  such  a 
queen!     Shades  of  Broadway!    I  never  saw  such  a  face." 

Finally  he  fell  asleep,  and  when  he  awoke  in  the  morning,  he  saw 
the  girl  looking  at  him.  She  had  just  washed  her  face  at  a  nearby  spring, 
and  her  cheeks  glowed. 


196  The  Haverfordian 

"Good  morning,  Mr.— Mr.— " 

"Mr.  Carson.  Hilary  Carson  is  my  full  name.  You  can  call  me 
Lary,"  he  supplied  her.  "And  I  might  say,  good  morning.  Miss — 
Miss — " 

"Oh,  just  call  me  Daphne,"  she  said.  "My  real  name  is  Doroth>^ 
Leeds.     But  I  like  Daphne  better." 

"All  right,  Daphne,"  laughed  Hilary.  "And  now,  we'll  have 
breakfast." 

Together  they  prepared  a  breakfast  that  Carson  said  could  not 
have  been  equalled  anywhere.  They  laughed  and  chatted  for  an  hour,, 
then  Carson  got  up  and  started  his  car. 

"Jump  in,"  he  called  to  her,  and  she  obeyed. 

"Now,  Daphne,  you  show  me  the  way,"  he  told  her,  as  he  steered 
the  car  on  to  the  road. 

"  I'll  try,"  she  said.     There  was  a  little  doubt  in  her  voice. 

After  half  an  hour  the  girl  looked  up  at  him. 

"I'm  afraid  we're  lost,"  she  whispered. 

"  I  don't  give  a  darn  if  we  are,"  said  Carson,  laughing. 

She  looked  at  his  eyes  and  laughed  too. 

"I  was  beginning  to  feel  sorry  that  you  were  going  so  soon,"  he 
said  seriously. 

She  glanced  at  him  shyly.  -He  swallowed  the  bait,  hook,  sinker, 
and  line,  and  was  willing  to  be  pulled  up  without  a  struggle.  He  took 
her  hand  and  pressed  it  to  his  lips.  The  girl  drew  away  her  hand  and 
put  it  to  her  own  lips.  She  looked  so  gentle,  so  helpless,  that  Hilary 
could  not  resist.  He  crushed  her  to  him.  She  did  not  struggle,  but 
turned  her  face  up  to  be  kissed.     He  did  not  have  to  be  urged. 

"Let's  get  rr.arried,"  suggested  the  girl,  as  he  let  her  go.  "  It  will  be 
so  romantic." 

"Sure  thing,"  he  argued  vehemently.  "Where  is  a  justice  of  the 
peace?" 

The  girl  showed  him  the  way,  and  they  were  soon  inside  the  justice's 
house.     At  last  Carson  had  the  girl  of  his  dreams,  a  queen. 

"It  is  too  good  to  be  true,"  he  laughed  to  himself.  "Wait  till 
those  fellows  up  in  the  city  see  my  find." 

The  justice  filed  a  certificate  and  started  to  perform  the  ceremony. 
Suddenly,  there  was  the  sound  of  a  motor  outside,  and  a  nurse  and  two 
orderlies  from  a  nearby  asylum  rushed  in  and  took  the  pretty  Daphne,^ 
who  had  escaped  the  day  before. 

— Elmer  H.  Thorpe,  '18. 


Porbtcb  of  '49 


BORDHED  was  a  name  that  worked  magic.  It  coukl  raise  a  whole 
city  in  the  night.  It  was  more  powerful  than  government, 
law,  and  public  opinion,  but  it  based  its  power  on  the  fickle 
foundation  of  wealth.  It  could  build  a  railroad  across  the  continent 
in  a  few  months.  Bordhed  was  a  name  to  be  respected  and  bowed  to  along 
with  the  uni\ersal  Deit>'.  At  the  Unixersity  the  most  unsophisticated 
freshman  had  heard  volumes  about  Bordhed.  The  senior  spoke  of  Bord- 
hed— Bordhed  of  the  famous  class  of  '49 — w'ith  reverence  and  awe.  The 
Bordhed  Stadium  with  its  classic  design  paid  tribute  to  the  great  man.  The 
largest  luiildings  for  the  development  of  modern  knowledge  were  the 
gifts  of  Bordhed— Boadhed  of  '49. 

The  night  before  the  great  day  at  the  University  was  rainy  and 
cold.     The  Institute  was  enshrouded  with  a  kind  of  mist,   and  the  rusty 
iron  lantern  that  was  suspended  o\'er  the  doorway  dripped  water  down- 
ward upon  the  steps  below.     The  steps  themselves  were  worn  with  the 
erosion  of  time  and  decay.     Within,  the  great  hall  was  brightly  lighted. 
jThe  portraits  of  great  scientists  hung  from  the  old  drab  walls  and  gave 
[inspiration  to  their  successors.     A  long  table  occupied  the  centre  of  the 
lace,  and  about  it  were  perhaps  a  score  of  venerable  men.     Many  were 
10  decrepit  with  years  that  their  hands  were  unsteady  and  the  merest 
'gesture  became  a  burden  to  them.     Amid  a  tense  quiet  the  president  of 
the  Institution  arose  and  fingered  his  glasses.     Then,  clearing  his  throat 
noisily,  he  began  to  speak.     At  first  his  colleagues  could  scarcely  hear 
the  words  he  uttered,  but  at  last  as  he  summoned  his  strength  they 
jnderstood.     With  the  trembling  voice  that  they  had  grown  to  venerate 
ind  esteem  he  told  them  how  he  had  worked  with  them  for  years  in  the 
nterest  of  science  and  the  arts.     He  passed  over  the  many  years  that  had 
ound  them  united  in  a  common  cause,  and  then  shrilly  announced  his 
ntention  of  giving  his  entire  mass  of  wealth  to  the  University.      The 
Tiaster  minds  of  science  gradually  absorbed  the  moment  of  his  words 
ind  a  ripp'e  of  emotion  spread  over  the  assembly.      Gray  heads  were 
)owed  in  thought.      As  they  again  turned  or  raised  their  faces  to  the 
[speaker,   Bordhed  was  seated. 

'  The  great  day  dawned  at  last  and  amid  the  sunshine  of  the  late 
iipring  there  glistened  the  banners  of  various  factions.  A  group  of 
students  stood  before  their  hall  and  mercilessly  criticized  each  other 
ind  the  world  in  general.  The  enjoyment  of  the  occasion  was  meas- 
ired  by  the  amount  of  discomfort  they  could  produce.  As  their  shrieks 
>f  laughter  were  at  their  height,  there  wandered  into  their  range  of  vision 
I  curious  figure.  With  a  pathetic  stoop  the  object  came  ever  closer. 
The  old  battered  felt  hat  only  partly  hid  the  grey  locks.  The  old- 
ashioned  coat  was  wrinkled  and  worn.      A  large  cane  supported  the 


198  The  Haverfordian 

trembling  old  fellow.  To  the  spectacles  was  attached  a  tape  to  prevent 
their  dropping.  A  general  hush  fell  upon  the  group.  An  over-venture- 
some youth  with  a  great  deal  of  cleverness  jumped  from  his  seat  upon 
the  steps  and  simulated  the  actions  of  the  stranger.  The  old  fellow 
looked  first  angry  and  then  seemed  to  be  amused.  He  turned  and 
made  his  way  to  the  next  group  of  buildings.  His  tender  emotions 
were  struck  and  before  he  had  gone  far  he  was  forced  to  seat  himself 
upon  a  nearby  bench.  As  his  feelings  passed  rapidly  from  anger  to 
humiliation,  he  became  more  and  more  exhausted.  They  found  Bordhed 
a  few  hours  later  upon  the  University  campus  and  rushed  him  to  the 
hospital.  He  lay  there  for  several  daj's,  but  regained  consciousness  but 
once.  Every  care  that  was  possible  was  bestowed  upon  him.  A  fortune 
was  spent  to  waft  the  slender  threads  of  his  life  back  to  the  normal.  On 
the  third  day  he  died.  Bordhed,  the  President  of  the  Institute,  the  head 
of  six  railroads,  the  modern  Croesus,  lay  dead.  The  members  of  the 
Institute  assembled  and  paid  their  highest  tribute  to  his  memory.  The 
officers  knew  what  Bordhed 's  wishes  had  been  in  regard  to  the  disposal  of 
his  wealth. 

The  attorney  broke  open  the  legal  paper  and  adjusted  his  glasses. 
When  he  arrived  at  the  sentence,  "to  my  fellow  stock-holders  I  hereby 
will  and  bequeath  my  real  and  personal  property,"  the  members  of  the 
Institute  gasped.  But  when  they  found  that  his  all  would  fall  to  those 
whom  he  had  little  cared  for  in  life,  their  astonishment  was  beyond  the 
expression  of  speech.  At  length  his  closest  friend  arose  and  said  with 
mournful  voice,  "He  hadn't  time  to  change  his  will." 

The  president  of  the  University  sadly  murmured,  "Private  gain. 
The  University  loses." 

—H.  P.  Schenck,  '18. 


She  read  no  more  that  day. 

The  hand  that  held  the  paper  to  her  eyes 

Fell  slowly.     Gentle  eyes 

With  infinite  distress  within  their  depths 

Gazed  Jar  beyoftd  the  measurement  of  space, 

As  if  in  dumb  entreaty  to  the  Mind 

That  thought  it  fit  to  take  her  son  away, — 

His  body  carrion  now — /  see  her 

As  she  turned.     Her  slender  form 

Encased  in  black.     Her  eyes, 

If  anything,  were  gentler  still. 


Hima  to  i^iologp  I. 

The  course  to  which  all  freshmen  must  submit, 

Composed  of  eloquence  and  lack  of  wit, 

I  sin;,i.     So  bend  thine  ear,  0  «racious  Bull, 

To  thee  my  son'^  I  dedicate  in  full: 

In  hopes  thy  blessing  thou  it'ilt  not  refuse. 

To  one  who  worships  thee  alone,  0  Muse. 

When  man's  progenitor,  the  hairy  ape. 

Plucked  unconcernedly  the  luscious  grape, 

He  little  dreamed  in  his  contented  state. 

The  dangers  in  the  dainty  that  he  ate. 

But  now,  alas!  since  medicated  foods 

Have  metamorphosed  monkeys  into  dudes, 

There's  danger  in  the  very  air  that  we 

So  naturally  breathe  yet  cannot  see. 

To  elevate  the  freshmen,  Profs,  agree 

That  they  must  undergo  biology. 

Perhaps  in  time  they'll  tolerate  the  class — 

(For  e'en  a  fairy  queen  may  love  an  ass.) 

The  learned  freshman  takes  it  for  a  bore. 

But  soon  he  learns  to  sleep  without  a  snore. 

And  zchile  the  genial  Doctor  dissertates. 

His  rapid  talk  a  perfect  sleep  creates. 

"Now,  class,  in  preparation  for  this  course. 

You  must  pursue  the  subject  from  its  source, 

And  learn  to  veil,  like  Mr.  Wm.  James, 

All  common  subjects  with  uncommon  names. 

The  main  result  from  Friday's  recitation 

Is  to  create,  in  short,  a  false  impression. 

Appendicitis  is  the  name  we  take. 

To  designate  the  passe  stomach-ache; 

And  viscera  the  things  which  common  mutts 

Outside  the  classroom  blatantly  call  "guts." 

Your  mouth's  depressus  semi-angle  ori 

Was  first  discovered  in  the  laboratory; 

And  next  we  have  the  squamous  esculator. 

Developed  best  within  the  alligator. 

Now,  class,  I  find  I  have  to  go  away; 

Begin  tomorrow  where  we  stopped  today. 

And  if  a  word  of  all  this  talk  you've  missed 

I'll  flunk  voii  all  at  mid-vears!  Class  dismissed!" 


^appfio 

Sappho  is  dead.     No  more  the  sound  of  lyre 

Rings  through  the  sun-kissed  glades  of  golden  Greece  .  .  . 

No  more  her  song  shall  waken  thy  desire; 

Even  the  sweetest  voice  perforce  must  cease. 

Dead  is  the  poor,  sad  songster,  but  her  song 
Lives  on  forever  in  the  heart  of  us. 
Gaining  in  glory  through  the  ages  long, 
Beloved  of  men,  becoming  part  of  us.  .  . 

Sappho  is  dead.     Ah!  Mnasidika,  weep! 
One  tear  I  beg  of  thee  if  only  one  .  .  . 
Weep,  Atthis!  thou  whom  Sappho  loved  the  best. 
Nothing  she  feels  in  her  eternal  sleep. 
With  joy  and  tears  at  last  forever  done; 
Peace  after  toil  and  after  travail  rest  .  .  . 

— Jacques  LeClercq,  '18. 


ilelasi 

Grieve!  for  the  life  of  summer  is  done. 

Softly  mourned  by  the  wailing  breeze, 
And  the  russet  leaves,  dropping  one  by  one, 

Bare  to  the  sky  the  naked  trees  .  .  . 

Slowly  the  silent  shadows  sink, 

The  bitterns  over  the  marshes  fly. 
And  the  wind  in  the  reeds  by  the  river-brink. 

Sings  its  dirge  to  the  autumn  sky. 

John  W.  Alexander,  1918 


\ 


JLUMNI 


DECEASED 
The  death  of   Frederick  Wistar 
Morris,   '60,  occurred  during  Sep- 
tember. 

Edward  Cobb  Sampson,  '59, 
died  on  September  25th,  in  his 
eightieth  year. 

Robert  Bowne  Howland,  '43, 
•died  on  August  5th,  1916,  in  his 
ninety-first  year. 

At  the  annual  meeting  of  the 
Alumni  Association,  WiUiam  W. 
Comfort,  '94,  was  elected  Presi- 
dent. George  Wood,  '62;  Jona- 
than M.  Steere,  '90;  and  Alfred  C. 
Maule,  '99,  were  elected  Vice- 
Presidents.  The  Executive  Com- 
mittee consists  of  Henry  Cope, 
'69;  Charles  J.  Rhoads,  '93;  Wil- 
liam C.  Longstreth,  '02;  Fred- 
erick H.  Strawbridge,  '87;  Alfred 
M.  Collins,  '97;  Edward  R.  Moon, 
'16.  Emmett  R.  Tatnall,  '07,  was 
elected  Treasurer,  and  Joseph  H. 
Haines,  '98,  was  made  Secretary. 
The  Editorial  Board  of  the  Alumni 
Quarterly  consists  of  Parker  S. 
WiUiams,  '94,  President;  Emmett 
R.  Tatnall,  '07,  Treasurer;  Joseph 
W.  Sharp,  '88;  Joseph  H.  Haines, 
'98;  Christopher  D.  Morley,  '10; 
J.  Henry  Scattergood,  '96;  Win- 
throp  Sargent,  Jr.,  '08;  H.  E.  Mc- 
Kinstry,  '17;  and  Richard  M. 
Gummere,  '02,  Managing  Editor 
and  Secretary. 


We  take  great  j^leasure  in  jntb- 
Hshing  the  following  letter: 

"According  to  this  month's  Hav- 
ERFORDiAX,  it  seenis  that  prominent 
business  firms  in  Philadelphia  and 
\icinit\'  haye  seen  fit  almost  un- 
animously to  select  new  associates, 
and  for  this  purpose  the  Haverford 
'  newly-grad '  has  been  greatly 
prized.  There  is,  howe\'er,  one 
member  of  the  class  who  frankly 
ilisclaims  the  honor  thrust  upon 
him  by  the  Alumni  Editor.  This 
gentleman,  lacing  himself  of  a 
retiring  disposition,  has  delegated 
me  to  speak  for  him,  and  to  say 
that  reports  are  exaggerated,  and 
that  he  is  not  on  the  staff  of  the 
Public  Ledger,  neither  the  editorial 
staff,  the  reportorial  staff,  nor 
eyen  the  stafT  of  office-boys,  scarce 
as  the  latter  may  be  just  now. 
Persistent  query  on  my  part  finally 
drew  from  him  the  reluctant  ad- 
mission that  he  is  working  for  a 
publishing  house  on  Washington 
Square.  'But  as  yet,'  he  added, 
'  I  see  no  immediate  prospects  of 
becoming  associated.'  I  trust  that 
you  will  take  this  epistle  at  its 
true  yalue. 

"Yours,  in  the  interests  of 
Exactitude, 

"  Homonymous." 


Among  recent  works  published 
by  the  Carnegie  Institution  of 
Washington  are  pamphlets  by  T. 
W.  Richards,  '85,  on  yarious  Atom- 


202 


The  Haverfordian 


ic  Weights,  on  Compressibility, 
on  the  Electromotive  Force  of 
Iron,  and  on  the  Electrochemical 
Investigation  of  Liquid  Amalgams 
of  Tin,  Zinc,  etc.;  by  H.  S.  Con- 
ard,  '94,  on  Waterlilies,  and  on 
Fern-Structure;  by  F.  E.  Lutz, 
1900,  on  various  phases  of  experi- 
mental evolution. 


The  Browning  Society  of  Phila- 
delphia, of  which  Charles  Wharton 
Stork,  '02,  is  President,  will  hold 
its  opening  meeting  on  November 
16th.  Edward  W.  Evans,  '02, 
will  read  the  poem  on  "War," 
which  appeared  in  the  Haverjord 
News.  David  Bispham,  '76,  will 
sing. 

'82 

"Archaeology  and  the  Bible," 
by  George  A.  Barton,  Ph.D.,  LL. 
D.,  Professor  of  Biblical  Literature 
and  Semitic  Languages  in  Bryn 
Mawr  College,  has  been  published 
recently. 


Howell  S.  England,  who  for 
many  years  practised  law  at  Wil- 
mington, Delaware,  is  now  prac- 
tising law  at  Detroit,  Michigan, 
with  offices  at  633  Dime  Savings 
Bank  Building. 

'89 
The  W.  B.  Saunders  Publishing 
Company  announce  that  the  book 
on  "Occupation  Therapy"  by  Dr. 
William  R.  Dunton,  Jr.,  has  been 
widely  adopted  by  the  nursing  pro- 
fession. The  volume  treats  of 
matters  which  may  serve  for  the 
mental  diversion  o  convalescents 
and  those  suffering  from  chronic 
illnesses.  The  chapters  on  Hob- 
bies, Psychology  of  Occupation, 
and  the  Mechanics  of  Recovery 
give  basic  principles  which  it  is 
expected  will  appeal  to  the  physi- 
cian no  less  than  to  the  professional 


John  Hogdell  Stokes  was  elected 
Secretary  of  the  Haverford  College 
Corporation  at  the  annual  meeting. 


We  will  rent  you  a  late  model 

Underwood  Typewriter 

3  Months  for  $5.00 

and  apply  the  first  rental 
payment  on  the  purchase 
price  if  you  desire  to  buy 
the  machine. 

MARCUS  &  CO. 

STATIONERS— TYPEWRITERS 
1303  Market  St.,  Philadelphia 


Alumn'i 


203 


'92 
Christian  Brinton  has  completed 
the  official  catalogue  for  the  forth- 
coming American  exhibition  of  the 
paintings  of  Ignacio  Zuloaga,  the 
Spanish  artist.  He  will  also  lecture 
before  the  Washington  Society  of 
Fine  Arts  on  "Contemporary  Scan- 
dinavian Painting." 

•96 
Joseph    Henry  Scattergood  was 
elected  Treasurer  of  the  Ha\'erford 
College  Corporation  at  the  annual 
meeting. 

'99 
Royal    J.     Davis    is    a    regular 
writer  of  editorials  in  the  New'  York 
Nation  and  the  New  York  Evening 
Post. 

'06 

H.  Pleasants,  Jr.,  has  written 
the  introduction  and  notes  to 
Linden's  translation  of  Vikenty 
Szmidowicz's  "Memoirs  of  a  Physi- 
cian."    Published  by  A.  A.  Knopf. 

A  son  was  born  to  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Raphael  Johnson  Shortlidge  on 
October  22nd. 

'08 
D.  DeWitt  Carroll  is  at  Colum- 
bia University-.      His  field    is    Eco- 
nomics. 

A  daughter,  Charlotte  Elizabeth, 
was  born  to  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Thomas 
R.  Hill  on  August   10,   1916. 

'10 
W.  P.  Tomlinson  is  studying  at 
the   School    of    Education    in    Co- 
lumbia Uni^•ersit^•.     His  address  is 


A RHOADS 

BtSLT 

RUNNING 
SINCE  1882 


THEY 
LAST 


This  ancient  belt  drives  a  flour  mili  at 
Doylestown,  Pa.  It  was  originally  an  18- 
inch  double.  After  considerable  service  it 
was  reinforced  with  a  6-inch  strip  on  each 
edge.  In  this  form  it  has  completed 
thirty-four  years  of  service,  and  looks 
good  for  years  to  come. 

For  the  last  twenty  years  it  has  been  treated  at 
proper  intervals  with  Rhoads  Leather  Belt  Pre- 
server. This  is  one  reason  for  its  strength  in  old 
age. 

J.  E.  RHOADS  &  SONS, 

PHILADELPHIA.  NEW  YORK, 

12   North  Third  Street  102   Beekman  Street 

CHICAGO. 
322    W.    Randolph  Street 

F.4CTORY  AND   T.^XNERY,     WILMINGTON,  DEL. 

Kmas   Supplies! 

LET  US  HELP  YOU  SOLVE 
THE  GIFT   PROBLEM 

CANDY  PERFUMES 

STATIONERY 

CIGARS     CUT  GLASS      KODAKS 

C.  G.  WARNER,  P.  D. 

Pharmacist  HAVERFORD,  PA. 

Joseph  C  Ferguson,  Jr. 

6-8-10   South  Fifteenth  Street 

(Optical  anb 
33J)otosrap!)ic  (§oobsi 

OF  EVERY  DESCRIPTION 
Below  Market  Street 


204 


The  Haverfordian 


122  Furnald  Hall,  Columbia  Uni- 
versity, N.  Y.  City. 

'12 
The   engagement   of   Robert    E. 
Miller  to  Miss  Elizabeth  D.  Keller, 
of   Lancaster,    Pa.,    has    been    an- 
nounced. 

'13 
Class  of  1913  held  a  class  supper 
at  the  Arcadia  Cafe,  Philadelphia, 
Pa.,  on  October  13th.  The  follow- 
ing members  of  the  class  were 
present:  Crowden,  Diament,  Hare, 
Hires,  Howson,  Maule,  Meader, 
and  Tatnall. 

'14 
Walter  G.  Bowerman  has  been 
admitted  by  examination  as  As- 
sociate of  the  Actuarial  Society  of 
America  (A.  A.  S.),  and  also 
Associate  of  the  American  Insti- 
tute of  Actuaries  (A.  A.  I.  A.). 

'02 
C.  W.  Stork  has  written  an 
article  on  the  Swedish  poet  Erod- 
ing which  will  appear  shortly  in 
the  North  American  Review.  An 
anthology  of  Swedish  lyrics  for  the 
American-Scandinavian  Founda- 
tion is  in  the  course  of  preparation. 
Dr.  Stork  has  also  translated  six 
songs  of  Richard  Strauss  and  is 
translating  six  songs  of  binding's 
for  the  Boston  Music  Company. 
At  the  meeting  of  the  Philadelphia 
group  of  the  Phi  Beta  Kappa  Soci- 
ety on  December  4th,  the  Phi 
Beta  Kappa  poem  will  be  read  by 
Dr.  Stork. 

Mr.  and  Mrs.  Raphael  Johnson 
Shortlidge  announce  the  birth  of  a 
son,  George  Haughton  Shortlidge, 
on  October  22nd,  1916. 


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Content£( 


Night                                                            John  W.  Alexander,  '18  208 

Impressions  of  Plattsburg:  By  a  Rookie 209 

In  the  Mountains W.  S.  Nevin,  '18  215 

Man  or  Manners? \ C.  Van  Dam,  '17  216 

In  Memoriatn  Henryk  Sienkiewicz:  Author  and  Patriot 

W.  H.  Chamberlin,  '17  228 

Some  Recent  Books 232 

The  Resignation  of  President  Sharpless 235 

Haverford  10,  Swarthmore  7 236 

Alumni  Department   . 238 


JBtttmhtv 

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The  Haverfordian  is  published  on  the  twentieth  of  each  month  during  college 
and  year.  Its  purpose  is  to  foster  the  literary  spirit  among  the  undergraduates 
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 
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than  the  twenty-fifth  of  the  month  preceding  the  date  of  issue. 

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


Vol.  XXXVIII        HAVERFORD,  PA.,  DECEMBER,  1916. 


No.  6 


Now  fades  the  rose-glow  into  purple  gloom, 
Enchantress  Night  broods  darkly  o'er  her  loom, 

Her  host  the  shining  stream  of  pallid  stars, 

Her  sword  the  silver  sickle  of  the  newly-risen  moon. 


White  through  the  night  her  faery  garments  fly. 

Beneath  her  silent  spell  the  dim  hills  lie, 
Mourning  the  fading  rose  of  parting  day. 

While  stars  are  sprinkling  silver  star-dust  through  the  sky. 

— John  W.  Alexander,  1918. 


THE    HAVERFORDIAN 


Vol.  XXXVIII.  HAVERFORD.  PA.,  DECEMBER,  1916  No.  6 


Smpreggions!  of  ^lattstjurg:  tip  a  Eoofeie 

PLATTSBURG  is  a  varied  subject;  and  all  one  can  do  with  it  is 
to  give  one's  own  very  limited  impressions,  which  probably  no 
one  else  who  has  been  there  will  agree  with. 
Though  there  were  many  quite  new  features  in  the  life  to  the  aver- 
age college  man — the  type  which  predominated  in  the  Junior  camp, 
though  those  having  graduated,  or  about  to  graduate,  from  preparatory 
or  high  schools,  were  admitted  also, — yet  in  other  respects  the  college 
man  found  himself  more  or  less  in  an  accustomed  atmosphere.  Through 
lectures,  books  he  is  asked  to  read,  manner  of  addressing,  and  the  whole 
method  of  instruction,  appeal  is  made  to  the  intelligence  of  the  cadet, 
or  "rookie";  on  the  assumption  of  his  being,  partly  at  least,  a  college 
trained  man.  While  this  appeal  to  intelligence  is  emphasized  at  train- 
ing camps  of  this  order,  it  is  also,  interesting  to  note,  by  the  by,  especially 
characteristic  of  the  American  army.  Briefly,  the  principle  that  is 
followed  is  this:  not  only  is  an  officer  blamable  for  disobedience  to 
orders,  but  also  and  equally  for  stupid  and  pig-headed  application  of 
orders  which  obviously  do  not  fit  the  situation.  He  must,  even  though 
he  be  a  veriest  private,  set  at  some  post  or  other  for  the  moment,  use 
his  intelligence  and  his  knowledge  of  the  situation,  to  decide  whether 
or  not  his  orders  exactly  applied  are  calculated  to  bring  about  the  results 
known  to  be  desired  by  his  superior — though  of  course  he  violates  such 
orders  at  his  peril  in  case  he  is  unjustifiably  mistaken.  For  this  reason 
the  complaint  so  often  made  of  military  life,  that  it  deprives  a  man  of 
initiative,  is  at  least  not  so  applicable  to  our  own  army  as  to  armies  of 
most  other  countries.  There  is  also  at  Plattsburg,  comparing  it  with  a 
college,  something  of  the  inimitable  spirit  of  fellowship  that  forms  the 
glory  of  college  life.  As  another  factor,  spare  time  over  and  above 
required  duties  is  so  considerable — over  five  hours  a  day  and  all  day  on 
Sunday — that  one  can  continue  on  the  side  a  good  deal  of  one's  accus- 
tomed life  in  diversions  and  avocations — and  so  in  that  way  the  change 
is  not  so  great. 


210  The  Haverfordian 

There  was  still  another  way  in  which  Plattsburg  reminded  one  of 
college  and  in  a  feature  which  one  was  surprised  to  find  a  very  important 
element  in  the  life  of  a  soldier.  What  is  known  as  college  spirit  finds  a 
close  counterpart  in  the  company  spirit  among  soldiers.  This  unit  in 
army  organization,  consisting  of  about  one  hundred  and  thirty  men,  in 
squads  of  eight  men  each,  is  the  unit  on  which  the  whole  social  life — as 
well  as  in  large  part  the  tactical  governance — of  the  soldier  is  based.  It 
is  the  soldier's  home  community,  as  the  smaller  group  or  squad  is  his 
home.  To  his  company  he  belongs,  much  as  the  student  to  his  college — 
though  perhaps  the  feeling  of  the  soldier  here  is  normally  more  akin 
to  the  student's  class  spirit,  since  in  any  case  he  owes  further  and  absolute 
allegiance  to  the  army  as  a  whole  and  to  the  country, — but  we  felt  this 
latter  feeling  less  at  Plattsburg  and  so  our  company  feeling  had  far 
more  strength  than  class  feeling  has  in  college.  This  was  natural, 
considering  the  exclusiveness  of  the  separate  companies.  In  camp 
each  company  forms  a  separate  street  of  its  own,  and  the  next  street, 
unless  you  already  know  someone  there,  is  as  far  off  socially  as  the 
twentieth  down.  The  disadvantage  is  that  there  is  disappointingly 
little  opportunity  for  making  new  friends,  except  from  the  hundred 
and  twenty  or  so  men  of  the  company  in  which  you  happen  to  be  thrown. 
All  the  other  thousands  in  the  camp  are  of  no  use  to  you.  And  since 
you  have  to  live  and  work  quite  constantly  with  the  men  in  your  par- 
ticular squad,  if  you  happen  not  to  like  them  there  is  a  further  dis- 
advantage in  the  arrangement  of  things — well,  you  learn  something  about 
one  side  of  democracy,  anyway.  But  in  addition  to  the  men  of  a  com- 
pany living  together,  they  also  march,  sing  marching  songs,  and  drill 
together.     More  than  all,  they  are  all  under  one  man. 

This  man  is  a  captain  or  lieutenant  of  the  U.  S.  army.  As  is  he, 
and,  of  about  equal  importance,  as  are  the  men  under  him,  so  is  the 
character  of  the  company.  In  one  company  I  heard  of  no  one  cared  a 
rap  about  how  they  paraded,  drilled,  or  performed  any  other  of  their 
military  duties.  Their  motto  might  as  well  have  been,  "Don't  let 
drills  interfere  with  your  military  training," — and  they  looked  poor 
on  parade  ground.  Investigation  disclosed  the  fact  that  the  men  caught 
this  spirit  from  their  captain,  who  was  incompetent  and  had  no  pride  in 
his  company.  We,  on  the  other  hand,  had  a  man  who  was  all  pride  in 
his  company,  except  what  was  determination .  and  ability  to  make  us 
worthy  of  that  pride.  He  exhorted,  encouraged,  threatened  us,  in  a 
quiet  but  emphatic  sort  of  way,  to  make  us  share  his  desires,  and  by 
constantly  telling  us  how  we  could,  should,  and  already  had  begun  to, 
in  some  measure,  take  the  lead  over  the  other  companies,  he  gradually 


Impressions  of  Plattsburg:    by  a  Rookie  211 

got  us  into  the  state  in  which  men  would  groan,  curse,  hold  their  breath 
up  and  down  the  dangerously  swaying  line  as  we  passed  the  judges 
on  parade,  for  fear  we  would  make  a  poor  showing  and  not  do  justice 
to  the  captain.  One  (to  say  the  least)  remarkable  result  of  this  was  that 
on  the  rifle  range,  out  of  the  whole  forty-eight  companies  of  the  Junior 
and  Senior  camps,  we  stood  the  first  on  the  score  book.  I  was  told  of 
another  company  in  which  the  loyalty  was  so  strong  that  whenever 
in  ranks  a  tendency  to  disorderliness  was  noticeable,  someone  would 

call  out,"  Remember  you're  in  Company, "  and  order  was  assured. 

From  our  captain  we  also  gained  a  wonderful  idea  of  what  military 
training  can  do  for  a  man,  and  of  a  true  soldierly  spirit  and  devotion 
to  the  cause  of  national  defense,  united  to  real  personality  and  individual- 
ity—there were  many  such  men  in  the  camp.  On  the  exterior  our  cap- 
tain appeared  harsh  and  forbidding,  but  he  had  a  heart,  as  we  very 
soon  felt,  and  showed  that  the  grace  of  sympathy  can  exist  with  the 
austere  virtue  of  military  firmness  and  discipline. 

The  most  striking  part  of  the  experience,  and  the  part  which  was 
new  to  the  typical  American,  was  of  course  the  military  training  and 
discipline  itself.  This  was  interesting,  since  it  was  quite  a  little  the 
real  thing — as  much  so  in  fact  as  anything  short  of  actual  fighting  can 
be.  And  when  we  reflect  that  of  this,  one  of  the  supreme  facts  in  the 
life  of  man  everywhere  hitherto,  and  particularly  in  much  of  the  world 
now,  of  this  fact  of  military  experience  and  training,  Americans  have 
for  some  time  past  been  blissfully  and  profoundly  ignorant,  something 
of  the  interest  and  significance  of  this  new  revival  in  the  popular  apprecia- 
tion of  that  fact,  is  apparent.  To  the  ordinary  high  school  or  college 
man  the  controlling  spirit  of  military  life,  discipline,  was  at  once  evi- 
dent and  might  imaginatively  have  been  described  as  a  strange,  exotic, 
almost  spectre-like  being,  rising  out  of  the  past  with  commanding  figure, 
imperious  mien,  and  lips  issuing  sternly  to  multitudes  of  men — of  a 
free  country — the  strange  command  "obey."  There  is  something  of  this 
spirit  in  a  football  team,  there  is  something  of  it  in  a  great  industrial 
system,  but  nothing  outside  of  the  army  is  quite  like  it.  It  is  the  highest 
consummation  of  the  human  genius  for  co-operation. 

The  extent  to  which  one  realized  this  gigantic  conception  depended 
a  good  deal  on  how  well  the  officer  over  one  had  grasped  it.  As  I  have 
said,  our  own  commander  was  a  master  of  it,  and  he  did  the  best  he 
could  to  give  it  to  us;  though,  of  course,  as  he  told  us  frankly,  he  could 
not  exercise  the  same  authority  over  us  as  he  could  have  over  regular 
soldiers  in  the  army.  Nevertheless,  when  he  had  several  times  ordered 
"Silence,  down  there!"  with  considerable  savageness,  upon  someone's 


212  The  Haverfordian 

innocently  sneezing  in  line  when  standing  at  attention,  we  began  to  see 
how  sweeping  is  the  demand  that  an  individual's  private  desires  and 
impulses  shall  count  as  nothing  in  the  face  of  the  purpose  of  all — which 
in  this  case  happened  to  be  silence  and  order. 

Now  for  our  daily  routine.  We  were  awakened,  by  bugle  of  course 
(and  the  bugler  is  never  drunk  in  the  morning),  at  5.20.  Our  groans  were 
cut  short  by  the  necessity  of  dressing  for  the  formation  of  reveille  in 
ten  minutes.  Dismissed  at  once  from  that,  we  returned  to  put  tents 
in  order — blankets  folded  just  so  on  top,  and  other  possessions  under 
one's  "bunk."     Neatness  is  required  of  a  soldier. 

Just  as  we  were  getting  comfortably  settled  again,  in  what  became 
our  favorite  position,  at  all  hours  in  the  day,  and  for  as  many  of  them 
as  possible,  we  were  roused  by  the  call  to  morning  mess.  To  this  we 
were  not  at  all  reluctant  to  go,  even  though  we  knew  what  it  meant. 

Breakfast  meant:  some  sort  of  fruit — mostly  prunes;  a  hot  cereal 
without  a  name;  cold  cereal — good  stuff  while  milk  lasted;  something 
like  sausages ;  something  which  was  called  coffee, — and  a  lot  of  scram- 
bling— yes,  I  forgot  eggs — but  everything  was  scrambled,  scrambled 
from  one  end  of  the  table  to  the  other,  until  we  sometimes  wondered 
if  the  game  was  worth  the  candle,  if  the  eating  was  worth  the  scram- 
bling. Certainly  the  scrambled  eggs  were  seldom  a  compensation,  and 
sometimes,  alas,  a  decided  check  to  gastronomic  ardor.  The  worst 
things  about  the  meals  in  camp  might  be  said  to  have  been  these 
two  sorts  of  scrambling. 

On  the  whole  we  managed  to  keep  alive  and  healthy,  and  during 
the  ten-days  hike  found  the  regular  army  field  ration  to  be  unbeatable 
for  a  vigorous  life  in  the  open. 

Well,  breakfast  being  over — one  can't  express  one's  feelings  about  it 
in  five  times  the  length  of  time  it  took  to  eat  it — we  went  either  to  a 
neighboring  lunch  counter  for  a  second,  and,  as  some  were  wont  to  say, 
a  real  breakfast,  or  to  our  tents  to  see  how  the  surface  of  a  bunk  har- 
monizes with  the  longing  in  one's  back  to  come  in  touch  with  it. 

Soon,  however,  we  were  up  again,  adjusting  packs  and  marching 
equipment  for  the  morning  jaunt  or  parade  of  three  hours  or  so.  This 
was  in  our  company  the  real  day's  work  usually,  the  afternoon  being 
given  over  more  to  lectures  from  the  captain — lectures  in  which,  however, 
sleeping  was  strictly  prohibited,  and  the  prohibition  enforced. 

There  was  some  lecturing  in  the  morning,  bits  of  instruction  dur- 
ing a  halt,  but  a  good  lot  of  tramping,  drilling,  maneuvering,  parading, 
sham-battlijig  and  many  other  arduous  affairs.  In  all  these  the  chance 
to  learn  was  considerable,  and  the  instruction  in  most  respects  eminently 


Impressions  of  Plattsburg:    by  a  Rookie  213 

practical.  This  will  be  discussed  more  later  under  the  subject  of  the 
hike. 

The  roads  about  Plattsburg  are,  as  we  believe,  the  dustiest  that  ever 
were  toiled  over  by  a  soldier.  In  fact  in  a  march  over  a  typical  sand- 
dust  Plattsburg  road,  the  ten-minute  rest,  when  it  came  at  last,  after 
the  regular  fifty  minutes  of  marching,  was  as  blissful  a  change  over  what 
had  gone  before  as  the  taste  of  the  sugar  in  the  bottom  of  our  cup  of 
so-called  cofifee..  The  tediousness  of  marching  was  relieved  by  many 
oft-repeated  marching  songs,  but  by  very  little  talking.  The  same 
man  always  walked  before  you,  the  same  man  always  behind  you, 
the  same  man  always  by  your  side,  and  probably  he  was  the  same  chap 
who  ate  and  slept  with  you,  so  unless  you  were  particularly  congenial 
with  him,  the  subjects  available  for  conversation  were  apt  to  be  exhausted 
early  in  the  game. 

But  the  mere  feeling  of  marching,  in  the  inspiring  army  style — 
which  makes  every  man  feel  a  dignity  far  above  his  own  independent 
weight,  and  which  comes  from  the  consciousness  of  being,  as  long  as 
he  does  his  duty,  just  as  much  in  the  service  of  the  cause  and  of  just 
as  much  dignity  in  the  light  of  patriotism,  as  any  other  man,  though 
by  ranks  his  superior,  in  the  army!  Difference  in  rank  is  a  postulate 
of  efficiency,  but  in  merit  that  comes  of  service,  it  has  no  meaning. 
This  is  the  glory  par  excellence  of  the  army.  Until  we  have  something 
in  peace  which  approaches  to  it — even  should  a  world  federation  for 
a  long  time  to  come  without  large  armies  be  conceivable,  which  it  is 
not — can  we  already  say  that  this  form  of  patriotism,  whether  for  a 
nation  or  a  world  of  nations  as  the  fatherland,  has  had  its  day  and 
should  be  frowned  upon?  If  it  has  it  is  only  a  good  substitute  that  can 
supplant  it,  and  that,  like  all  such  substitutes,  can  only  be  won  by 
developing  and  improving  the  present  form.  Just  now,  in  the  judg- 
ment of  those  who  are  studying  our  position,  we  are  certainly  in  this 
country  in  need  of  increased  military  protection,  and  a  form  of  protec- 
tion that  calls  for  equal  service  from  all.  This  is  the  message  from  the 
heart  of  Plattsburg  and  it  is  a  message  that  is  apt  some  day  to  make 
itself  heard  in  this  country. 

The  morning  of  marching,  and  the  afternoon  of  lecturing  and 
drilling  over,  we  come  in  the  evening  to  Conference,  held  at  6.30,  to 
which  we  all  were  marched,  generally  to  a  gathering  of  a  regiment, 
sometimes  of  two  regiments,  to  hear  speeches  from  General  Wood, 
Major  Murray,  and  other  officers  of  the  camp;  and  from  various  dis- 
tinguished visitors  such  as  the  Secretary  of  War,  and  a  number  of  col- 
lege presidents.     Conference  was  considered  tiresome,  but  in  view  of 


214  The  Haverfordian 

the  character  of  the  speakers  it  was  more  of  an  opportunity  than  was 
appreciated. 

This  was  our  week-day's  routine  in  the  permanent  camp.  On 
the  ten-days  hike  much  was  changed.  The  mornings  were  then  our 
whole  working  day.  We  moved  forward  every  morning  about  ten 
miles,  with  one  part  of  the  force  representing  the  enemy  and  com- 
pelling the  rest  to  fight  their  way  along  by  setting  up  a  defense  on  the 
strategic  positions.  Once  or  twice  we  had  a  grand  battle  over  some 
steep  pass  in  the  hills.  Those  on  one  side  of  the  valley  could  look  over 
to  the  other  and  see  their  comrades  fighting  the  battle  there,  and  also 
the  enemies'  operations  there,  see  the  attack  up  the  hillside,  and  the 
defense  at  the  top;  while  the  rifle  and  artillery  fire  was  deafening  on 
all  sides. 

We  usually  reached  the  camp  site  for  the  night  by  one  o'clock  or 
earlier,  and  iji  a  very  short  time  were  comfortably  fixed  for  the  after- 
noon. The  only  exertion  then  more  or  less  expected  of  us,  and  one 
gladly  made,  was  to  walk  to  the  nearest  stream  or  body  of  water  for  a 
swim,  and  to  wash  both  body  and  clothes.  For  the  rest  we  didn't  do 
much  of  anything  except  clean  guns  and  write  letters  during  all  the 
long  afternoon.  We  certainly  were  not  industrious  on  that  hike.  A 
soldier  when  he  has  to  works  hard,  and  when  he  doesn't  have  to  he  is 
apt  not  to  work  at  all.  To  relax  a  mind  strained  by  too  vigorous  mental 
work,  a  term  at  Plattsburg  should  be  the  thing. 

Conference  was  held  as  usual  during  the  hike  and  the  morning's 
engagement  discussed  by  the  officers  who  had  taken  chief  part  in  it. 

Some  of  the  valuable  results  of  this  training  were  the  physical 
benefits  from  constant  exercise  in  the  open  air;  the  military  knowledge 
and  skill  acquired,  which,  though  in  the  making  of  a  soldier  entirely 
insufficient  and  elementary  merely,  were  yet  enough  for  a  good  founda- 
tion in  the  science;  increased  understanding  of  the  problem  of  pre- 
paredness; ability  to  take  care  of  oneself  in  camp;  a  more  real  and 
practical  patriotism;  an  enormous  appetite;  a  passion  for  cleanliness; 
and  an  acquaintance,  if  needed,  with  the  simple  life,  or  a  fair  approach 
to  it.  Of  course  many  of  these  results  would  only  be  shared  by  those 
who  went  to  Plattsburg  to  learn,  rather  than  to  have  a  good  time,  or 
simply  to  put  themselves  in  good  physical  trim — as  many  undoubtedly 
had  solely  gone  for.  But  the  opportunities,  if  wished,  were  there  and 
as  far  as  the  training  afforded  goes,  there  was  nothing  in  which  to  be 
disappointed. 

Indeed  with  the  novel  and  healthy  life,  the  beautiful  surroundings  of 
the  Champlain  country,  the  blue  waves  of  the  lake  sparkling  in  the 


In  the  Mountains  215 

sun  while  the  stirring  strains  of  the  band  seem  to  mingle  with  them  in 
one  bright,  dancing  maze  of  joy,  on  parade  day,  the  friends  one  may 
make;  and  the  recollection  of  having  marched  shoulder  to  shoulder 
with  others  in  a  way  that  made  every  man  a  man  and  no  one  more, 
and  no  one  less — in  short,  in  having  to  some  extent  shared  in  whatever 
glory  there  is  intrinsically  in  an  army — all  these  things  make  Platts- 
burg  an  experience  and  a  memory  of  the  rarest  kind. 


M  ti)e  illountainsi 

The  twilight  comes — 

The  groves  are  still  and  in  the  solemn  hush 
Is  heard  the  monody  of  mourning  thrush; 
The  sweet,  white  dryads  leave  the  trees  tip-toe 
To  listen  to  the  world-old,  futile  woe. 

The  evening  comes — 

The  peaks  are  purple  and  dim  violet 

And  each  vague  object  is  a  silhouette; 

The  faint-heard  roar  of  distant  waterfall 

Is  mingled  with  the  whip-poor-will' s  lone  call. 

The  darkness  comes — 

And  o'er  the  blackened  spires  of  pines  afar 

Shines  out  the  glory  of  the  evening  star. 

—  W.  S.  Nevin,  '18. 


ilan  or  iHannersi? 

RS.  OLRY,  a  fat,  lumbering  matron,  with  an  interior  as  lovely 
as  her  exterior  is  unlovely,  belongs  to  the  little  noticed  but 
very  Important  army  of  cooks  who  help  to  feed  New  York's 
millions.  Her  place  of  business  is  a  fifty-cent  basement  table  d'hote  on 
Twenty-second  Street, — one  of  those  small,  home-Hke  restaurants  in 
a  private  house,  where  the  daughters  wait  on  table,  the  electric  player 
jangles  in  one  corner,  and  the  family  cat  humps  its  back  against  the 
shins  of  the  cosmopolitan  patronage.  Faithful  toil  and  thrift  have 
brought  twenty  tables  instead  of  five  and  scattered  the  dim  gloom  of 
gas  light  with  individual  electric  lamps  and  mirrors  on  the  walls  reflect- 
ing them.  A  new  glass  door  with  her  name  neatly  painted  on  it  is  the 
last  improvement  for  which  Mrs.  Olry  has  drawn  on  her  small  but 
growing  surplus;  and  now,  with  some  new  linen,  a  few  palms  by  the 
entrance,  and  the  ceiling  replastered,  her  adjoining  rooms  savor  more 
of  hotel  excellence  than  of  boarding-house  mediocrity. 

Late  one  snowy  December  evening  Mrs.  Olry,  weary  with  a  day's 
work,  peeped  out  the  kitchen  door  and  saw  to  her  delight  that  there 
were  only  two  diners  left.  One  was  a  steady  for  dinners, — a  young  girl 
half-way  down  the  room;  the  other  a  man  just  beyond,  whom  she 
did  not  know,  but  whose  presence  she  accredited  to  an  empty  stomach 
and  the  glass  door.  He  was  eating  the  fish  course,  and  the  girl  was 
nibbling  at  her  salad. 

"Sure  they'll  soon  be  through!"  the  cook  muttered,  heaving  a 
sigh  from  her  mighty  bosom.     "Mamie,  get  two  creams!" 

Mamie,  long,  lean,  and  freckled,  left  her  dishes,  wiped  her  hands, 
and  obeyed  her  mother  placidly. 

"Mrs.  Olry,  Mrs.  Olry!"  a  voice  suddenly  called  from  the  dining- 
room. 

The  proprietress  appeared  in  the  doorway  and  saw  the  man  stand- 
ing beside  the  girl's  table,  with  his  hand  on  the  opposite  chair.  She 
started  for  him  with  fists  clenched  and  eyes  blazing. 

"Shure,  what  do  yer  mean  by  botherin'  a  poor,  defenseless  girl? 
I  don't  have  no  such  actions  in  this  place;    this  is  a  respectable — " 

Then  the  girl  leaned  over  and  seized  the  woman's  fat  hand  between 
both  of  hers,  as  she  said, 

"Hush,  dearie!  I  don't  want  you  for  a  policeman.  I  want  you 
to  introduce  me  to  him.  What  is  your  name?"  She  looked  up  at 
the  man's  incredulous  face. 

"My  name  is  Lindley, — Horace  Lindley,"  he  repeated  slowly. 

"What  do  you  want  me  to  do?"  Mrs.  Olry  ejaculated,  turning 
her  flabby,  mystified  face  to  the  girl. 


Man  or  Manners?  217 

"Introduce  me  to  Mr.  Lindley,"  she  explained  quietly. 

"Share,  it  seems  you  know  him  better'n  I  do." 

"Never  mind.  Do  it  for  me,  please,  Mrs.  Olry!"  the  girl  coaxed 
eagerly. 

Then,  with  an  explosive  sigh  and  a  sarcastic  formality,  Mrs.  Olry 
performed  the  desired  social  function. 

"Mr.  Lindle — Lindley,  this  is  Miss  Putnam."  The  two  shook 
hands  and  he  sat  down,  while  Mrs.  Olry  trudged  disgustedly  back  to 
the  kitchen. 

"What's  gettin'  into  Laddie?  Did  you  hear  that  stunt  she  put 
me  through?  Ain't  she  gettin'  fussy?  An'  I  thought  he  was  makin' 
up  to  'er  against  her  will!     Laddie's  a  queer  'un!     Beyond  me!" 

Mamie  washed  in  silence,  while  her  mother  set  to  filling  the  sugar 
bowls  and  salt  cellars  which  covered  the  kitchen  table.  A  sound  of 
voices  came  from  the  dining-room. 

"Jest  a  notion!"  chuckled  Mamie  softly,  "they're  hittin'  it  off 
all  right  now.  Laddie's  feelin'  like  a  real  live  lady  to-night,  isn't  she? 
Introductions!  That's  rich!"  She  gave  her  dishcloth  a  vehement 
wring,  and  emptied  the  dish-pan. 

"Take  the  cream  in  to  'em,"  ordered  her  mother. 

Mamie  gave  the  man  a  long,  hungry  look  as  she  sat  the  dish  before 
him. 

"Thank  you!"  said  Laddie,  as  if  to  hurry  her  while  she  brushed 
the  table. 

"Yer  welcome,  Laddie!"  grinned  the  waitress,  a  sarcastic  emphasis 
on  "welcome." 

"You  seem  to  be  at  home  in  this  little  place!"  Mr.  Lindley  ob- 
served graciously. 

"Yes,  I  always  come  here.     They're  good  to  me,"  said  Laddie. 

Then  she  gave  Mamie  a  tender  smile,  which  that  poor  creature 
considered  she  could  well  afford  with  a  swell  like  that  sitting  opposite  her. 

Back  in  the  kitchen  Mamie  bubbled  excitedly  to  her  mother: 
"Say,  he's  some  swell  feller:  did  yer  see  his  dress  suit  and  them 
diamond  shirt  studs?" 

"Shore,  I  seen  'em;  she  met  'im  through  me,"  muttered  the  cook 
proudly. 

"Ketch  me  hollerin'  fer  a  knock-down  if  something  like  that  sat 
down  in  front  o'  me." 

"You  ain't  got  no  manners,  anyhow,  Mamie.  It's  lucky  you're 
homely.     If  you  was  good-lookin',  there'd  be  no  holdin'  you." 

"So  you   think  Laddie's  good-lookin'?"   inquired   Mamie   keenly. 

"I  think  Laddie's  good:  that's  all  I  care;  an'  the  men  folks  think 
she's  good-lookin':    that's  all  they  care,  an'  I  guess  we're  both  right." 

"Huh!"  snorted  Mamie,  half-discouraged,  half   defiant,  for  Mamie 


218  The  Haverfoedian 

still  had  hopes  herself.  It  galled  her  that  Laddie  should  receive,  un- 
invited, the  attentions  which  she  could  not  win  with  her  most  daring 
schemes  of  courtship.  She  had  often  succeeded  in  wringing  a  smile 
or  a  word  of  recognition  from  the  various  men  she  served,  and  once 
a  sallow,  slender  youth  had  taken  her  to  the  movies,  but  this  was  the 
sum-total  of  her  conquests.  So  Laddie  understood  the  resentment 
in  her  tone ;  she  forgave  it,  knowing  the  yearning  heart  of  an  unattrac- 
tive girl,  and  the  superficial  paint-and-powder  viewpoint  which  most 
men  take  towards  most  women. 

Mrs.  Olry  ambled  up  the  back  stairs  to  her  room,  and  Mamie 
quietly  took  a  seat  just  inside  the  dining-room  to  try  and  discover 
from  Laddie  a  plan  of  campaign  which  would  really  bring  results.  Lad- 
die's back  was  towards  her,  and  Mr.  Lindley  did  not  notice  her. 

"How  did  you  happen  to  be  this  far  downtown?"  Laddie  was 
asking. 

"My  dear,  I  was  detained  at  my  lawyer's  office  and  sent  the  car 
home  to  mother.  I  would  have  been  late  for  dinner  there,  and  was 
frightfully  hungry,  so  I  dropped  into  the  first  place  I  saw  and  there 
you  were  looking  at  me!" 

"I'm  not  your  dear,  and  I  was  not  looking  at  you." 

"O,  it  was  perfectly  natural  that  you  should  look.  If  I'd  been  an 
old  lady  or  a  newsboy,  it  would  have  been  all  the  same,"  he  replied 
easily. 

"Then,  why  didn't  you  stay  where  you  were?" 

When  Mamie  heard  the  slow,  deliberate  question,  an  amused 
smile  played  on  her  lips. 

"  It  seemed  a  shame  for  you  and  I  to  sit  here,  this  miserable  night, 
at  opposite  ends  of  the  room,  as  mum  as  two  clams.  You're  too  pretty 
to  be  eating  alone  in  a  place  like  this." 

"I  hadn't  noticed  that  until  to-night." 

He  laughed. 

"There  are  lots  of  things  about  ourselves  that  are  so  close  to  us 
that  we  can't  get  a  good  view  of  them,  but  I  don't  think  beauty  is  one 
of  these.  Look!"  he  said,  suddenly  pointing.  She  turned  her  face 
quickly  to  the  mirror  beside  her. 

"Now  my  point  is  proved!" 

She  smiled  back  at  him — a  naive,  provoking,  half-reproachful 
little  smile,  which  Laddie  alone  had  a  patent  on.  Then  she  suddenly 
grew  serious  and  fixed  his  gaze  for  a  moment  with  her  large  brown  eyes. 

"  Do  I  look  like  the  kind  of  girl  whom  you  can  sit  down  with  and 
talk  to  without  any — preliminaries?" 


Man  or  Manners?  219 

Lindley  hesitated.  He  had  an  obstinate  habit  of  telling  the  truth 
because  he  liked  to  be  original,  but  she  was  in  earnest  and  he  must 
proceed  carefully:   so  he  compromised. 

"You  didn't  look  very  awful  to  approach,"  he  laughed.  "And  yet 
I  wasn't  as  surprised  as  I  might  have  been,  when  you  summoned  the — 
policeman." 

"Not  half  as  surprised  as  she  was!"  murmured  the  girl  slowly. 

"Why  was  that?" 

"Well,  you  see,  she  sort  of  looks  out  for  me — and  we  were  the 
only  ones  here.     She  has  some  pretty  rough  customers  sometimes." 

"Yes,  I  suppose  she  does!  Have  one?"  He  had  pulled  out  a  gold 
cigarette  case,  taken  one  himself,  and  then  recollected  that  she  might 
keep  him  company. 

"  No! "    she  calmly  answered. 

"Aren't  you  the  good  little  girl?  What  do  you  do  with  yourself?" 
he  questioned,  with  business-like  concern. 

"Oh,  I  work,"  she  confessed  lightly. 

"Where?" 

"Why  do  you  want  to  know?"  she  parried,  smiling. 

"Just  interested!" 

"No,  curious.  But  I'll  tell  you.  I  work  in  Wanamaker's,  third 
floor  back,  ladies'  imported  underwear:  we're  very  busy  around  Christ- 
mas. That's  why  I'm  late  to-night.  Things  are  so  mixed  up  when  we 
close  store,  it  takes  forever  to  put  them  away." 

"You  don't  sell  any  men's  goods?"  he  inquired  softly. 

"At  my  counter?  No,  sir!  Downstairs,  first  floor,  last  two  aisles: 
this  way,  elevator  on  your  left."  She  made  a  floor-walker-like  gesture, 
and  they  both  laughed. 

"You're  an  entertaining  little  thing  for  a  store  girl,"  he  mused; 
"you  know  most  of  them  are  gum-chewing,  harsh-voiced  murderers 
of  the  English  language." 

"If  you  think  that,  you  should  keep  away  from  us,"  she  gently 
reproved. 

"I  don't  mean  you.  Laddie — that's  a  pretty  name,  isn't  it?" 

"I  have  another  one  also,"  she  answered,  idly  toying  with  a  salt 
cellar. 

"But  you  don't  mind  my  calling  you  Laddie?"  he  exploded  in 
genuine  surprise. 

"Did  you  ever  call  one  of  your  'real'  friends  by  their  first  name 
as  soon  as  you  met  them?"     She  puckered  her  brows  in  an  accusing 


220  The  Haverfordian 

little  frown,  and  looked  him  squarely  in  the  eyes.  Mamie  gave  a  gasp 
back  in  her  corner. 

"Why,  I  never  met  any  real  friends  just  in  this  way.  If  you  wish 
it,  you  shall  be  'missed'  to  your  heart's  content."  He  spoke  politely, 
without  irritation. 

"No,  I  don't  mind.  Call  me  Laddie:  it  fits  me  better.  I'm  only 
a  pickup:  you're  perfectly  right." 

Her  tone  was  light,  and  her  lips  smiled,  but  the  man  sensed  some- 
thing bitter,  almost  tragic,  behind  the  shifting  brown  eyes. 

"Are  you?     You  seem  better  than  that  to  me,"  he  replied  casually. 

"  Do  I?"  she  said  quickly,  in  a  voice  that  was  at  once  eager,  grate- 
ful, and  tinged  with  emotion.  "  But  looks  are  deceptive,"  she  continued 
playfully.  "Tell  me  something  about  yourself  now.  I've  been  furnish- 
ing all  the  information.  You  may  be  a  gentleman  burglar,  or  a  con- 
fidence man,  or — or  married,  for  all  I  know." 

"Nothing  so  exciting.  Laddie,"  he  answered.  "I'm  one  of  those 
distinguished  New  Yorkers  who  earn  nothing,  spend  a  lot,  and  buy 
nothing  substantial  with  it  except  a  reputation  for  having  a  lot  more. 
I'm  what  men  call  a  good  fellow,  women  call  a  good  match,  and  I  call 
a  well-dressed  dummy;  for  I'm  not  sinful  enough  to  ever  become  very 
good,  and  not  good  enough  to  ever  become  very  sinful.  Now  you 
know  all  about  me." 

"That's  like  describing  a  beautiful  painting — moonlight  on  the 
ocean,  perhaps — and  saying,  'It's  dark  blue  and  yellow;  it's  done  on 
canvas;  it's  two  feet  square;  there's  a  dollar's  worth  of  paint  in  it, 
and  it's  worth  five  hundred;  now  you  know  all  about  it.'" 

"You  mean  this  painting  has  something  else  in  it?"  he  urged, 
smiling. 

"Yes,  of  course." 

"What  else  has  it?" 

"Why,  it  has  imagination,  expression,  appeal;  you  can  feear  the 
waves,  see  the  glimmering  of  the  yellow  trail,  and  feel  the  salt  breeze. — 
It's  just  alive,  that's  all!"  She  gave  a  convindng  little  gesture  with 
her  hands,  which  dispelled  any  doubt  in  Lindley's  mind  as  to  the  artistic 
value  of  her  picture. 

"How  did  you  learn  all  that  behind  a  shirtwaist  counter?"  he 
exclaimed. 

She  laughed  at  him. 

"You  see,  they're  not  private  property,  ekher  the  moon  or  the 
ocean:  and  everything  that's  public  we  store  girls  get  wise  to." 


Man  or  Manners?  221 

"You  do,  eh?  That's  interesting!  How  about  the  sun  and  the 
stars?"  he  inquired  seriously. 

"Now  you're  making  fun  of  me.  I've  talked  too  much  and  I  must 
get  home.  But  I've  enjoyed  this.  It's  been  much  better  than  sitting 
alone  this  bum  night." 

She  smiled  at  him  frankly,  and  her  little  face,  between  the  cheap 
hat  and  imitation  fur  collar,  lighted  up  with  a  warmth  that  was  un- 
deniably sincere. 

"I  wish  I  had  come  up  to  you  sooner.  You  see  I  didn't  know 
Mrs.  Olry,  or  I  might  have  gotten  her  to — " 

"Of  course  you  didn't,"  she  agreed.     "It  was  all  right." 

He  helped  her  on  with  her  coat;  then,  as  she  took  out  a  small  thread- 
bare purse,  he  stopped  her. 

"No,  no!"  he  answered  to  her  upturned  eyes,  "this  is  my  treat." 

"Thank  you  so  much.  Good-bye."  She  gave  him  a  firm,  warm 
little  handshake,  and  moved  towards  the  door. 

Lindley  stood  and  watched  her  open  it,  felt  a  cold  draft  of  snow- 
clad  wind,  and  heard  it  shut  behind  her. 

"She's  a  dear  little  thing!"  he  muttered  half  aloud:  then,  turning 
about,  his  eyes  fell  on  Mamie  at  the  far  end  of  the  room. 

He  was  through  with  his  dinner,  and  she  made  no  signs  of  moving, 
so  he  sauntered  up  to  her. 

"How  much  do  I  owe  you?"  he  asked. 

She  watched  him  with  an  awe-struck  stare  from  eyes  that  seemed 
to  say,  "Lord!  Ain't  he  wonderful!"  Finally  she  answered,  lowering 
her  glance  confusedly: 

"A  dollar — if  you're  payin'  for  her,  sir." 

He  pulled  out  a  roll,  selected  two  one-dollar  bills  and  tossed  them 
on  the  table  before  her. 

"What's  the  other  one  for?"  she  asked. 

"That's  for  keeping  you  in  so  late.  Laddie  and  I  got  talking 
and  we  didn't  notice  the  time  passing." 

"No:  none  of  the  men  do  when  they're  with  her.  Thank  you, 
sir." 

"  Is  that  so?    You  know  all  about  her,  don't  you?" 

Lindley  had  formed  his  opinion  and  was  curious  either  to  hear  it 
confirmed  or  discredited.  His  brief  glimpse  of  her  had  aroused  his 
interest  and  left  it  suspended  in  mid-air  like  the  first  installment  of  a 
story  with  no  "to  be  continued"  at  the  end. 

"No,  sir.  None  of  us  knows  all  about  anybody:  but  I  know  she's 
been  in  here  with  a  half  a  dozen  different  fellers  and  they  don't  all  pay 
for  her  dinner  and  they  don't  none  of  'em  give  me  nothin'." 


222  The  Haverfordian 

"She  seldom  comes  alone?" 

"No;  and  when  she  does,  she  ain't  alone  any  longer'n  she  was 
to-night." 

"Well,  well,  she  didn't  seem  that  kind,"  mused  Lindley,  as  though 
disappointed  not  so  much  in  her  as  in  his  own  lack  of  judgment. 

"Won't  you  sit  down?"  Mamie  invited  suddenly,  with  her  softest, 
most  seductive  smile. 

"No,  thank  you,"  he  handed  back  coolly,  and  the  smile  sagged 
slowly  to  a  drooping  despair. 

"I  wonder  why  she  wished  to  be  introduced  to  me,"  he  reflected 
absently. 

"Jest  for  novelty!"  Mamie  retorted.  Her  feminine  pride  had 
lately  been  so  battered  and  juggled  with  that  now  it  could  not  stand 
more  than  one  hard  jolt  without  striking  back.  For  this  was  the  only 
weapon  left  to  beat  off  the  humility  which  otherwise  would  crush  her 
beyond  repair.  Her  tongue  was  keen,  and  if  she  could  make  others 
suffer  too,  her  own  bitterness  was  lightened  accordingly. 

Lindley  walked  back,  put  on  his  hat  and  coat  and  disappeared, 
leaving  Mamie  with  the  same  dull,  dreary  pain  in  her  breast  which  had 
been  her  portion  since  school-days,  the  pain  of  a  girl  who  will  not 
give  up  longing. 

Laddie  in  the  meantime  was  walking  silently  through  the  swirling 
storm  to  her  little  room  on  Nineteenth  Street.  When  she  turned  the 
comer  into  Broadway,  it  seemed  more  like  three  A.  M.  than  nine  P.  M. 
A  few  buzzing  taxis,  a  slow-moaning  trolley  car,  and  a  struggling  team 
or  two  came  out  of  the  night  for  a  moment,  only  to  fade  again  behind 
the  white  curtain.  Their  noise  was  strangely  muffled  by  the  thick, 
heavy-laden  air,  and  the  grind  of  the  trolleys  died  out  as  soon  as  they 
disappeared.  The  gleam  of  the  street  lamps  struggled  but  a  short 
distance  through  the  myriad  dancing  snowflakes  that  swept  by  in  a 
still,  mad  race.  The  stores  were  mostly  closed  and  dark.  Those  that 
were  open  stood  shining  and  unoccupied  while  the  snow  piled  against 
their  doors.  Even  the  people  on  the  sidewalks  were  wretched,  forlorn 
figures,  plodding  aimlessly  through  a  dseert  of  cold  stone  walls  which 
seemed  to  rear  above  them  in  mocking  triumph  over  their  exposure. 

But,  judging  from  Laddie's  open  coat,  bare  hands,  and  light,  care- 
free gait,  the  chill  air  might  have  held  the  softness  of  June,  and  the 
snowflakes  might  have  been  apple  blossoms.  The  passers-by  turned 
their  red  faces  and  gave  her  curious,  puzzled  looks  to  see  whether  she 
were  demented  or  advertising  some  especially  cold-proof  underwear. 
Laddie  was  too  radiantly  happy  to  notice  them.     A  warmth  which 


Man  or  Manners?  223 

came  from  within  glowed  through  her  body:  she  had  acted  a  real  lady 
with  the  kind  of  a  man  who  was  used  to  decent,  well-bred  girls.  It 
was  thrilling  to  find  someone  who  would  listen  to  her  demand  for  respect- 
ful treatment,  who  had  not  even  tried  to  kiss  her  or  hold  her  hand, 
who  had  paid  for  her  dinner,  for  the  mere  privilege  of  talking  to  her, 
whom  she  had  met  and  parted  with  like  a  lady.  Small  wonder  that 
the  cold,  the  snow,  and  the  staring  strangers  did  not  exist  for  her!  "You 
seem  better  than  that  to  me."  She  repeated  those  wonderful  words 
over  and  over  again.  They  meant  something  when  said  by  a  man 
like  him.  "  I  am  better — am  better,"  she  told  herself  exultantly,  and 
was  still  repeating  it  when  she  climbed  the  stairs  to  her  fourth  floor 
bedroom. 

"Kitty,  you  here?"  she  said  quickly,  on  entering  into  the  darkness. 
Kitty  mumbled  an  inaudible  something  from  the  further  comer  of  a 
double  bed  and  turned  away  from  the  light  which  Laddie  had  switched 
on.     After  removing  hat  and  coat,  she  sat  on  the  bed. 

"Kid,  I'm  sorry  if  I  woke  you.  But  it's  done  now  and  I  must  tell 
you  about  him."  She  leaned  over  and  shook  the  motionless  figure 
next  to  the  wall,  in  an  effort  to  restore  its  fast  fading  consciousness: 
then  she  rolled  it  over  like  a  dead  thing,  and  Kitty  slowly  opened  her 
eyes. 

"What's  bitin'  you,  Laddie?  I'm  tired.  Turn  out  that  damn 
light,"  she  muttered  sleepily. 

"I  met  him  at  Mother  Olry's.     He  paid  for  my  dinner." 

"I  don't  care.  Get  undressed,"  and  with  that  she  rolled  back  to 
the  wall. 

"He's  got  lots  of  money,  a  car,  and  diamond  shirt  studs.  I  was 
introduced  to  him,  and  he  sat  with  me  for  a  half  an  hour.  I  told  him 
I  worked,  and  he  was  just  as  nice  as  though  I  was  an  heiress.  O,  he's 
wonderful  looking,  Kitty! — dark,  curly  hair,  a  big  broad  figure  in  a 
dress  suit,  with  handsome  eyes  and  oh,  such  a  smile,  and  I'll  never, 
never  see  him  again."      Her  head  sank  dismally  on  her  hands. 

"Cut  that  ravin',  and  go  to  bed,  will  yer?"  growled  Kitty  danger- 
ously. 

The  two  girls  knew  plenty  of  men,  and  such  a  girlish,  romantic 
outbreak  would  have  sounded  queer  in  the  daytime,  but  at  night,  to 
Kitty's  clouded,  half-sensible  brain,  it  seemed  wild  as  a  babbling  brook. 
She  had  not  lived  with  Laddie  four  years  without  gaining  a  reasonable 
confidence  in  her  good  sense.  When  they  had  picked  each  other  out 
of  the  crowds  to  join  hands  and  hearts  as  fellow  fighters  for  a  liveli- 
hood in  a  big  city,  Kitty  had  given  Laddie's  unsophisticated  mind  a 
course  in  the  elements  of  conduct  which  would  pilot  her  through  the 
storms  that  an  unprotected  girl  might  have  to  weather.     Laddie  had 


224  The  Haverfordian 

caught  on  to  the  plan  with  all  the  keenness  of  youth  and  health.  She 
knew  how  far  to  go  and  how  far  not  to  go.  She  knew  how  to  mind  her 
own  business,  how  to  think  quickly  and  calmly  when  in  trouble,  how 
to  judge  girls  and  handle  men;  all  this,  to  a  degree  which  did  credit 
to  her  pupil,  Kitty  had  taught  her.  But  she  was  continually  taking 
chances  on  a  good  time  and  no  expense. 

It  was  discouraging  to  hear  her  come  home  from  a  half-hour's 
talk  with  a  strange  man  and  act  as  though  he  were  some  new,  unheard- 
of  species  which  her  innocent  eyes  had  never  yet  beheld. 

Kitty,  by  nature,  was  wise,  careful,  and  hard-working.  She  was 
Laddie's  senior  by  five  profitable  years.  She,  too,  had  her  regular 
evenings  out,  but  always  with  one  man,  who  had  more  or  less  intentions 
of  marriage  according  as  Kitty's  judgment  approved  or  disapproved  of 
his  unsteady  manner  of  life.  He  drank  a  little,  and  Kitty,  perched  on 
an  eternal  water-wagon,  was  the  goal  towards  which  he  in  his  sober 
hours  was  struggling.  She,  in  a  grim,  rather  superior  way,  had  been  a 
mother  and  sister  and  father  to  Laddie,  whose  ruddy  cheeks  and  simple 
charm  had  caught  her  eye  and  won  her  sympathy  from  the  beginning. 
She  had  warned  her  many  times  since,  that  her  faith  in  people,  and 
careless  use  of  her  free  time,  would  land  her  so  far  in  the  hole  some  day 
that  it  would  take  a  derrick  to  pull  her  out;  for  she  would  go  out  any 
evening  anywhere  with  any  man  who  had  the  slightest  claims  to  his 
manhood.  "Goodnight!  Kitty,"  she  would  argue.  "I'm  young  and 
alone  and  working.  I  can't  be  an  old  woman  now.  I  rather  be  dead 
than  never  have  any  pleasure.  These  men  at  the  store  and  restaurants 
are  all  I  can  meet.  What  choice  have  I?"  Then  Kitty  would  vainly 
try  to  explain  the  difference  between  going  out  with  "a"  man  and  with 
"any"  man:  to  which  Laddie  would  reply  that  she  picked  the  best- 
looking  ones,  which  was  all  any  girl  could  do.  Finally  Kitty  had  per- 
suaded her  to  eat  at  Mrs.  Olry's,  where  that  good  old  soul  might  keep 
an  eye  on  the  men  that  took  a  notion  to  her  pretty  face. 

If  Kitty  could  have  known  that  she  was  kneeling  beside  the  bed  in 
her  cotton  nightgown  on  the  bare,  cold  floor,  praying  that  she  might 
somewhere  run  into  Lindley  again,  she  would  have  turned  over  in  her 
sleep  and  boxed  her  ears.  Laddie  only  prayed  on  important  occasions, 
and  only  knelt  on  the  most  important.  At  last  she  arose  slowly  and 
crept  in  beside  her  room-mate. 

"You  play  safe  with  your  steady,  old  girl,  but  I'd  rather  take  a 
chance,  and  maybe  get  somewhere  beyond  a  counter,"  she  muttered  to 
the  figure  humped  against  the  wall.  A  little  later  her  lips  drowsily 
found  the  words,  "You  seem  better  than  that  to  me!  Yes,  I  am,  Horace, 
and  if  I  can  only  find  you  again  some  day,  I'll  prove  it  to  you";  and 
in  her  last  vague  moments  of  consciousness  before  she  fell  asleep,  she 
dreamily  pictured  an  expensive  restaurant,  an  evening  gown,  soft- 
colored  lights,  music,  immaculate  waiters  gliding  over  a  noiseless  carpet, 


Man  or  Manners?  225 

and  finally  him  sitting  there  opposite  her,  ordering  up  such  a  feast 
that  she  wanted  to  take  home  what  she  couldn't  eat  and  save  it  for 
another  meal;  for,  after  all,  this  luxury  was  only  a  pretty  pretense  of 
which  she  wished  to  retain  a  little,  to  break  monotony  of  Child's  and 
Mrs.  Olry's. 

At  six-thirty  the  following  morning  Laddie  awoke  to  the  sound  of 
shovels  scraping  on  the  sidewalks.  It  was  frightfully  uninteresting  to 
begin  the  dull  course  of  a  day's  work  without  a  hope  of  seeing  Lindley 
again.  She  lay  staring  at  the  ceiling,  wishing  vainly  that  she  could 
roll  back  the  hours  to  the  night  before  and  have  another  chance  with 
him.  How  differently  she  would  have  acted!  She  had  let  him  slide 
through  her  fingers  without  a  murmur,  and  fall  back  into  the  whirlpool, 
where  fate  might  run  a  thousand  years  before  tossing  them  together 
again. 

She  sat  up  in  bed  and  gave  Kitty  an  unceremonious  shake  which 
brought  her  crashing  down  from  the  heights  of  a  rosy  dream  to  a  sullen 
earth.  While  they  were  dressing  in  the  shivering  room  Kitty,  who 
usually  preserved  an  ominous  silence  during  this  tiresome  formality, 
came  out  with  a  statement  which  took  all  the  strength  from  Laddie's 
knees  and  brought  her  on  to  the  bed  with  a  bounce. 

"I'm  goin'  to  get  married:  suppose  I  might  as  well  tell  you  now," 
she  announced  calmly,  with  her  comb  poised  above  her  head. 

"O,  Kitty,  how  could  you!"  Laddie  exclaimed  desperately,  after 
the  full  significance  of  the  fact  had  dawned  on  her. 

"Well,  why  shouldn't  I  get  married?  Other  people  do  it:  in  fact, 
it's  quite  common:  you  didn't  think  I'd  been  runnin'  round  with  Bill 
all  this  time  for  my  health,  did  you?" 

"I  thought  it  was  for  his  health.  You  don't  really  love  him,  do 
you,  Kitty?"  she  asked,  with  painful  reluctance.^ 

"No;  but  he  loves  me,  and  I'm  not  goin'  to  grow  wrinkled  and  gray 
waitin'  on  people:  then  get  turned  out  'cause  I'm  too  old.  I  wouldn't 
marry  the  best  man  on  earth,  Laddie,  if  I  didn't  see  a  black  cave  of 
wretchedness  in  front  of  me  where  I'm  afraid  to  enter  alone.  I've  got 
a  little  money  now,  but  s'pose  I  got    sick  and  had  to  stop  work." 

"And  what  about  me?"  The  white  figure  on  the  bed  held  out  two 
small,  bare  arms  in  earnest  entreaty. 

"All  I  ever  get  will  be  yours — always.  Laddie.     You  know  that." 

"I  don't  want  your  money,  I  want  you!  You'll  be  his  after  you 
marry  him,  and  I'll  be  alone!"  cried  Laddie  emphatically. 

"Guess  I'll  have  the  say  about  whose  I  am,  and  whose  I'm  not," 
retorted  Kitty  ominously.  "He'll  do  as  I  say  or  he  don't  get  me,  that's 
shure." 

"He'll  get  drunk  again  after  he's  married  you,"  Laddie  murmured 
dolefully. 

"No,  he  won't." 


226  The  Haverfordian 

"He'll  spend  all  your  money." 

"No  he  won't!" 

"  He'll  get  tired  of  you,  and  be  looking  for  other  girls." 

"No,  he  won't." 

"He'll  make  you  work  harder  than  you  do  now." 

"He  will  not!"  exploded  Kitty  finally,  throwing  down  her  comb. 
"What  do  you  think  I'm  marrying  him  for?  Fun?  Not  much.  He'll 
support  me!  He'll  not  drink  a  drop,  nor  wink  at  another  girl,  nor  spend 
a  nickel  that  I  don't  give  him." 

"Who'd  you  say  it  was  you're  marrying?"  inquired  Laddie  bitterly. 

"  It's  no  laughing  matter! "  announced  the  rebellious  partner  quietly. 
"I  know  him  pretty  well,  and  I've  spent  several  years'  thought  over 
the  matter:    I'm  not  a  fool." 

"But  he's  not  good  enough  for  you!" 

"A  man's  good  enough  for  any  woman  that  he  loves." 

"What!"  Laddie  almost  yelled.  "What  was  that?  Kitty, 
you've  turned  crazy.  I'd  as  soon  see  you  marry  the  dago  fruit  man 
at  the  comer!" 

Kitty  turned  on  her  with  yearning  eyes. 

"Laddie,"  she  replied,  "I'd  sooner  see  you  married  to  him,  than 
trotting  beside  some  man  you're  not  married  to.  '" 

"Nonsense!  I'm  out  of  the  cradle;  I'm  in  earnest  about  this: 
we've  been  together  for  years!  I  can't  live  by  myself.  I'd  die  of  loneli- 
ness.    He's  not  worth  breaking  up  house  for,  Kitty!    Truly  he  isn't!" 

Kitty  combed  in  siience  for  a  time;  then  she  came  to  Laddie, 
tilted  her  face  so  that  their  eyes  met,  and  said  with  sudden  tenderness: 

"You're  young.  Laddie.  I'm  not.  Remember  that!  This  city  is 
full  of  girls  who  didn't  marry  or  who  couldn't.  You  can  tell  'em  when 
you  see  'em.  A  few  of  them  are  happy,  but  most  of  them  are  wretched. 
They  slave  away  till  they're  too  feeble  to  keep  up  the  mad  pace  of  the 
younger  ones,  and  then  they  die  without  enough  money  to  bury  them. 
If  a  man  loves  you  and  is  worth  anything  at  all  it's  better  to  marry 
him,  Laddie.  You  can  fight  for  the  best  in  him,  and  make  something 
out  of  him,  or  else  go  the  other  way  along  with  him.  Then  at  least 
you've  done  something;  you've  made  an  attempt  and  failed;  your  life 
hasn't  been  work,  eat  and  sleep  till  you  go  crazy  with  the  monotony  of 
it,  knowing  that  all  you  mean  to  the  world  is  six  dollars  a  week,  and 
you,  and  a  hundred  others  like  you,  can  drop  out  of  existence  without 
the  girls  on  the  next  floor  above  knowing  it.  If  there's  one  solitary 
person  out  of  six  million  whose  heart  beats  with  the  same  joy  and  pain 
as  yours.  Laddie,  it  makes  New  York  feel  like  a  different  place." 

"Then  you're  marrying  him  because  you're  afraid  to  grow  old 


Man  or  Manners?  227 

alone!  Choice  of  two  evils,  isn't  it?"  mused  Laddie,  tapping  the  floor 
with  one  bare  foot. 

"You  didn't  need  to  say  that!"  muttered  Kitty  accusingly. 

Laddie  bit  her  lip,  and  her  eyes  burned  with  a  warning  of  tears. 

"Well,  I  feel  it,"  she  said  slowly  with  head  hung.  "I'll  have  to 
find  someone  else.  I  can't  live  alone.  I'd — I'd  never  thought  of  your 
marrying.  You're  always  after  me  for  the  men  I  go  round  with,  and  I 
didn't  suppose  you'd  ever  consider  Bill  seriously.  He's  not  half  as  good 
as — 

"That'll  do!  He  loves  me.  They  don't  care  a  hang  about  you, 
the  men  you  know.  They  like  to  watch  your  pretty  face,  but  Laddie, 
child,  that  won't  last  forever." 

"I'll  be  married  myself  by  then,"  assured  Laddie  with  a  nonchalant 
toss  of  her  tousled  head. 

"Find  someone  and  we'll  do  the  job  together,"  Kitty  declared 
vigorously,  giving  her  hair  a  final  twist  and  spearing  the  knot  with  a 
hairpin.  Then  she  turned  brusquely  to  Laddie,  who  was  still  sitting, 
hands  folded,  feet  kicking,  without  the  vagest  notion  of  dressing. 

"Get  dressed,  you  lazy  kid!  I  suppose  you're  eating  an  imaginary 
breakfast  that  an  imaginary  maid  has  brought  you:  but  you're  still  a 
store  girl  in  spite  of  your  millionaire  dreams.  If  you  don't  work  you 
don't  eat.     Come  on!    Move!" 

Laddie  arose  and  mechanically  slipped  into  her  clothes.  She 
walked  quietly  about  the  untidy  room,  with  a  lost,  self-absorbed  air, 
as  though  her  eyes  were  searching  beyond  the  four  gloomy  walls  into  a 
grim,  uncertain  future.  Kitty  was,  for  her,  the  foundation  of  all  human 
relationship, — rthe  one  necessary  and  unchanging  factor  in  the  shifting 
hopes  and  disappointments  of  a  department  store  existence.  The 
million  unseeing  eyes,  and  the  million  uninterested  hearts  which  she 
encountered  on  all  sides  and  in  which  she  did  not  exist,  caused  her  life 
to  be  so  close  to  the  one  soul  who  shared  it,  that  separation  could 
scarcely  be  conceived  of. 

"What'll  I  do?  What'll  I  do?"  she  murmured  perplexedly,  as  she 
finally  pinned  on  her  hat. 

"You  can  live  with  me  as  long  as  you  want  to,  dear!"  Kitty  con- 
soled, with  a  good-natured  hug.  "We've  only  been  together  two  years, 
but  it  seems  as  if  I'd  known  you  two  lifetimes.  There's  something  in  a 
city  that  makes  friends  like  that:  sympathy,  I  guess,  to  make  up  for 
the  extra  happiness  of  so  many  people  all  together:  the  more  crowds, 
the  more  competition;  the  more  competition,  the  more  poverty.  Me 
for  the  country  some  day  if  I  have  to  live  in  a  tent,  and  peddle  vege- 
tables!" 


228  The  Haverfordian 

"When  are  you  going  to  be  married?"  demanded  Laddie,  medi- 
tating. 

"In  a  couple  of  weeks,  when  he  gets  his  next  month's  pay:  and 
you'll  be  maid  of  honor,  without  the  honor.  It'll  be  a  very  quiet  wed- 
ding." 

"It'll  be  a  funeral  for  me,"  answered  Laddie. 
{To  he  continued) 

— C.  Van  Dam,  '17. 


patriot 

IN  the  recent  death  of  the  novelist  Henryk  Sienkiewicz  Poland  lost 
far  more  than  her  most  distinguished  man  of  letters.  She  lost 
one  of  her  most  ardent  and  self-sacrificing  patriots,  a  man  whose 
voice  never  ceased  to  plead  the  cause  of  his  hapless  country,  even  under 
the  most  discouraging  conditions.  Sienkiewicz  and  the  pianist,  Ignace 
Paderewski,  were  the  two  leaders  in  the  movement  for  Polish  relief; 
and  the  death  of  the  aged  writer  is  supposed  to  have  been  hastened 
by  the  appalling  reports  of  the  desolation  and  misery  that  have  fallen 
upon  Poland  as  a  result  of  the  war.  But,  as  the  world  outside  of  Poland 
is  more  interested  in  Sienkiewicz  from  a  literary  than  from  a  national 
standpoint,  it  is  fitting  to  commence  an  appreciation  of  his  work  with 
a  review  of  his  artistic  achievements. 

It  is  unfortunate  for  the  fame  of  Sienkiewicz  that  he  is  so  widely 
known  merely  as  the  author  of  "Quo  Vadis."  It  is  easy  for  readers 
who  are  only  acquainted  with  this  book  to  dismiss  the  author  as  a  bril- 
liant, but  superficial  writer,  with  an  almost  journalistic  predilection  for 
the  sensational.  Outside  of  the  character  of  Petronius  there  is  nothing 
in  the  work  to  indicate  that  the  author  was  anything  more  than  a 
clever  man  endowed  with  marked  capacity  for  appealing  to  the  popular 
imagination.  If  one  wishes  to  gain  a  truer  perspective  of  Sienkiewicz' 
literary  genius  he  should  turn  to  one  of  the  novels  of  modern  Polish 
life,  "Whirlpools,"  "Without  Dogma,"  and  "Children  of  the  Soil." 

"Without  Dogma"  is  perhaps  the  author's  masterpiece.  Not 
only  does  it  contain  one  of  the  best  studies  of  the  Hamlet  type  in  modem 
literature,  but  the  character  of  the  heroine,  Aniela,  is  drawn  with  the 
tenderness  and  delicacy  that  seem  to  be  the  peculiar  gift  of  all  Slav 


In  Memoriam  Henryk  Sienkiewicz:   Author  and  Patriot     229 

novelists.  The  book  is  primarily  an  analysis  of  Ploszowski,  a  man 
whose  philosophy  of  negation  and  utter  indifference  is  suddenly  chal- 
lenged by  the  awakening  of  a  great,  overwhelming  passion  for  a  married 
woman  whose  love  he  has  formerly  cast  away  in  a  moment  of  supine 
neglect.  In  vain  he  tries  every  artifice  of  seduction;  with  inflexible 
constancy  Aniela  resists  all  his  advances,  although  her  own  heart  pleads 
strongly  for  him.  The  sharp  contrast  between  the  weak,  vacillating, 
yet  highly  intelligent  and  sensitive  character  of  Ploszowski  and  the 
simple  faith  and  native  dignity  of  Aniela  is  brought  out  with  marked 
power.  The  tragic  importance  of  insignificant  occurrences  is  dwelt 
upon  with  a  morbid  intensity  that  suggests  Thomas  Hardy.  And,  in 
the  climax,  where  Ploszowski  resolves  to  follow  Aniela  to  the  unknown 
land  that  lies  beyond  the  grave,  the  author  attains  great  heights.  The 
failure  and  tragedy  of  two  lives  are  expressed  not  in  pages  of  melo- 
dramatic bombast,  but  in  the  four  simple  words:  "Aniela  died  this 
morning." 

This  work  alone  would  entitle  Sienkiewicz  to  a  high  rank  among 
modern  novelists.  But  in  "Whirlpools"  he  has  created  a  still  more 
diversified  piece  of  character  study,  although  it  is  inferior  in  point 
of  plot  and  artistic  finish.  It  is  through  these  and  other  novels  of  pres- 
ent-day life  that  Sienkiewicz  deserves  his  place  from  the  literary  stand- 
point. "Quo  Vadis"  and  his  shorter  stories  of  the  early  Christian 
period  are  of  comparatively  little  value,  historically  or  otherwise.  But 
there  is  one  duty  that  every  Pole  regards  as  higher  and  more  sacred 
than  the  attainment  of  the  loftiest  artistic  achievement.  That  duty  is 
the  keeping  alive  of  the  spark  of  Polish  national  consciousness,  which 
has  persisted  under  a  century  of  ruthless  trampling  by  the  forces  of 
three  mighty  empires.  How  deeply  Sienkiewicz  felt  his  responsibility 
in  this  matter  may  be  judged  alike  from  the  number  of  his  books  which 
deal  with  Polish  historical  subjects  and  from  his  continual  labors  in 
the  work  of  relief  for  his  stricken  country. 

Some  of  the  author's  strongest  work  is  to  be  found  in  his  trilogy 
of  novels  dealing  with  Poland  of  the  seventeenth  century,  "Fire  and 
Sword,"  "The  Deluge,"  and  "Pan  Michael."  In  Zagloba  he  has  created 
a  modern  rival  of  Falstaff.  And  the  battle  pictures  which  form  an 
important  part  of  these  stormy  novels  are  drawn  with  a  graphic  vivid- 
ness which  would  excite  the  envy  of  a  war  correspondent.  In  kaleido- 
scopic rapidity  of  action  and  fertility  of  imagination  these  books  suggest 
the  works  of  the  elder  Dumas,  although  Sienkiewicz  has  a  certain  advan- 
tage in  dealing  with  a  fresher  field  and  a  more  picturesque  background. 
Yet  this  comparison  is  not  altogether  fair  to  the  Polish  novelist:    for 


230  The  Haverfordian 

he  has  passages  of  deep  feeling  which  are  altogether  lacking  in  his  French 
prototype.  Perhaps  the  finest  of  these  passages  is  the  death  of  Pan 
Michael  in  the  last  novel  of  the  trilogy.  The  town  of  Kamenyets, 
which  the  hero  had  held  for  months  in  the  face  of  a  fierce  Turkish  attack, 
is  surrendered  by  the  cowardice  of  the  local  officials.  Pan  Michael, 
feeling  that  his  honor  is  gone  with  the  surrender,  unflinchingly  blows 
himself  up  along  with  the  fortifications  of  the  city.  The  whole  scene 
is  painted  with  epic  simplicity  and  dignity,  free  from  Hugoesque  rant 
and  affectation.  Another  purple  patch  in  the  author's  historical  novels 
is  the  description  of  the  battle  of  Griinwald  in  "Knights  of  the  Cross." 
It  was  in  this  battle  that  the  ambition  of  medieval  Germany  to  conquer 
and  exploit  Poland  and  other  Slav  territory  was  definitely  crushed  by 
the  overwhelming  victory  of  the  Poles.  Sienkiewicz  almost  assumes 
the  role  of  a  modern  Homer  as  he  describes  the  changing  fortunes  of  the 
conflict,  the  clang  of  steel  on  steel,  the  fierce  shock  of  thundering  cavalry 
charges,  the  final  desperate  onset  of  the  Germans,  which  broke  on  the 
solid  wall  of  Polish  breasts.  The  author  bursts  into  a  paean  of  jubila- 
tion as  he  concludes  the  glorious  story  of  the  victory  of  his  country- 
men. "And  so  unto  thee,  O  great  day  of  purification,  liberation  and 
redemption,"  he  cries,  "be  glory  and  honor  through  all  future  ages." 
At  the  conclusion  of  "Pan  Michael"  Sienkiewicz  explains  his  purpose 
in  giving  up  the  creation  of  artistic  masterpieces  like  "Without  Dogma" 
and  writing  instead  the  long  sequence  of  historical  novels.  "Thus  ends 
this  series  of  books,"  the  author  says,  "written  throughout  a  long  space 
of  years,  at  no  small  labor,  for  the  strengthening  of  hearts."  In  other 
words,  he  aspired  to  do  what  Mickiewicz,  the  greatest  of  the  Polish 
romantic  poets,  achieved  in  "Konrad  von  Wallenrod,"  a  poem  which 
exalted  the  heroic  past  of  Poland  in  stately  measures.  But  Mickiewicz, 
despite  the  beauty  and  grandeur  of  his  work,  has  only  been  able  to  appeal 
to  his  own  countrymen.  The  difficulties  of  language  and  metre  have 
excluded  the  possibility  of  translation.  Sienkiewicz,  on  the  other  hand, 
is  known  throughout  the  civilized  world,  as  his  strong,  simple  prose 
style  lends  itself  readily  to  the  translator's  purposes.  And  certainly  he 
has  rendered  no  mean  service  to  his  beloved  country  when  he  has  so 
conclusively  demonstrated  that  her  disappearance  as  a  nation  was  due 
to  no  inherent  defect  in  national  character,  but  rather  to  the  insatiable 
greed  of  her  neighbors  and  the  folly  of  some  of  her  leaders. 

In  summing  up  the  value  of  Sienkiewicz  to  Poland  and  to  the  world 
he  must  be  considered  under  two  aspects,  as  literary  artist  and  as  patriot. 
Considered  simply  as  a  novelist  he  deserves  a  high  place.  "Without 
Dogma"  is  a  work  which  stands  out  as  a  masterpiece  of  psychological 


In  Memoriam  Henryk  Sienkiewicz:   Author  and  Patriot    231 

insight  and  philosophic  penetration.  As  a  writer  of  stirring  romances 
he  can  easily  be  compared  with  Scott  and  Dumas.  Even  in  his  less 
serious  works  he  frequently  achieves  tremendous  dramatic  effects. 
His  picture  of  the  conflict  between  the  civilizations  of  the  East  and 
West  is  a  gorgeous  piece  of  painting  on  the  grand  scale. 

As  patriot  his  work  has  been  even  more  potent  and  far-reaching. 
He  has  accomplished  something  that  no  Pole  except  Chopin,  through 
his  music,  has  been  able  to  accomplish.  He  has  presented  the  case  of 
his  nation  squarely  at  the  bar  of  civilized  public  opinion.  The  increas- 
ing labor  in  the  work  of  Polish  relief  which  probably  hastened  his  end 
was  only  the  climax  of  a  life  that  was  primarily  devoted  to  pleading 
the  cause  of  his  oppressed  native  country.  While  the  great  Polish  lyric 
poets  of  the  last  century,  Mickiewicz,  Slowacki,  Krasinski,  failed  to 
appeal  except  to  a  very  small  circle,  Sienkiewicz  has  succeeded  in  inter- 
esting thousands  of  readers  in  every  land  with  the  thrilling  tale  of  the 
vanished  glories  of  medieval  Poland.  If,  as  now  seems  likely,  Poland 
is  to  receive  some  slight  measure  of  recompense  for  a  century  of  brutal 
tyranny  in  the  recognition  of  her  autonomy  and  separate  national 
existence,  the  great  novelist  will  be  acknowledged  as  one  of  the  most 
potent  factors  in  this  long-delayed  act  of  international  equity.  Not 
only  lovers  of  literature,  but  lovers  of  freedom  and  justice,  will  mourn 
the  death  of  the  patriot-author,  Henry  Sienkiewicz. 

—W.  H.  Chamberlin,  '17. 


^ome  decent  ^ook& 

The  Brook  Kerith,  by  George  Moore.    MacMillan;  $1.50,  net. 

ONE  of  the  most  significant  of  the  MacMillan  Company's  recent 
publications  is  George  Moore's  historical  novel,  "  The  Brook 
Kerith."  Starting  with  the  assumption  that  Jesus  did  not 
die  on  the  cross,  the  author  builds  up  a  plot  of  marked  artistic  beauty 
and  historical  interest.  He  also  succeeds  in  drawing  down  upon  his 
head  the  anathemas  of  all  orthodox  and  respectable  critics. 

The  story  of  "  The  Brook  Kerith,"  told  briefly,  is  as  follows:  Joseph 
of  Arimathea,  a  young  Jew  of  more  than  average  intellectual  and  spiritual 
endowments,  meets  Jesus  iji  Galilee  and  is  profoundly  impressed  with 
his  personality.  Master  and  disciple  are  estranged  by  the  illness  of 
Joseph's  father.  Jesus,  in  the  full  conviction  of  his  Messianic  character, 
will  not  excuse  the  defection  of  a  follower,  even  for  the  sacred  duty  of 
attending  on  the  bedside  of  a  dying  father.  In  spite  of  the  separation, 
Joseph  is,  of  course,  deeply  moved  by  the  news  of  the  crucifixion.  Being 
a  personal  friend  of  Pilate,  he  begs  the  body  of  Jesus  as  a  favor,  intend- 
ing to  bury  it  in  his  family  vault.  On  reaching  the  vault  he  finds  that 
the  crucified  man  is  still  alive.  By  constant  attention  and  careful 
nursing  Jesus  is  gradually  brought  back  to  health,  and  goes  to  rejoin  the 
little  colony  of  Essenes,  or  Jewish  ascetics,  with  which  he  had  previously 
been  associated.  Joseph  is  murdered  by  the  priestly  faction;  and 
the  secret  is  confined  to  the  isolated  settlement  of  the  Essenes,  where 
Jesus  resumes  his  former  peaceful  occupation  of  shepherd.  The  real 
dramatic  climax  of  the  book  comes  late,  when  Paul  inadvertently  stumbles 
upon  the  Essenes  and  tells  them  of  the  risen  Christ,  who  is  the  Saviour 
of  mankind.  Jesus  vainly  tries  to  convince  the  apostle  of  his  error; 
but  Paul,  obsessed  with  his  belief,  considers  the  Essene  shepherd  a  mad- 
man or  an  evil  spirit,  and  goes  forth  to  spread  over  the  whole  world 
his  doctrine  of  redemption  through  the  death  and  sacrifice  of  the  Son 
of  God. 

While  there  is  no  definite  proof  in  favor  of  Mr.  Moore's  idea,  it 
is  intrinsically  far  less  improbable  than  many  other  conceptions  that 
have  been  adopted  to  form  the  basis  of  historical  romances.  More 
important  than  the  mere  problem  of  historical  accuracy  is  the  question 
whether  the  author  has  really  caught  the  spirit  and  character  of  Jesus. 
His  picture  is  certainly  radically  different  from  the  idealized  Christ 
of  modem  religious  thought.  But  it  is  not  fundamentally  at  variance 
with  the  Christ  of  the  early  Gospel  narratives.     When  the  later  Jesus  of 


Some  Recent  Books  233 

Mr.  Moore's  imagination  looks  back  upon  his  period  of  fancied  Messiah- 
ship,  he  makes  the  following  observations: 

"  I  fear  to  speak  of  the  things  I  said  at  that  time,  but  I  must  speak 
of  them.  One  man  asked  me  before  he  left  all  things  to  follow  me  if 
he  might  not  bury  his  father  first.  I  answered,  leave  the  dead  to  bury 
their  dead,  and  to  another  who  said,  my  hand  is  at  the  plow,  may  I 
not  drive  it  to  the  headland?  I  answered,  leave  all  things  and  follow 
me.  My  teaching  grew  more  and  more  violent.  It  is  not  peace,  I  said, 
that  I  bring  to  you,  but  a  sword,  and  I  come  as  a  brand  wherewith  to 
set  the  world  in  flame  I  said,  too,  that  I  came  to  divide  the  house;  to 
set  father  against  mother,  brother  against  brother,  sister  against  sister." 

Evidently  the  Essene  shepherd  had  not  learned  the  art  of  explain- 
ing away  all  doubtful  and  ambiguous  points  of  his  teaching  by  throwing 
the  rich  mantle  of  allegory  over  every  difficult  passage. 

It  is  a  pity  that  the  book  will  inevitably  be  considered  chiefly  as 
a  battleflag  of  theological  discussion:  for  it  is  very  well  worth  study 
as  a  pure  work  of  art.  The  author's  style  suggests  not,  indeed,  the  rich 
gold  of  a  strong  creative  period,  but  rather  the  exquisite  silvery  shimmer 
of  an  age  that  is  subdued  without  being  positively  decadent.  Some 
of  his  nature  scenes  are  worthy  of  that  greatest  of  literary  landscape 
painters,  Turgeniev.  His  choice  and  grouping  of  words  reveal  the 
temperament  of  the  true  artist.  Many  of  his  passages  flow  along  with 
the  constant,  quiet  murmur  of  the  brook  Kerith  itself.  Others  seem 
to  float  like  the  evanescent  mists  that  rise  from  the  hills  of  Galilee. 
While  Moore  succeeds  better  with  his  pictures  of  nature  than  with  his 
characters,  his  pictures  of  Joseph,  of  Hazael,  the  venerable  President 
of  the  Order  of  Essenes,  and  of  Joseph's  aged  father,  Dan,  are  excellent. 
Nothing  could  exceed  the  dramatic  effect  of  the  meeting  between  the 
founder  of  Christianity  and  its  greatest  missionary. 

Mr.  Moore  is  to  be  congratulated  on  his  careful  avoidance  of  the 
temptation  that  besets  every  historical  novelist,  the  tendency  to  flam- 
boyance and  exaggeration.  He  writes  of  Palestine  at  the  time  of  Jesus 
as  quietly  and  unostentatiously  as  if  he  were  describing  England  of 
to-day.  If  his  example  were  more  generally  followed,  the  historical 
novel  would  have  far  more  educational  value  than  it  has  at  the  present 
time.  — W.  H.  Chamberlin. 

The  Advance  of  the  English  Novel,  by  William  Lyon  Phelps.  Dodd 
Mead  and  Co.;  $1.50,  net. 

In  this  day,  the  novel  is  the  most  popular  form  of  literary  expres- 
sion and  it  has  the  widest  appeal;   it  is  read  by  patrician  and  plebeian, 


234  The  Haverfoedian 

it  is  written  sometimes  by  poet  and  often  by  peasant.  George  Moore, 
John  Galsworthy,  Joseph  Conrad,  Thomas  Hardy  and  H.  G.  Wells  are 
novelists  and  must  share  that  title  with  Messrs.  Cosmo  Hamilton, 
Howard  Bell  Wright  and  other  "fearless"  writers  of  "gripping  and 
powerfully  realistic  novels."  Indeed,  a  recent  advertisement  of  one  of 
the  novels  of  Mr.  Wright  stated  that  "that  man  must  have  written 
with  jaws  set  and  soul  on  fire."  After  perusal  of  the  novel  we  can  but 
surmise  that  the  fire  which  played  havoc  with  the  author's  soul  did  not 
'see  fit  to  spare  his  brain  and  wish  his  jaw  had  been  set  in  silence.  To 
attest  to  the  popularity  of  the  novel.  Professor  Phelps  mentions  the 
invasion  of  the  stage  by  dramatized  novels,  and  it  is  rather  significant 
to  note  that  in  New  York  at  present  no  less  than  seven  dramatized  novels 
are  being  offered  to  the  public,  viz.,  Pollyanna;  Nothing  but  the  Truth; 
Treasure  Island;  Come  Out  of  the  Kitchen;  Bunker  Bean;  Pendennis;  and 
Rich  Man,  Poor  Man.  And  this,  since  the  publication  of  Professor 
Phelps'    book! 

Beginning  with  the  present  state  of  the  novel  and  prefacing  his  work 
by  a  lucid  and  scholarly  exposition  of  this  genre,  the  author  goes  on 
to  trace  the  development  of  the  novel  from  Defoe  and  Richardson  in 
the  age  of  Anne  down  to  our  times. 

The  conception  and  treatment  of  the  theme  is  that  of  a  student 
in  the  subject,  but  its  expression  is  so  spontaneous  and  so  utterly  and 
delightfully  devoid  of  pedantry  that  anyone  may  read  and  enjoy  it. 
One  might  reproach  the  author  with  his  neglect  in  leaving  out  such 
names  as  Compton  Mackenzie,  Coningsby  Dawson  (who  has  one  good 
novel  to  his  credit),  Gilbert  Cannan,  Theodore  Dreiser,  E.  V.  Lucas, 
Horace  Annesley  Vachell,  and  J.  C.  Powys,  but  he  guards  him- 
self in  his  preface  against  any  such  attack.  We  must  therefore  look  at 
the  book  as  "a  record  of  personal  opinions."  True,  we  should  like 
to  dispute  some  of  them:  the  judgment  passed  on  John  Galsworthy's 
"The  Dark  Flower,"  which  is,  in  the  opinion  of  some,  a  superb  piece  of 
psychological  narration,  for  example.  But  Professor  Phelps'  opinions 
are  all  splendidly  given,  and  occasionally  his  sentences  are  like  "sharp 
little  Roman  swords,"  as  G.  K.  Chesterton  says  somewhere,  speaking 
of  a  poet.  His  epigrams  are  very  amusing  and  usually  are  justified — 
a  thing  which  does  not  happen  too  often  to  Mr.  Chesterton.  One  of 
the  happiest  is  on  Romain  Rolland;  speaking  of  Jean  Christophe, 
the  author  says:  "Its  author  has  the  French  clearness  of  vision,  with  a 
New  England  conscience,"  and,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  this  might  itself 
serve  to  characterize  the  author  of  The  Advance  on  the  English  Novel! 
Again,  a  character  in  one  of  Henry  James'  books  is  spoken  of  as  "the 


I 


(Ef)e  i^e£;ignation  of  ^resiibent  ^tarplesisi 

IT  takes  an  event  of  considerable  importance  to  stir  a  conservative 
institution  to  expressions  of  regret.  Probably  no  other  single 
thing  could  have  elicited  the  general  disappointment  of  Haver- 
ford  College,  collectively  and  individually,  than  was  occasioned  by  the 
resignation  of  President  Sharpless  after  many  years  of  service.  For 
almost  fifty  years  the  name  of  President  Sharpless  has  been  identified 
with  Haverford  Colege.  The  influence  he  has  exerted  and  the  results 
of  his  wise  guidance  are  incalculable.  His  resignation  comes  almost  as 
a  calamity.  There  are  many  students  who  have  come  to  Haverford, 
not  because  it  was  Haverford,  but  because  it  was  President  Sharpless. 
The  Board  of  Managers,  the  Faculty  and  the  College  world  in  general 
have  expressed  their  appreciation  of  his  services.  But  it  is  the  regret 
of  the  students,  the  ones  for  whom  President  Sharpless  has  devoted  his 
life  work,  the  ones  who  have  felt  the  breadth  of  his  sympathy,  and 
who  have  been  inspired  by  the  brightness  of  his  example,  that  we  wish 
to  express.  For  his  leniency,  for  his  wise  and  patient  guidance,  for  all 
that  has  gone  to  make  him  a  great  President,  we  are  grateful.  His 
resignation  is  our  loss,  and  if  unanimous  sentiment  can  persuade  a  re- 
consideration President  Sharpless  will  continue  in  office.  We  respect 
his  wisdom,  whatever  his  decision  may  be.  We  have  come  to  Haver- 
ford College  and  President  Sharpless  with  respect;  we  will  leave  Haver- 
ford College  and  President  Sharpless  with  respect — and  love. 


one  altogether  unlovely  whose  pronunciation  of  the  dog-letter  rasps 
our  nerves  and  who  has  never  been  house-broken."  Among  contem- 
porary novelists  with  whom  Professor  Phelps  deals  are  H.  G.  Wells, 
Edith  Wharton,  Thomas  Hardy,  Henry  James,  Gertrude  Atherton, 
Booth  Tarkington,  George  Moore,  John  Galsworthy,  Jack  London, 
Joseph  Conrad,  J.  M.  Barrie,  Dorothy  Canfield-Fisher,  W.  DeMorgan, 
Winston  Churchill,  Owen  Wister,  James  Lane  Allen,  Leonard  Merrick, 
W.  B.  Maxwell,  and  Eden  Philpotts. 

— Jacques  Le  Clercq. 


?|aberforb  10,  ^toartljmort  7 

Ramsey  the  Captain,  so  hefty  and  doughty, 

He  hits  where  they  ain't,  or  he  hits  where  they  are. 

Marney's  the  boy  with  the  toe  that's  so  stout  he 

Can  kick  'em  a  mile;  and  Dam  is  a  star. 

Now  whenever  you  speak  of  aerial  passes, 

Dread  visions  of  Bush  may  float  into  your  mind, 

But  open  your  eyes  and  brush  off  your  glasses. 

For  Sangree's  the  fellow  who  actually  shined. 

There's  Chandler  the  brave,  and  diminutive  Curtis, 

There's  Hayman  and  Morgan,  who  bolster  the  line. 

Bring  'em  on  heavy,  you  bet  they  can't  hurt  us; 

For  Gilmore  can  stop  'em  and  Bob  Moore  is  fine. 

There's  one  more,  of  course,  to  whom  you  must  hand  it. 

As  good  as  they  come,  and  as  fast  as  they  go. 

Speaking  of  punishment,  he's  there  to  stand  it, — 

Pop  Howland's  the  man,  he's  a  corker,  Yea  Bo! 

Doc  Bennett  put  such  a  team  on  the  field, — 

It's  a  team  that  plugs  on  and  will  never  say  quit; — 

The  Garnet  grew  weary  and  over  they  keeled. 

For  the  team  that  won  out  was  the  team  with  the  grit. 


HAVERFORD   FOOTBALL  TEAM.   1916 

SPARKS  FROM  THE  GRIDIRON 
Dr.  Bennett — "Si  monumentum  requires,  circumspice!" 

Swarthmore  take  notice!     "*A  good  wine  needs  no  Bush." 


It   is  said   that   the  Yale   Bowl  was  filled   to  o\erflowing. 
Haverford  had  lots  of  punch! 


Well, 


"Not  the  least  of  one  of  these"  =  Bob  Ma.xwell. 


Swarthmore's  consolation — IVeii^ht  for  next  \-ear! 


Joshua  L.  Baily,  who  celebrated 
his  ninetieth  birthday  on  June  27 
last,  died  on  December  6  at  Lang- 
mere,  his  Ardmore  home,  after  a 
business  career  of  three-quarters 
of  a  century  as  a  dry  goods  com- 
mission merchant.  Mr.  Baily  was 
educated  at  the  Friends'  Select 
School  and  the  Westtown  Board- 
ing School,  entering  the  dry  goods 
business  at  the  age  of  sixteen.  For 
sixty  years  he  was  a  member  of  the 
Philadelphia  Society  for  the  Em- 
ployment and  Instruction  of  the 
Poor  and  the  Pennsylvania  Prison 
Society,  of  which  he  was  president 
at  his  death.  He  was  one  of  the 
founders  of  the  Society  for  Organ- 
izing Charity,  of  which  he  was 
president  for  eighteen  years  and 
was  one  of  the  original  members 
of  the  Committee  of  One  Hundred, 
founded  in  1879.  For  more  than 
thirty  years  he  was  president  of 
the  Philadelphia  Fountain  Society. 
Other  positions  held  by  Mr.  Baily 
in  connection  with  humanitarian 
projects  were  chairman  of  the 
Citizens'  Relief  Committee,  mem- 
ber of  a  committee  to  collect  relief 
funds  for  Ireland  in  1846,  member 
of  the  National  Relief  Commission 
during  the  Spanish-American  War, 
vice  president  of  the  American 
Tract  Society,  the  American  Peace 
Society,  the  American  Bible  Soci- 
ety, the  National  Temperance  Soci- 
ety   and    the    American    Forestry 


Association.  He  was  a  member 
of  the  Twelfth  Street  Meeting  of 
the  Society  of   Friends. 

Mr.  Baily's  five  sons,  who  sur- 
\We  him,  are  all  Haverfordians. 
Three  grandsons  also  have  the  dis- 
tinction of  being  Haverfordians. 


We  reprint  the  following  from 
the  Haverford  News-' — 

"After  nearly  thirty  years  of 
act'.ve  service  as  President  of 
Haverford  College,  Dr.  Isaac  Sharp- 
less  has  felt  it  expedient  to  hand  in 
a  final  insistent  resignation,  which 
has  been  very  reluctantly  accepted 
by  the  Board  of  Managers.  The 
resignation  will  take  effect  at  the 
end  of  the  present  year.  As  yet 
no  successor  has  been  appointed 
and  the  managers  are  at  a  loss  to 
know  how  to  fill  the  position. 

"About  a  year  ago,  President 
Sharpless  wished  to  retire,  feeling, 
as  he  expressed  it,  that  he  'ought 
to  let  someone  else  have  a  chance,' 
but  the  managers  and  faculty  were 
so  insistent  that  he  was  prevailed 
upon  to  defer  action,  or  at  least  ta 
retain  the  position  until  this  June. 
A  little  less  than  two  weeks  ago, 
Dr.  Sharpless  called  the  faculty  to- 
gether and  confided  to  them  his 
contemplated  retirement.  A  peti- 
tion was  presented  a  few  days  later 
by  the  professors,  giving  reasons 
why  he  should  hold  his  position 
for  at  least  another  year.      How- 


I 


Alumni 


239 


ever,  this  was  of  no  avail,  and 
President  Sharpless  pressed  his  re- 
quest to  be  allowed  to  retire  at 
the  coming  commencement.  The 
Board  of  Managers  granted  the 
request  at  a  meeting  held  last 
Friday  evening,  feeling  that  the 
President  had  earned  a  rest  and 
deserved  to  be  allowed  a  retire- 
ment. 

"  Isaac  Sharpless  has  been  Presi- 
dent of  Ha\erford  since  1887,  and 
a  member  of  the  faculty  since 
1875 — more  than  forty  years.  He 
will  be  sixty-eight  years  old  next 
month.  He  came  to  Haverford  as 
instructor  in  mathematics,  and  was 
made  professor  of  mathematics  and 
astronomy  in  1879.  He  was  ap- 
pointed dean  of  the  College  in  1884, 
a  position  which  he  held  for  three 
years  until  his  appointment  to 
the  presidency. 

"He  was  born  in  Chester  Coun- 
ty, Pa.,  December  16,  1848,  and 
was  graduated  from  the  Lawrence 
Scient  tic  School  of  Harvard  Uni- 
versity in  lS7v'?.  He  holds  a 
number  of  academic  degrees:  ScD., 
University  of  Pennsylvania,  1883; 
LL.D.,  Swarthmore,  1889;  L.  H.D., 
Hobart,  1903.  One  of  his  latest 
honors  was  the  conferring  by 
Harvard  of  an  honorary  LL.D.  in 
1915. 

"He  is  the  author  of  a  number 
of  textbooks  on  physics,  mathe- 
matics, and  astronomy,  and  has 
long  been  interested  in  local  and 
Quaker  nistory,  some  of  his  books 
on  these  subjects  being :  '  A  Quaker 
Experiment  in  Government' ;  'Two 
Centuries  of  Pennsylvania  His- 
tory'; 'Quakerism  and  Politics.' 
Along  educational  lines,  his  recent 


book  'The  American  College, 'shows 
a  deep  interest  and  s)'mpathctic 
study  of  the  function  of  the  small 
college  in  this  country.  In  scho- 
lastic matters  he  has  long  been  a 
devoted  champion  of  the  cause  of 
liberal  education,  and  the  advan- 
tage of  broadening,  general  studies 
o\er  a  mere  vocational  training.  A 
few  years  ago  he  was  chairman  of 
the  Pennsylvania  Association  of 
College  Presidents,  of  which  he  is 
still  an  active  member.  He  is  a 
member  of  the  Westtown  School 
Board,  The  Penn  Charter  School 
Board,  and  President  ex-officio  of 
the  Board  of  Haverford  School. 

"He  is  much  interested  in  local 
politics  trom  the  standpoint  of 
clean  citizenship,  and  is  a  former 
president  of  the  Main  Line  Citizens' 
Association. 

"In  recent  months  he  has  been 
\cry  active  in  the  Peace  Move- 
ment, and  in  opposition  to  the 
growing  spirit  of  militarism  in 
America.  He  is  one  of  the  \ice- 
presidents  of  the  League  to  En- 
force Peace. 

"He  is  a  lo\'er  of  the  outdoors 
and  usually  spends  his  summers  in 
the  Poconos,  occasionally  going  on 
a   fishing  trip   to  Canada. 

"He  has  always  had  a  keen 
interest  in  Haverford  athletics, 
and  has  stood  as  have  few  educa- 
tors in  the  country  for  amateurism 
and  true  sportsmanship  in  athletic 
relations." 

President  Sharpless  recently 
sailed  for  England  where  he  will 
spend  about  six  weeks  on  College 
business.  Dean  Palmer  is  acting 
President  during  Dr.  Sharpless' 
absence. 


240 


The  Haverfordian 


The  following  editorial  appeared 
in  the  New  York  Evening  Post  of 
November  25  and  in  the  Nation: — 

The  resignation  of  President 
Sharpless,  of  Haverford  College, 
to  take  effect  upon  the  rounding  out 
of  three  decades'  service  at  the 
close  of  the  academic  year,  gives 
occasion  for  comment  on  the  value 
of  the  small  college — the  college 
that  not  only  refuses  to  enter  into 
the  general  scramble  for  numbers, 
but  also  refrains  from  attempting 
the  role  of  a  university.  Of  this 
type  of  college  Haverford  is  per- 
haps the  very  best  example  in  the 
country,  and  in  Dr.  Sharpless  it 
has  enjoyed  the  good  fortune  of 
having  an  ideal  head.  No  uni- 
\-ersal  rule  can  be  laid  down  for 
the  guidance  of  young  men  choos- 
ing a  college;  but  there  are  un- 
questionably many  for  whom  a 
college  like  Haverford  would  be 
best,  and  who  simply  drift  with 
the  tide  in  going  to  the  big  universi- 
ties. As  the  Philadelphia  Inquirer 
says,  "  Dr.  Sharpless  has  always  set 
great  store  by  having  students 
come  into  close  contact  with  the 
professors,  something  which  is  im- 
possible in  the  large  institutions. 
He  thinks  this  makes  for  indi\'idual- 
ity  and  for  a  better  developed 
character.'  A  point  of  no  little 
interest  may  be  noted  in  connection 
with  the  remark  made  by  that 
newspaper  that  "the  ideal  would 
seem  to  be  to  have  young  men  and 
women  take  their  purely  college 
course  at  small  institutions  and  go 
to  the  universities  for  higher  train- 
ing." How  short  a  time  it  is 
since  the  idea  of  young  women 
going  in  for  the  ordinary  college 


curriculum  seemed  a  striking  novel- 
ty, yet  now  to  have  them  thought 
of  as  going  to  college  in  prepara- 
tion for  the  higher  training  of  the 
university  is  a  mere  matter  of 
course. 

'95 
Officers'  Club,  NG.  US.  PA. 
Battery    D,   Second    Pennsylvania 
Field  Artillery, 

Camp  Stewart,  El  Paso,  Te.xas. 
Editor  of  Haverfordian  : 

It  has  been  my  uncomfortable 
fortune  to  be  located  down  here 
on  the  border  since  last  June,  and 
though  with  my  regiment  my 
heart  has  lately  been  in  thought  on 
the  Haverford  football  field.  What 
a  glorious  victory!  Greatest  con- 
gratulations! It  is  always  like 
Haverford  to  build  up  a  clean-cut 
capable  team  of  winning  against 
a  clean-cut  enemy,  and  such  an 
enemy  for  football!  It  takes  one 
back  to  the  old  days,  and  if  ever 
there  is  occasion  to  fight  here  I 
hope  it  will  be  a  clean  touchdown 
for  Uncle  Sam  in  the  interest  of 
peace  for  our  ignorant  neglected 
neighbor,  really  only  a  half-civil- 
ized people,  not  even  a  worthy 
enemy — more  to  be  pitied  than 
shot  at.  I  want  to  congratulate 
Ha^'erford  on  its  foresight  in  estab- 
lishing the  Mexican  Scholarship 
which  the  newspapers  have  been 
taking  notice  of.  Only  we  must 
start  with  the  myriads  of  infants 
around  the  "dobie"  houses.  It 
is  a  case  of  cleaning  up  and  then 
education, — a  sad  case  for  Uncle 
Sam  to  handle.  The  American 
youth  in  the  National  Guard  has 
proved  that  the  country  can  devel- 
velop    men-at-arms,    if    need    be, 


Al.lMNI 


241 


from  c\er\-  walk  of  life.  Life  in  tlic 
open  doxelops  tiu-  hcsl  liicre  is  in 
a  man. 

Tlirce  cheers  for  the  "scarlet 
and  black!" 

Lieu'.enant  Kkkom.  B.  Hav, 
Class  1895. 

\ovember  11,  1916. 
To  the  Editor  of  the  Havf.rford- 

lAN: 

I\Ia>-  I  ask  the  prixilege  of 
your  columns  in  order  to  bring  to 
the  attention  of  >our  readers  an 
opportunity  for  men  who  are  eager 
to  help  in  connection  with  the 
American  Ambulance  Field  Ser- 
vice in  France? 

We  have  had  sections  of  Ameri- 
can \olunteers  on  the  Vser,  on  the 
Aisne,  on  the  Somme,  in  Cham- 
pagne, at  \'erdun,  in  Lorraine,  and 
in  Reconquered  Alsace,  and  we 
ha\-e  recently  sent  a  section  of 
thirty-fi\-e  ambulances  and  men  to 
Salonica  to  ser\e  with  the  French 
Army  of  the  Orient.  In  this 
Service  have  been  graduates  or 
students  of  more  than  fifty  Ameri- 
can colleges  and  uni\ersities.  In 
sharing  many  of  the  hardships  and 
some  of  the  risks  of  the  French 
soldiers,  and  by  the  rapid  and 
tender  transport  of  their  wounded, 
they  ha\e  won  many  tributes  from 
the  French  Arm\-  and  have  gained 
many  expressions  of  appreciation 
from  the  French  peop  e.  More 
than  fifty  of  these  volunteers  ha^•e 
received  the  croix  de  guerre,  and 
two  have  recei^•ed  the  medaille 
militaire,  the  highest  decoration 
for  valor  at  the  disposition  of  the 
Army. 

As  illustrating  the  spirit  in 
which  France  receives  our  efforts, 
I  would  cite  the  following  recent 
tributes: 

\\  hen  at  the  end  of  September, 
1916,  one  of  our  ambulance  sec- 
tions was  suddenly  detached  from 
an  army  di^■ision  in  Lorraine,  in 
order  to  join  the  French  Army  of 


the  Orient  in  the  Balkans,  the 
general  in  ct)mniand  of  the  dixision 
witli  which  this  section  had  ser\ed 
exjiresscd  himself  as  follows: 

"At  the  moment  when  an  un- 
expected order  of  defjarture  dc- 
|)ri\es  the  129th  Division  of  Ameri- 
can Sanitary  Section  No.  3,  the 
general  of  the  Division  desires  to 
express  to  all  its  members  his 
deepest  thanks.  Since  the  25th 
April,  1916,  the  Section  has  fol- 
lowed the  Division  to  the  various 
points  on  the  front  where  it  has 
been  in  action:  at  Lay  St.  Chris- 
tophc,  in  the  dangerous  sector  of 
Thiauniont,  at  Verdun,  and  at 
Bois-le-Pretre.  The  American  vol- 
unteers have  everywhere  shown  an 
unforgettable  example  of  de\-otion. 
The\'  carry  away  with  them  the 
gratitude  of  our  wounded,  the 
admiration  of  all  those  who  have 
seen  them  at  work,  and  regrets 
caused  by  their  departure.  They 
leave  behind  them  an  example 
which  it  will  be  sufficient  to  recall 
when  in  another  Verdun  their  suc- 
cessors will  be  called  upon  to  show 
the  courage  and  self-abnegation 
so  necessary  in  the  accomplish- 
ment of  their  mission." 

A  week  later,  the  general  in 
command  of  the  division  in  the 
vicinity  of  Dead  Man's  Hill  near 
Verdun,  with  which  another  of  our 
sections  had  been  ser\ing,  wrote 
as  follows: 

"I  wish  to  express  to  you  my 
congratulations  for  the  unwearied 
activity,  the  devotion,  and  the 
fearless  contempt  of  danger  shown 
by  the  driv-ers  of  American  Sani- 
tary Section  No.  2  under  your 
command,  since  their  arrival  at  the 
Division  and  particularly  in  the 
course  of  the  days  and  nights 
from  the  18th  to  the  20th  Septem- 
ber. 

"The  American  drivers  have 
shown  themseKes  worthy  sons  of 
the  great  and  generous  nation    for 


242 


The  Haverfordian 


the  emancipation  of  which  our 
ancestors  shed  their  blood." 

These  are  characteristic  exam- 
ples, of  which  many  more  might  be 
cited,  of  the  feeling  of  the  French 
Army  toward  the  American  Ambu- 
lance Field  Service.  I  will  quote 
only  one  more  tribute  from  a  letter 
just  received  from  an  officer  upon 
the  staff  of  General  Joffre: 

"The  work  of  the  American 
Ambulance  Field  Service  is  the 
most  beautiful  flower  of  the  magnif- 
icent wreath  offered  by  the  great 
America  to  her  valiant  little  Latin 
sister.  Those  who,  like  you  and 
your  friends,  are  consecrating  them- 
selves entirely  to  our  cause,  up  to 
and  including  even  the  sacrifice, 
deserve  more  than  our  gratitude. 
It  is  impossible  for  the  future  to 
separate  them  from  our  own." 

With  this  record  of  splendid 
and  deeply  appreciated  service 
before  them,  I  sincerely  hope  that 
more  university  men  may  feel 
stimulated  to  emulate  their  com- 
rades in  France.  We  can  today 
send  two  more  sections  to  the  front 
from  the  cars  at  hand  or  under  con- 


struction in  Paris,  as  soon  as  we 
can  secure  sufficient  volunteers  to 
man  them.  Certainly  the  oppor- 
tunity will  never  come  again  for 
the  youth  of  America  to  render 
such  a  service,  not  only  to  France, 
but  to  their  own  country  and  to 
themselves  as  well. 

An  authoritative  account  of  the 
work  of  the  American  Ambulance 
Field  Service  can  be  found  in  the 
book  "Friends  of  France,"  written 
by  members  of  the  Service,  and 
just  published  by  the  Houghton, 
Mifflin  Co.,  but  the  qualifications 
and  requirements  for  the  Service 
can  be  stated  in  a  few  words. 

We  need  regularly  thirty  or 
forty  volunteers  a  month  to  take 
the  place  of  the  men  compelled  to 
return  to  America  at  the  expiration 
of  their  term  of  enlistment,  and 
an  even  greater  number  to  make 
possible  a  further  development  of 
the  Service. 

The  French  Army  regulations 
require  that  all  men  who  go  into 
the  field  enlist  for  a  period  of  six 
months.  At  the  expiration  of  the 
initial  enlistment,  men  are  permit- 


gpS13IBJS13iaiSM3iaSISfflSlSIH313MSiaiSIfflfflSI3MSISI3ISJSlSHfflSMS13ISI^^ 

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MEN'S 
1312  Chestnut  St. 


SHOES 

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MABKET    STREET    SHOP    OPEN    EVENINGS 


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Prices: 

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All' MM 


243 


ted  to  re-engage  themselves  for 
periods  of  three  months.  Volun- 
teers must  be  American  citizens, 
must  be  able  to  drive  and  take 
care  of  a  Ford  car,  must  be  willing 
and  physically  able  to  face  the 
conditions  of  life  at  the  front,  and 
abo\'e  all,  must  be  lo>aI  to  the  cause 
of  France  and  the  Allies,  and  in 
character  and  ideals  worthy  repre- 
sentatives of  America. 

Three  hundred  dollars  (S30()) 
should  cover  all  necessary  expenses 
for  six  months,  passage  over  and 
back  from  New  York,  uniform, 
equipment  and  li\'ing  expenses. 
But  this  estimate  only  covers  the 
strictly  military  part  of  a  driver's 
equipment.  Heavy  boots,  gloves, 
warm  underclothing,  are  not  in- 
cluded. Volunteers  need  allow 
nothing  for  board  and  lodging 
after  reaching  Paris.  While  in 
Paris,  they  will  find  a  home  at  the 
Headquarters  of  the  Field  Service, 
21,  rue  Raynouard.  In  the  field, 
they  receive  army  rations  and 
lodging,  and  special  needs  in  these 
matters  are  provided  for  by  the 
Field  Service. 

Men  wishing  to  join  the  Field 
Service  should  communicate  with 
Mr.  Henry  Sleeper,  care  Lee, 
Higginson  &  Co.,  44  State  Street, 
Boston,  Mass.,  or  Mr.  W.  R.  Here- 


ford,   14   Wall   Street,    New   York 
City. 

Sincerely  >ours, 
A.   Pi.\TT  AndrI':\v, 
Inspector-General  of  the  American 
Ambulance  Field  Service. 

On  the  Friday  exening  preceding 
the  Svvarthmore  Game  the  Alumni 
of  the  Pacific  Coast  held  the  dinner 
of  the  California  Haverford  grad- 
uates in  Los  Angeles.  Among 
those  present  were  E.  O.  Kennard, 
'81;  Horace  Y.  Evans,  '87;  C.  H. 
V.  R.  Jansen,  '89;  C.  E.  Newlin, 
'02;  Ralph  W.  Trueblood,  '05; 
A.  L.  Marshhurn,  '12;  J.  L. 
Baily,   '12;    M.   Kojima,   '13. 

Alter  the  Ha\erford  Svvarthmore 
game  several  members  of  the 
Classes  of  1889  and  1890  took 
dinner  together  at  the  Merion 
Cricket  Club  as  the  guests  of 
Henr\-  P.  Baily,  of  the  Class  of 
1890.' 

'92 

The  Class  of  '92  held  its  annual 
reunion  and  dinner  on  November 
25th  at  the  University  Club,  Phila- 
delphia. It  was  one  of  the  largest 
dinners  ever  held.  Twelve  mem- 
bers were  present,  including  %.  P. 
Jones  who  had  been  unable  to 
attend  for  several  years.  Those 
present  were — A.  W.  Blair,  Richard 


We  will  rent  you  a  late  model 

Underwood  Typewriter 

3  Months  for  $5.00 

and  apply  the  first  rental 
payment  on  the  purchase 
price  if  you  desire  to  buy 
the  machine. 

MARCUS  &  CO. 

STATIONERS— TYPEWRITERS 
1303  Market  St.,  Philadelphia 


244 


The  Haverfordian 


Bructon,  B.  Cadbury,  E.  S.  Cary, 
H.  L.  Davis,  W.  P.  Jenks,  F.  Mc- 
Allister, J.  W.  Muir,  W.  H.  Nickol- 
son,  W.  E.  Shipley,  W.  N.  L. 
Wast,   S.    R.   Yarnall. 

A  book  entitled  "The  Mastoid 
Process,"  by  Gilbert  J.  Palen, 
x^.B.,  M.D.,  has  just  been  pub- 
lished. 

'96 

W.  C.  Sharpless  has  just  entered 
the  Uni\-ersity  Hospital  for  an 
operation  upon  his  arm. 

Dr.  J.  Babbitt,  P.G.  '96,  and  Mrs. 
Babbitt  held  open  house  for  tea 
after  the  Swarthmore  Game  for 
old  members  of  the  Cabinet  and 
Haverford  football  teams. 

Thomas  H.  Haines,  Ph.D.,  M.D., 
Clinical  Director  of  the  Bureau  of 
Ju\'enile  Research,  has  written  a 
pamphlet  on  "The  Increasing  Ccst 
of  Crime  in  Ohio,"  recently  pub- 
lished by  the  Ohio  Board  of  Ad- 
ministration. It  is  the  tenth 
publication  of  the  Board  and  the 
fourth  bulletin  of  the  Bureau  of 
Juvenile  Research. 

'97 
Alfred  M.  Collins  has  just  been 
re-elected  President  of  the  Main 
Line  Citizens'  Association.  He  is 
going  on  another  exploring  tour 
in  January. 

'03 

I.  Sheldon  Tilney  is  the  floor 
member  of  the  firm  of  Walker 
Brothers,  Stock  Brokers,  71  Broad- 
way, New  York. 

Howard  M.  Trueblood,  569  Bar- 
rett Avenue,  Haverford,  is  Assist- 
ant Professor  in  Electrical  Engin- 
eering at  the  University  of  Penn- 
sylvania. 

Dr.  J.  Kent  Worthington  is  now 
at  709  Hume-Mansur  Building, 
Indianapolis.  He  has  taken  over 
the  office  and  practice  of  a  surgeon 
who  died  suddenly  August   1st. 


1*<-Kif  "-{'fr^u}^'  n^nr^ 


.^EHOADS 

RUNNllNG   1 
SINCE  1862 


THEY 
LAST 


This  ancient  belt  drives  a  flour  mill  at 
Doylestown,  Pa.  It  was  originally  an  18- 
inch  double.  After  considerable  service  it 
was  reinforced  with  a  6-inch  strip  on  each 
edge.  In  this  form  it  has  completed 
thirty-four  years  of  service,  and  looks 
good  for  years  to  come. 

For  the  last  twenty  years  it  has  been  treated  at 
proper  interyals  ^vith  Rhoads  Leather  Belt  Pre- 
server. This  is  one  reason  for  its  strength  in  old 
age. 

J.  E.  RHOADS  &  SONS, 


PHILADELPHIA. 

12  North  Third  Street 


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LET  us  HELP  YOU  SOLVE 
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CANDY  PERFUMES 

STATIONERY 

CIGARS     CUT  GLASS      KODAKS 

C.  G.  WARNER,  P.  D. 
Pharmacist  HAVERFORD,  PA. 


Joseph  C.  Ferguson,  Jr. 

6-8-10    South  Fifteenth  Street 

(J^ptical  anb 
^fjotograpWc  #oobsi 

OF  EVERY  DESCRIPTION 
Below  Market  Street 


Alumni 


245 


George  Pierce  has  left  Biiliimore 
in  order  to  coiuliiet  research  work 
in  organic  chemistry  for  Colgate 
and  Company  at  the  Jersey  t^it\- 
Laboratories. 

Robert  L.  Simkin,  of  Chungking, 
West    China,    writes: — 

"W'c  have  just  two  weeks  be- 
fore the  opening  oi  our  autumn 
term,  for  the  Chinese  make  so 
much  more  of  the  New  Year  Holi- 
diiys  than  we  do  that  we  ha\e  to 
gi\e  them  a  longer  play  time  then 
and  a  relati\ely  shorter  vacation 
in  the  summer.  Many  of  my 
students  will  ha\e  had  very  little 
rest  this  summer,  for  nearly  half  of 
them  chose  to  remain  during  the 
summer  in  the  dormitory  and  em- 
plo>ed  one  of  our  teachers  to  give 
them  special  instruction  in  Physics, 
Chemistry,  and  Mathematics.  The 
climate  here,  being  much  hotter 
than  at  Haverford,  makes  work 
during  the  summer  more  trying. 
I  am  hoping  to  send  several  of  our 
best  graduates  to  the  Universit>- 
of  Chengtu.  If  I  succeed  in  inspir- 
ing in  them  the  hope  of  a  better 
education  and  the  determination  to 
secure  it  I  shall  consider  our 
temporary  stay  in  Chungking  well 
worth  while.  There  are  so  few 
in  this  section  of  China  who  have 
secured  a  really  thorough  college 
education  that  even  the  high  school 
student  scarcely  realizes  that  there 
can  lie  anything  beyond.  The 
University  is  progressing  as  well  as 
can  be  expected,  but  it  takes  time 
to  build  up  in  the  high  schools  an 
expectation  of  going  on  to  college, 
when  so  recently  graduation  from 
High  School  was  for  most  students 
the  last  word  in  education." 

'06 
A  son    was    born    to    Mr.    and 
Mrs.  Thomas  K.  Brown,  Jr.,  who 
has  been  named  Thomas  K.  Brown, 
3rd. 


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Fire  or  Burglary  Insurance  on  stu- 
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or  elsewhere. 

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in  hotels,  etc..  both  in  this  country  and 
abroad. 

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PHILADELPHIA 


246 


The  Haverfordian 


'07 
E.  R.  Tatnall,  President  of  the 
Franklin  Coal  and  Coke  Company, 
has  recently  announced  the  open- 
ing of  two  new  offices,  one  at  1032 
Commercial  Trust  Building,  Phila- 
delphia, and  one  in  the  Whitehall 
Building,  New  York  City. 

J.  E.  Hollingsworth  has  removed 
from  Ackworth,  Iowa,  to  1259 
Redman  Avenue,  Marshall,  Mis- 
souri, where  he  is  teaching  in 
Missouri  Valley  College.  He  has 
taken  his  Ph.D.  at  Chicago  Uni- 
versity. His  dissertation  was  on 
the  "Antithesis  in  the  Attic  Ora- 
tors." After  completing  his  work 
at  Chicago  University  he  taught 
in  Spokane,  Washington,  where  he 
took  an  active  part  in  the  Classical 
Association  of  the  Northwest  and  in 
organizing  the  Spokane  Classical 
Club. 

Willard  E.  Swift  is  with  the 
United  States  Envelope  Company, 
Worcester,  Massachusetts.  His 
address  is  Massachusetts  Avenue. 

Alfred  B.  Morton  has  entered 
the  Law  School  of  the  University 
of  Maryland.  Mr.  Morton  is  in 
the  real  estate  business  with  offices 
in  the  Title   Building,   Baltimore. 

'08 
Cecil  K.  Drinker,  of  the  Depart- 
ment of  Physiology,  Harvard  Medi- 
cal School,  published  an  article 
in  Science,  N.  S.,  Vol.  XLIV.,  No. 
1141,  Pages  676-678,  November 
10,  1916  on  "Preparation  for 
Medicine." 

'10 
C.  D.  Morley,  who  held  the 
Rhodes  Scholarship,  is  writing  reg- 
ularly for  Life,  and  has  just 
finished  a  novel  which  is  to  be 
published  shortly. 

W.  L.  G.  Williams,  who  also 
held  a  Rhodes  Scholarship,  is 
teaching  in  the  Mathematical  De- 


Pictures  Framed 

to  order,  and  in  an  artistic 
manner,  and  at  reasonable 
prices. 

J.  E.  BARKMAN, 

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Ardmore,  Pa. 

Pictures,    Stationery,    Gifts 

BARCLAY  HALL  AZPELL,  Proprietor 

Musical    Supplies 

SHEET  MUSIC  PLAYER-ROLLS 

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and  RECORDS 

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Open  Evenings  Phone  1303-W 

Bryn  Mawr  Motor  Co.,  Inc. 

Main  Line  Agents 

BUICK 
AUTOMOBILES 

Branch   of 

HALE  MOTOR  CO.  Wayne,  Pa. 

partment  of  the  Miami  University, 
Oxford,  Ohio. 

Mr.  Harold  Alan  Furness  has 
announced  his  engagement  to  Miss 
Amy  Charlotte  Olander,  of  Aber- 
deen, South  Dakota. 

'12 

Hans  Froelicher,  Jr.,  was  ad- 
mitted to  the  bar  in  Maryland  in 
August  last.  He  has  opened  an 
office  for  the  general  practice  of 
law  at  Room  659,  Calvert  Build- 
ing, Baltimore,  Md. 

Mr.  Froelicher  was  a  member 
of  the  campaign  committee  of  the 
Woodrow  Wilson  League  of  Mary- 


Alumni 


247 


land,  arranging  se\eral  meetings 
to  furtiier  the  re-election  of  the 
President.  He  delivered  more  than 
twenty  speeches  during  the  cam- 
paign in  the  interest  of  the  Presi- 
dent. 

Robert  Everts  Miller  was  mar- 
ried to  Miss  Elizabeth  D.  Keller 
on  December  sixth  at  Lancaster, 
Pennsylvania.  At  home  after  the 
first  of  Ma>-,  Wheatland  Avenue, 
beyond  School  Lane,  Lancaster, 
PennsyKania. 

'14 
Paul     Sangrce    is    doing  a  very 
successful   bond   business  affiliated 
with  the  firm  of  Rufus  Waples  & 
Co. 

Joshua  A.  Cope  is  teaching 
Forestry  at  the  Westtown  School. 

L.  B.  Lippman  has  gone  to 
Boston    for    the   winter. 

E.  M.  Pharo  is  working  for  a 
Philadelphia  paper. 

Douglas  Waples  is  doing  Library 
Extension  work  at  Harvard. 

A  son  was  recently  born  to 
H.  W.  Taylor. 

E.  Rice  is  working  for  the  New 
York  Shipbuilding  Company  at 
the  New  York  plant. 

C.  R.  Williams  has  just  entered 
the  employ  of  the  Richardson 
Scales  Company,  Passaic,  N.  J. 

•15 
E.  R.  Dunn  has  an  article  in 
Science,  volume  44,  number  1144, 
on  the  "Song  of  Fowler's  Toad." 
He  is  at  present  revising  the  Genus 
Spelerpes  of  the  salamanders. 

'16 
John  Kuhns  is  at  present  with 
an    invalid    mother   at    the    Hotel 
Traymore,  Atlantic  Citv. 


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tained. One  worth  mentioning  is  the  fa- 
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1   ^'A 


?|aberforbian 


Contents^ 


Eternity Donald  H.  Painter,  '17  250 

Richard  Wagner,  Friediich  Nietzsche  and  the  Spirit  of  Mod- 
ern Germany W.  H.  Chamberlin,  '17  251 

To  A  Friend  In  Sorrow J.  W.  Spaeth,  Jr.,  '17  256 

The  Brave  Man  with  a  Sword 

Jacques  G.  C.  Schuman  Le  Clercq,  '18  257 
The  Influence  of  the  Modern  Newspaper 

Kenneth  W.  Webb,  '18  261 

Man  or  Manners?  (Continued) C.  Van  Dam,  '17  265 

Books .  .  .'. 281 

Alumni H.  P.  Schenck,  '18  264 


Januarp 


1917 


Marceau 

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Otticttt 

ROWLAND  COMLY,  President. 
HUGH  McILVAIN.  1st  Vice-President. 
WILLI.-^M  BRADWAY,  2nd  Vice-President. 
JOHN  H.  WOOD,  Secretary. 
ALFRED  G.  WHITE.  Assistant  Trust  Officer. 
S.  HARVEY  THOMAS,  JR.,  Assistant  Treasurer. 
GEORGE  W.  BROWN,  JR.,  Asst.  Treas. 
H.  B.  V.  MECKE.  Asst.  Secretary. 


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The  Haverfordian 


EDITORS 
Robert  Gibson,  1917  Edilor-in- Chief 
W.  H.  Chamberlin,  1917  J.  G.  C.  LeClerco,  1918 

C.  D.  Van  Dam,  1917  Walter  S.  Nevin,  1918 

Henry  P.  Schenck,  1918 

BUSINESS  MANAGERS 
Arthur  E.  Spellissy,  1917  (Mgr.)  H.  Beale  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  twentieth  of  each  month  during  college 
and  year.  Its  purpose  is  to  foster  the  literary  spirit  among  the  undergraduates 
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  twenty-fifth  of  the  month  preceding  the  date  of  issue. 

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

Vol.  XXXVIII  HAVERFORD,  PA.,  JANUARY,  1917.  No.  7 


Cternitp 


A  voice  at  night  that  speaks  of  awe 

and  fears, 
A  scarlet  cloud  that  breathes  desire 

and  love, 
A  leaden  sky  that  oft   lets  fall  its 

tears 
Creep  in  succession  thru  relentless 

years. 

— Donald  H.  Painter,  '17. 


THE    HAVERFORDIAN 


Vol.  XXXVIII.  HAVERFORD.  PA.,  JANUARY.   1917  No.  7 

Eicfjarb  l^agner,  Jfriebriclj  .^ict^sicfie  anb  tfje  Spirit 
of  iWobern  (§ermanp 

WITH  the  lapse  of  years  Friedrich  Nietzsche  and  Richard  Wag- 
ner stand  forth  as  the  two  most  commanding  figures  in  the 
aesthetic  history  of  modern  Germany.  The  time  has  passed 
when  the  writings  of  the  one  and  the  music  of  the  other  were  subjects  of 
acrimonious  debate.  Both  the  musician  and  the  poet-philosopher  have 
attained  a  high  and  secure  rank  that  is  acknowledged  even  by  their  se- 
verest critics.  And  the  works  and  personalities  of  these  men  have  ac- 
quired an  added  interest  since  the  outbreak  of  the  present  War.  Neither 
can  be  ignored  in  a  complete  and  satisfying  analysis  of  Germany's 
spiritual  equipment  for  the  conflict.  True,  it  has  become  the  first  article 
of  the  creed  of  every  English  and  Anglo-American  writer  that  Germany 
has  no  spiritual  background,  that  the  War  is  primarily  a  contest  between 
spirit  and  brute  force,  along  with  many  other  platitudes  that  are  too 
well  known  to  bear  repetition.  But  this  theory,  while  it  may  be  very 
flattering  to  the  self-righteousness  of  the  Allies,  will  not  bear  the  light  of 
close  investigation.  No  nation  could  have  passed  through  Germany's 
terrific  ordeal  without  the  support  of  a  profound  and  genuine  ideal- 
ism. Both  Wagner  and  Nietzsche,  the  two  most  powerful  modem  fac- 
tors in  moulding  the  thought  and  sentiment  of  their  countrymen,  are 
essentially  idealists,  although  their  conception  of  idealism  would  probably 
not  satisfy  an  English  clergyman  of  the  mid-Victorian  period. 

In  some  degree  Wagner  did  for  German  music  what  Lessing,  a 
century  before,  had  done  for  German  drama.  Before  the  advent  of  the 
Bayreuth  master  no  one  had  thought  of  looking  in  German  legends 
for  an  operatic  plot.  Even  the  earlier  German  composers,  Gliick, 
Mozart  and  Beethoven,  had  been  accustomed  to  use  classic  or  Italian 
subjects  for  their  operas.  But  Wagner,  in  the  face  of  a  storm  of  pedantic 
criticism,  proceeded  to  appropriate  the  rich  treasures  of  Teutonic  mythol- 
ogy. With  the  exception  of  "Rienzi"  and  "Tristan  und  Isolde"  there 
is  not  one  of  his  music-dramas  that  is  not  based  on  a  German  poem  or 
legend.     The  mighty  Ring  tetralogy,  to  which  he  owed  so  much  of  his 


252  The  Haverfordian 

fame,  was  welded  together  out  of  isolated  incidents  from  the  Nibelungen 
Lied.  And  all  these  stories  date  from  a  period  when  Germany  was  not 
weak  and  disunited,  as  she  was  before  1871,  but  strong  and  formidable. 
The  medieval  operas,  in  particular,  bring  back  recollections  of  the  van- 
ished glory  of  the  Saxon,  Franconian  and  Swabian  emperors. 

But  it  was  through  his  music,  rather  than  through  his  dramatic 
ideas,  that  Wagner  attained  his  widest  influence.  Now  the  Wagnerian 
music  is  certainly  calculated  to  exert  a  profound  emotional  and  intel- 
lectual effect  upon  appreciative  auditors.  Contempt  for  conventional 
morality  and  the  inevitable  yielding  of  everything  to  the  supreme  law 
of  love  is  the  message  of  "Tristan  und  Isolde."  Pagan  ideals  of  charac- 
ter and  conduct  are  glorified  in  the  bright,  heroic  figure  of  Siegfried, 
the  dominating  figure  in  the  Ring.  Here  again,  in  Brunnhilde's  disobedi- 
ence to  her  father,  human  ordinances  have  to  give  way  to  a  higher  and 
more  universal  impulse.  Moreover,  the  defiant  acts  of  Siegfried  and 
Brunnhilde,  of  Tristan  and  Isolde,  are  expressed  in  music  of  unexampled 
power  and  virility.  The  wild  whirr  and  sweep  of  the  Ride  of  the  Valkyrs 
might  almost  transform  a  pacifist  convention  into  a  cavalry  charge. 
Everywhere,  in  these  surging,  portentous  dramas,  the  element  of  strife 
is  prominent,  whether  it  be  the  actual  clash  and  din  of  physical  combat 
or  the  subtler  emotional  stress  that  finds  expression  in  the  conflict  of 
mighty  personalities.  There  is  a  rugged  power  even  in  the  stage  setting 
of  the  operas.  Wagner  is  not  given  to  parlor  and  drawing-room  scenes. 
His  characters  love  and  hate  and  weep  and  laugh  under  the  most  ele- 
mental conditons:  in  the  shade  of  huge  caves,  on  the  banks  of  broad 
rivers,  on  the  slopes  of  lofty  mountains.  Now  all  this  pent-up  emotional 
energy  has  been  more  or  less  diffused  in  all  civilized  countries,  with  the 
recent  wide  popularity  of  the  composer's  music.  But  if  an  Englishman 
or  an  American  can  feel  powerfully  affected  by  these  works,  based  on 
foreign  legends  and  written  in  a  strange  tongue,  imagine  the  effect  on 
the  naturally  emotional  German,  when  he  hears  the  vague,  indefinable 
aspirations  of  the  primitive  bards  of  the  Fatherland  suddenly  voiced 
in  bold  verse  and  in  music  that  seems  to  beat  on  the  heavens  as  on  a 
brazen  shield!  A  generation  that  has  been  captivated  from  childhood 
with  Wagner's  Valhallas,  rainbow  bridges  and  Nibelungen  hoards  might 
be  pardoned  for  falling  asleep  and  waking  with  the  dream  of  world 
conquest. 

It  must  not  be  imagined  from  these  reflections  that  I  wish  to  fix 
any  share  of  the  elusive  responsibility  for  the  War  on  the  shoulders 
of  Richard  Wagner.  The  spirit  of  courage,  devotion  and  idealism  which 
he  infused  into  his  countrymen  was  altogether  for  the  good,  and  served 


R.  Wagner,  F.  Nietzsche  and  the  Spirit  of  Modern  Germany     253 

as  a  wholesome  antidote  for  the  wave  of  materiahsm  and  philistinism 
which  threatened  to  set  in  during  the  economic  development  of  the 
empire.  Just  as  some  of  our  own  New  England  thinkers  helped  to  give 
us  the  moral  stamina  to  fight  through  our  greatest  war  without  flinching, 
so  Wagner,  with  his  sonorous  trumpet  notes,  awoke  the  slumbering  war- 
rior spirit  of  Germany  and  gave  his  native  country  some  measure  of  the 
indomitable  resolution  that  has  been  so  much  in  evidence  during  the 
past  two  years. 

One  treads  on  dangerous  ground  when  he  speaks  of  Nietzsche  in 
connection  with  the  War.  For  a  number  of  enterprising  writers,  per- 
haps allured  by  the  phonetic  euphony,  have  pronounced  the  fatal  formula, 
"Nietzsche,  Treitschke,  Bernhardi";  and  have  promptly  condemned 
the  whole  trio  as  the  embodiment  of  the  demon  that  has  seduced  Ger- 
many into  her  present  evil  courses.  Now  Friedrich  Nietzsche  was  as 
far  removed  as  any  man  could  be  from  the  bombastic  chauvinism  of  the 
Treitschkes,  Bernhardis  and  Scharnhorsts.  Some  of  the  things  that  he 
has  written  about  Prussia  and  Prussian  Junkerism  might  well  have' 
appeared  in  an  English  periodical  of  the  present  day.  The  tone  of  his 
works  suggests  France,  sometimes  Italy,  almost  never  Germany.  Through 
all  his  books,  with  the  exception  of  a  few  unworthy  late  productions, 
there  runs  a  continuous  strain  of  southern  warmth  and  gaiety.  In 
handling  prose  he  possesses  a  light,  firm  touch,  which  is  certainly  not 
characteristic  of  the  typical  German  author.  Yet  a  close  study  of  the] 
man  and  his  message  will  reveal  the  fact  that  he  exerted  a  profound, 
though  subtle  influence  on  the  development  of  the  spirit  which  his 
country  has  displayed  in  the  course  of  the  War. 

In  the  first  place,  it  is  a  consummate  piece  of  critical  stupidity  to 
brand  Nietzsche  as  a  purely  destructive  influence.  Whatever  his  faults 
may  be,  lack  of  original  and  constructive  thought  is  not  one  of  them. 
Alike  in  the  coldly  analytical  "Human,  All-Too-Human"  and  in  the 
passionately  lyrical  "Thus  Spake  Zarathustra,"  he  is  constantly  indulg- 
ing in  the  most  daring  speculations  in  every  field,  from  morals  to  econom- 
ics. In  fact  he  is  so  rich  and  exuberant  in  the  expression  of  new  ideas 
that  he  often  lays  himself  open  to  the  charge  of  contradictoriness  and  in- 
consistency. But,  at  all  events,  his  unquestionably  great  destructive 
power  is  more  than  surpassed  by  his  genius  as  a  creator.  Many  of  his 
theories,  of  course,  are  fantastic;  many  are  only  of  interest  to  students 
along  specialized  lines.  But  he  can  claim  credit  for  giving  to  the  world 
one  of  the  most  important  moral  conceptions  of  modern  times.  This 
conception  was  not  the  Superman  or  the  Eternal  Recurrence.  It  was 
rather  the  substitution  of  a  dynamic  for  a  static  view  of  morality.   Pre- 


254  The  Haverfordian 

/ 

vious  systems  of  morals,  being  closely  allied  with  forms  of  religious 
faith,  were  based  on  the  assumption  that  there  are  certain  immutable 
laws  of  right  and  wrong,  which  have  been  revealed  through  the  life  and 
teachings  of  some  man  or  deity,  the  founder  of  the  religion  in  question. 
On  the  other  hand,  Nietzsche  maintains  that  these  supposedly  immuta- 
ble laws  are  really  as  shifting  as  the  sands  of  the  desert,  that  they  undergo 
radical  transformations  with  the  changing  biological  and  economic  con- 
ditions of  different  lands.  The  world  of  philosophy  has  been  an  irrep- 
arable loser  by  the  unfortunate  malady  which  struck  down  the  bril- 
liant thinker  just  as  he  was  on  the  point  of  giving  permanent  form  to 
his  sweeping  readjustment  of  ethical  values.  As  a  result  of  this  break 
we  are  compelled  to  be  content  with  the  aphorisms  and  paradoxes  in 
which,  like  Heraclitus,  he  veiled  most  of  his  teaching.  But,  even  in  its 
imperfect  condition,  the  influence  of  Nietzsche's  system  on  modern 
Germany  can  only  be  compared  to  that  of  a  violent  electric  thunder- 
storm. There  are  several  reasons  why  the  poet-philosopher  was  cal- 
culated to  make  such  a  decisive  impression  on  his  age;  but  I  shall  only 
mention  two  or  three  of  the  more  obvious  causes  of  his  popularity  and 
wide  acceptance. 

In  more  marked  degree  than  any  philosopher  since  Plato  he  was 
endowed  with  the  precious  gift  of  style.  Kant,  Hegel,  Fichte,  Schelling, 
and  the  rest  of  the  Teutonic  sages  can  only  be  read  by  the  uninitiated 
layman  by  a  heroic  effort  of  will-power.  There  is  an  element  of  rugged 
strength  in  Schopenhauer;  but  even  here  the  thought  is  decidedly 
preferable  to  the  expression.  But  the  magic  of  Nietzsche's  style  has 
fascinated  many  who  indignantly  repudiate  his  conclusions.  The  short, 
incisive  sentences,  winged  like  arrows  and  biting  as  the  winter  snow, 
the  dazzling  epigrams,  worthy  of  Chamfort  and  Rochefoucauld,  the 
gorgeous  bursts  of  color  and  the  magnificent  rhythms  of  the  great  prose- 
poem,  "Zarathustra,"  all  these  features  of  his  writing  have  won  for 
Nietzsche  many  readers  who  would  never  open  a  book  of  technical  phil- 
osophy. Then  he  appeared  on  the  scene  at  a  time  when  the  foundations 
of  the  old  faith  had  been  terribly  shaken  by  a  combined  attack  of  the 
forces  of  scientific  materialism  and  critical  research.  People  had  be-  jj 
come  hardened  to  statements  which,  a  few  generations  before,  would 
have  provoked  an  outburst  of  shuddering  awe.  The  outworks  of  re- 
ligion had  been  so  badly  battered  that  Nietzsche's  attack  on  its  main 
citadel  found  considerable  sympathy.  And  in  many  ways  the  author 
was  peculiarly  well  qualified  for  his  role  of  religious  iconoclast.  Not 
only  did  he  have  the  gift  of  merciless  analysis  and  keen  satire,  but  he 
also  inherited  from  the  Protestant  Reformation,  that  movement  which 


R.  Wagner,  F.  Nietzsche  and  the  Spirit  of  Modern  Germany     255 

he  so  heartily  despised,  a  quality  of  intense  moral  earnestness,  which 
gives  to  his  work  a  tone  of  convincing  sincerity.  Somewhere  Nietzsche 
makes  the  observation  that  Christianity  would  eventually  be  destroyed 
through  the  element  of  intense  spiritual  conscientiousness  and  zeal  for 
truth  which  it  had  itself  introduced.  Whether  or  not  this  prophecy 
will  prove  to  have  any  basis  in  fact,  there  can  be  little  doubt  that 
Nietzsche's  own  scepticism  was  more  intense,  more  genuine  and  more 
sincere  because  of  his  long  line  of  pious  ancestors. 

Admitting  that  he  is  one  of  the  most  formidable  modem  enemies  of 
Christianity,  I  still  think  that  too  much  has  been  made  of  Nietzsche's 
irreligion.  Goethe  and  Stendhal,  the  other  members  of  the  post-Renais- 
sance pagan  group,  were  both  at  bottom  more  profoundly  irreligious 
than  Friedrich  Nietzsche.  But  Goethe  treats  the  whole  question  with 
an  attitude  of  detachment  and  indifference,  while  Stendhal's  incompa- 
rable brilliance  is  only  appreciated  by  a  small  circle  of  readers.  Niet- 
zsche, on  the  other  hand,  more  outspoken  than  Goethe  and  more  widely 
read  than  Stendhal,  has  really  received  more  than  his  fair  share  of 
abuse  from  upholders  of  the  old  beliefs. 

Now  a  word  as  to  the  much-discussed  character  of  Nietzsche's 
influence  on  modern  Germany.  It  has  been,  I  think,  potent  both  for 
good  and  for  evil.  No  man  can  initiate  such  sweeping  and  revolutionary 
changes  in  the  popular  conception  of  morality  without  doing  a  great  deal 
of  unintentional  harm.  In  justice  to  the  author  it  may  be  said  that  he 
fully  recognized  this  danger  and  never  expressed  any  striking  or  radical 
theor>'  merely  for  the  sake  of  creating  a  sensation.  His  idea  of  the 
transitoriness  of  moral  values  requires,  of  course,  very  careful  handling. 
This  idea,  combined  with  the  philosopher's  passionate  contempt  for 
sham  and  affectation,  has  probably  helped  to  make  his  country  more 
cynical,  in  outward  appearance  at  least,  in  its  observance  of  treaties 
and  principles  of  international  law.  He  is  inclined  to  emphasize  the 
virile  side  of  character  at  the  expense  of  the  more  humane  emotions. 

But  there  is  a  brighter  side  to  the  influence  of  Nietzsche  on  Germany. 
More  than  any  other  man,  perhaps,  he  prevented  the  economic  recon- 
struction of  the  empire  from  engrossing  the  entire  attention  of  the 
people.  That  Germany  did  not  fall  into  the  cultural  slough  of  twentieth 
century  America  is  due  in  no  small  measure  to  the  life  and  work  of 
Friedrich  Nietzsche.  With  a  trumpet  call  that  is  clear  and  high  he 
summons  his  followers  back  from  the  treacherous  lowlands  of  modem 
materialism  to  the  heights  of  ancient  Greece,  where  the  wind  blows 
strong  and  free.  And  the  heroic  element  in  his  teaching  is  responsible, 
in  no  small  degree,  for  the  magnificent  spirit  which  Germany  has  shown 


256  The  Haverfordian 

in  the  present  War,  a  spirit  so  resolute  and  undaunted  in  the  face  of  over- 
whelming odds  that  one  is  compelled  to  admire  it  without  regard  to  the 
justice  of  its  cause.  The  future  will  forget  many  details  of  Nietzsche's 
philosophy;  but  it  will  remember  that  he  stood  for  ideals  of  culture, 
heroism  and  aesthetic  beauty  in  an  age  that  was  too  much  obsessed 
with  commercialism,  philistinism  and  cheap  sentimentality. 

—W.  H.  Chamberlin,  '17. 


Vto  a  Jfrienb  in  ^orroto 

Catullus  96 

Ah,  Calvus,  if  there  can  come  to  the  mute  ears  of  dear  ones  departed 
Any  note  grateful  to  hear,  happiness  born  from  our  woe. 

When  those  affections  of  old  we  review  and,  mournfully  longing, 
Silently  weep  for  the  friends  lost  to  us  long  years  ago, — 

Ah,  Calvus,  then  must  the  all-too-early  death  of  Quintilia 

Bring  to  her  heart  less  grief  than  joy  in  thy  love's  tender  glow. 

—J.    W.   Spaeth,   Jr.,   '17. 


'1' 
i 


"  The  coward  does  it  with  a  kiss, 

The  brave  man  with  a  sword " 

Time:   Night. 

Place:  A  dungeon  in  a  tower  of  the  castle. 

Characters:    Ati  old  man. 

Agrarius,  a  youth. 
Magdalene,  a  child. 
Yaughan. 
It  is  very  dark  in  the  cell.     Through  the  barred  window  one  sees  only  the 
blackness  of  night.     Yaughan  is  seated  on  a  slab  of  stone,  with  his  hands  to 
his  head.     The  curfew  in  the  belfry-tower  strikes,  but  he  does  not  hear  it. 
He  is  engrossed  in  his  thoughts,  which  are  neither  joyous  nor  gloomy;  his 
features  are  as  expressionless  as  those  of  a  mask.     He  sits  perfectly  still  as 
though  lifeless,  nor  does  he  hear  the  jangling  of  keys  and  approaching  foot- 
steps:  it  is  only  when  the  heavy  door  bangs  and  the  old  man  is  in  the  cell 
that  Yaughan  looks  up. 
The  Old  Man.    Good  day,  my  son. 
Yaughan.    Who  art  thou  that  shouldst  wish  my  last  day  on  earth  to  be 

good? 
The  Old  Man.    I  am  a  stranger.      I  chanced  to  be  passing  through 

these  parts  with  my  grandchild  and  I  heard  of  thee.     The 

townspeople  were  all  talking  about  thee. 
Yaughan.    The  townspeople  always  talk  about  men  who  do  as  I  have 

done.     But  tell  me  what  dost  thou  wish  of  me  and  why  thou 

camest  hither. 
The  Old  Man.    I  came  to  bid  thee  be  of  good  cheer.     I  came  to  tell 

thee  that  I  understand  why  thou  didst  that  which  thou  didst. 

There  is  another  youth  in  the  town  and  he  too  understandeth. 

He  is  with  my  little  granddaughter,  but  he  will  come  in  unto 

thee  presently. 
Yaughan.    Why  should  they  come,  since  I  do  not  wish  to  see  them? 

I  only  have  a  few  hours  of  life  and  I  wish  to  be  left  alone. 

Why  should  I  be  disturbed  even    in  my  last  moments;    who 

are  they  that  they  should  wish  to  see  me? 
The  Old  Man.    The  youth  is  he  whom  they  call  Agrarius;    he  is  an 

honest  lad  and  he  wisheth  to  comfort  thee.      Magdalene  is 

my  grandchild;    the  youth  is  taking  care  of  her.      They  do 

not  wish  to  disturb  thee  nor  to  offer  thee  advice.      Agrarius 

wishes  to  speak  to  thee  for  a  moment  to  tell  thee  that  he  un- 


258  The  Haverfordian 

derstandeth  and  that  liis  heart  is  heavy  that  thou  shouldst 
have  to  die. 

Yaughan.  I  do  not  believe  that  the  youth  understandeth ;  he  is  too 
young.    The  child  may  peradventure  know.  .  .  . 

The  Old  Man.    Shame  on  thee !  The  child  knoweth  nothing. 

Yaughan.  Tell  me  why  thou  art  here,  for  I  do  not  believe  that  thou 
knowest  why  I  did  that  which  I  did. 

The  Old  Man.  This  morning,  my  son,  I  heard  the  townspeople  say  that 
the  governor  of  the  country  asked  thee  whether  thou  wouldst 
sufTer  a  priest  to  come  in  unto  thee  and  absolve  thee  of  thy 
sins.  Thou  didst  not  answer  the  governor  of  this  country 
nor  didst  thou  suffer  the  priest  to  come  in  unto  thee.  Where- 
fore didst  thou  this? 

Yaughan.  The  sight  of  the  priest  would  have  filled  me  with  fear. 
The  priest  is  a  young  man  and  his  face  is  red  and  he  hath  a 
loud  laugh.  How  could  he  absolve  me  of  having  murdered 
my  wife  if  he  did  not  know  why  I  did  it?  That  is  why  I  did 
not  wish  to  see  him;  he  is  young  and  hath  a  red  face  and 
his  God  is  not  my  God  nor  hath  he  lived  long  enough  to  un- 
derstand. 

The  Old  Man.    The  youth  of  whom  I  spake  cometh;   I  can  hear  steps 
in  the  hall  and  the  jangling  of  keys.     He  walketh  blithely,  for 
he  is  young,  yet  he  told  me  that  he  understood.     The  door 
openeth;    here  is  he  whom  men  call  Agrarius. 
Enter  Agrarius  and  Magdalene. 

Agrarius.    My  blessing,  brother. 

Yaughan.  Wherefore  dost  thou  bless  me?  I  have  no  need  of  thy 
blessing;  thou  shouldst  curse  me  even  as  the  townspeople 
curse  me. 

Magdalene.  Let  us  curse  him!  The  townspeople  curse  him,  and  the 
townspeople  are  always  right. 

Agrarius.    Hush,  Magdalene! 

Yaughan.  Thou  art  but  a  youth  and  thy  face  is  smooth  as  the  face  of 
a  maid;  thy  voice  is  shrill  and  thou  hast  no  great  knowledge. 
Wherefore  dost  thou  pretend  that  thou  understandest  where- 
fore I  did  that  which  I  did? 

The  Old  Man.  Thou  lovedst  her  well,  Yaughan.  Speak  therefore  to 
us  about  her.    The  townspeople  say  that  she  was  very  beautiful. 

Yaughan.  She  was  very  beautiful.  A  smile  played  about  her  mouth 
and  her  eyes  laughed  with  sheer  glee  and  merriment.  When 
she  smiled  thus  it  was  as  the  moonbeams  dancing  on  the  lake 


The  Brave  Man  with  a  Sword  259 

and  her  laugh  was  even  as  the  melody  of  a  rippling  brook  through  the 
forest. — But  why  do  I  speak  of  her  to  you?  Ye  do  not  under- 
stand ;  no  one  understandeth. 

Agrarius.  a  burgess  said  that  her  tresses  were  long  and  golden  and  as 
she  leaned  from  out  her  bower-casement  that  they  touched 
the  pavement  of  the  court. 

Yaughan.  Her  hair  was  soft  and  golden  as  the  honey  of  sweet  Hybla 
bees.  It  fell  over  her  shoulders  and  even  lower  than  her  feet. 
Kings  would  have  thrown  their  crowns  asunder  to  kiss  her 
hair,  even  though  it  were  but  once,  and  vanish  thence,  un- 
known, unseen,  unsung — into  the  night. 

The  Old  Man.   The  tanner  said  her  eyes  were  blue — 

Agrarius.    Another  townsman  avowed  that  they  were  brown — 

Magdalene  {monotonously).  The  townsmen  said  her  eyes  were  very 
beautiful.     The  townsmen  are  always  right. 

Yaughan.  Sometimes  her  eyes  were  violet  as  the  veils  of  eve  that' 
creep  up  the  mountainside  slowly,  to  meet  the  long  black 
shadows  of  the  night.  Sometimes  they  were  clear  and  limpid 
blue  as  the  lakes  in  the  depths  of  the  forest  where  the  naiads 
and  the  fairy-folk  weave  garlands  of  fragrant  flowers.  Some- 
times they  were  as  deep  and  troubled  as  an  angry  sea;  sea- 
green  they  were  and  cerulean  even  as  if  her  mother  had  been 
a  mermaid  and  Neptune  her  sire.  Sometimes  they  were 
luminous  as  precious  pearls  that  fisher-folk  deliver  up  unto 
queens.  .  .  .  They  were  as  stars  to  which  men  look  to  guide 
them  on  their  way  and  give  them  hope  to  live  until  the  mor- 
row ;  yet  they  lived  not  the  life  of  a  star.  .  .  . 

Agrarius.  Her  mouth,  they  said,  was  very  full  and  sweet,  meet  to 
be  fed  and  kissed  by  emperors.  .  .  . 

Yaughan.  Her  mouth  was  red  as  though  the  sweetest  rose  of  June  had 
lain  and  feasted  on  it,  yea,  and  found  it  sweet.  On  it  the 
blood-red  rose  of  love  had  left  the  savor  and  the  color  of  its 
fragrant  kiss.  The  dying  sun's  last  crimson  gasp  amid  the 
sombre  sky  was  not  as  crimson  as  her  mouth.  Rose-petals 
were  her  lips,  ever  abloom,  their  perfume  wafted  by  her  soft- 
sweet  breath  as  gentle  zephyrs  fan  the  roses'  scent  in  summer- 
time      Her  cheeks  were  wan  as  are  the  waters  of  a 

rivulet,  pallid  and  white  even  with  the  virginal  candour  of  the 
lily.      They  were  pale  as  are  the  cliffs  on  which  the  ghosts 
of  the  sea  have  laid  their  pallid  faces  at  the  dawn.  .  .  . 
Her  cheek  was  soft  and  creamy-white,  and  full  her  throat; 


260  The  Haverfordian 

as  marble  from  the  isles  of  Greece  her  shoulders  were.  Her 
arms  were  long  and  lithe,  sinuous  and  winding  as  the  mountain 
paths,  moving  as  a  snake  crawling  hither  and  yon  on  the 
breast  of  the  earth. 

Magdalene.  The  townsmen  said  her  hands  were  very  beautifnl. 
The  townsmen — 

Yaughan.    Her  hands  were  long  and  thin  and  even  as  ivory;    their 
very  touch  was  a  caress.  .  .  .    Ah! 
A  pause. 

Magdalene.  Thou  art  a  wicked  man,  Yaughan.  The  townsmen 
cursed  thee  and  the  townsmen  spake  the  truth.  They  would 
spit  upon  thee  and  smite  thee  with  their  fists  could  they  but 
come  near  enough  unto  thee.  Why  didst  thou  kill  her,  O 
thou  evil  man? 

Yaughan.    Do  ye  tell  her. 

Agrarius.  Magdalene,  thou  shalt  not  judge  lest  thou  be  judged  thyself. 
He  slew  her  because  she  was  unfaithful — 

The  Old  Man.  The  townsmen  curse  him,  my  child,  because  they 
understand  not.  The  townsmen  saw  him  kill  her,  but  they 
know  not  the  reason  thereof.  We  know  not  wherefore  he 
killed  her  and  we  must  not  curse  him. 

Magdalene.  The  townsmen  are  always  right  and  they  always  speak 
the  truth. 

The  Old  Man.  But  they  wot  not  that  he  slew  her  because  her  heart 
was  black  with  treachery  and  she  was  unclean  in  body  and 
impure  in  mind. 

AGitARius.  He  dealt  her  the  death  of  an  adulteress  even  as  she  deserved ; 
but  the  townsmen  know  not  this,  wherefore  they  would  have 
him  done  to  death. 

Yaughan.    Ye  are  wrong,  my  friends.    Ye  know  not  why 

Agrarius.    She  was  too  beautiful  to  die ! 

Yaughan.    I  slew  her  not  because  she  was  unfaithful. 

Magdalene  (sobbing).  How  beautiful  she  was!  She  was  too  beauti- 
ful to  live. 

Yaughan  looks  at  her,  surprised.     His  expression  then  becomes 
fixed  and  his  features  are  absolutely  expressionless  as  he  mur- 
murs in  a  low,  even  voice: 
The  child  alone  has  said  it,  yet  she  understandeth  not. 

— Jacques  G.  C.  Schuman  Le  Clercq,  'IS. 


tlTfje  3nnutnce  of  tfje  iWobern  i^etogpaper 

ONLY  within  recent  times  have  we  begun  to  consider  the  import- 
ance of  the  influence  which  is  exerted  by  our  modern  news- 
paper. We  are  beginning  to  realize  that  our  newspaper  is  an 
important  product  of  civiHzation  and  a  product  which  has  kept  step 
with  civilization  itself.  The  days  of  the  small  journal,  which  was  domi- 
nated completely  by  the  personality  of  its  editor,  are  gone ;  and  instead 
we  have  our  modem  newspaper — organized,  efficient,  and  run  on  strictly 
business  principles. 

There  are  two  groups  of  causes  leading  to  the  growth  of  the  news- 
paper: first,  the  reduction  in  expenses,  and  secondly,  the  improvements 
in  operation.  The  expense  of  publishing  a  newspaper  has  been  cut 
down  considerably  by  the  lowering  of  delivery  and  collection  rates  and 
the  use  of  wood-pulp,  while  the  introduction  of  linotype  machines, 
multiple  presses,  and  the  photo-process  of  illustrating,  has  made  it 
possible  to  print  a  much  improved  paper  in  a  much  shorter  time. 

But  greater  than  either  of  these  is  another  cause  for  this  develop- 
ment which  is  both  vital  and  far-reaching,  and  this  cause  is  found  in  the 
wonderful  growth  of  advertising.  Our  first  dailies  carried  only  a  very 
little  advertising — a  few  legal  notices,  an  appeal  for  the  return  of  a  stray 
cow,  or  a  word  about  a  house  for  sale,  but  now  yearly  figures  show  the 
immense  sums  invested  in  advertising.  Most  of  the  large  department 
stores  and  manufacturing  firms  in  the  United  States  spend  each  about  a 
million  dollars  a  year  to  advertise  their  goods,  and  no  one  has  been  able 
to  calculate  the  capital  set  aside  for  local  purposes.  This  seems  perhaps 
like  a  waste  of  money,  but  the  tremendous  power  of  advertising  to  carry 
an  idea  into  the  minds  of  the  people  and  stamp  it  there  is  amazing,  and 
sometimes  even  amusing.  Formerly  a  speaker  used  a  quotation  from 
the  Bible  or  Shakespeare  when  he  wanted  to  strike  a  common  chord, 
but  nowadays  he  works  in  an  allusion  to  some  advertising  phrase  and 
is  sure  of  instant  and  universal  recognition. 

This  rapid  growth  of  advertizing  has  aided  the  newspaper  in  a 
material  way,  since  the  increased  volume  of  advertising  has  forced  our 
papers  to  create  special  departments  for  its  care,  and  these  departments, 
by  their  growth  in  efficiency  and  importance,  have  proved  themselves 
to  be  the  chief  factor  in  financing  a  newspaper.  Indeed,  so  completely 
is  advertising  the  source  of  all  profits  that  there  is  not  a  single  newspaper 
in  America  which  can  be  printed  at  its  selling  price.  The  average 
newspaper  receives  an  income  from  its  advertising  nine  times  that  oj 
its  subscriptions  and  sales  combined,  while  successful  papers  cover  theij. 


262  The  Haverfordian 

expenses  with  their  advertising  alone.  The  possibilities  of  this  method 
were  seen  a  short  time  ago  by  some  students  at  Yale,  who  ran  a  college 
paper  supported  only  by  "ads"  and  placed  a  free  copy  every  morning 
before    each    student. 

And  now  we  must  consider  the  different  influences  which  act  on 
the  newspaper  itself,  because  these  influences  are  definite  and  important 
and  should  be  considered  before  taking  up  those  influences  which  the 
newspaper  itself  exerts.  There  are  two  forces,  it  is  thought,  which 
threaten  the  independence  of  the  modem  newspaper,  and  these  two 
forces  are  represented  by  the  advertisers  and  owners  of  the  paper.  Taking 
up  first  the  advertisers,  we  find  that  the  power  of  advertising  is  tremen- 
dous and  is  one  of  the  most  significant  things  in  modern  journalism.  It 
is  a  new  power  and,  so  far  as  we  can  judge,  its  influence  has  generally  been 
for  the  good.  It  is  advertising  which  has  enabled  the  press  to  outdis- 
tance its  old  rivals,  the  pulpit  and  the  platform,  and  thus  become  the  great 
ally  and  interpreter  of  public  opinion.  Moreover,  honest  advertising  has 
brought  the  producer  and  consumer  into  closer  and  more  direct  contact 
and  has,  in  certain  cases,  actually  abolished  the  middleman.  But  there 
are  strong  arguments  to  support  the  fear  that  advertising  will  have  a 
harmful  effect  on  the  press.  Advertisers  are  now  becoming  aggressive 
and  look  upon  the  giving  of  an  advertisement  to  a  publisher  as  some- 
thing of  a  favor  for  which  they  have  a  right  to  expect  additional  courte- 
sies in  the  news  or  editorial  columns.  This  condition  may  be  responsible 
for  the  fact  that  our  newspapers  are  no  longer  organs  but  organizations, 
and  if  journalism  is  no  longer  a  profession,  but  a  commercial  enterprise, 
it  is  due  largely  to  the  growth  of  advertising. 

The  second  force  which  may  be  exerted  against  the  freedom  of  a 
newspaper  is  that  exerted  by  the  owners  of  the  paper.  Here  is  the 
confession  of  a  New  York  journalist:  "There  is  no  such  thing  as  inde- 
pendent press.  I  am  paid  for  keeping  honest  opinions  out  of  the  paper 
I  am  connected  with.  If  I  should  allow  honest  opinions  to  be  printed 
in  one  issue  of  my  paper,  before  twenty-four  hours  my  occupation,  like 
Othello's,  would  be  gone.  The  business  of  a  New  York  journalist  is  to 
distort  the  truth,  to  lie  outright,  to  pervert,  to  vilify,  to  fawn  at  the  foot 
of  Mammon,  and  to  sell  his  country  and  his  race  for  his  daily  bread. 
We  are  the  tools  or  vassals  of  the  rich  men  behind  the  scenes.  Our 
time,  our  talents,  our  lives,  our  possibilities,  are  all  the  property  of  other 
men.  We  are  intellectual  prostitutes."  This  extreme  statement  is 
interesting,  since  it  reflects  the  opinion  of  many  people  who  admit  that 
the  editors  are  the  "moulders  of  public  opinion"  but  ask  who  are  the 
''moulders  of  the  editors."     The  danger  of  these  influences,  however, 


The  Influence  of  the  Modern  Newspaper  263 

is  plainly  more  or  less  exaggerated,  for  an  editor  who  is  afraid  to  offend 
must  discuss  topics  about  which  everyone  agrees  or  nobody  cares. 
Such  a  policy  would  certainly  produce  a  colorless  newspaper. 

The  newspapers  themselves  do  not  feel  that  either  the  advertisers 
or  owners  are  greatly  to  be  feared,  and  they  consider  of  great  importance 
the  existence  of  defects  within  the  paper  itself,  such  as  carelessness  and 
inaccuracy.  A  common  example  of  this  is  the  ease  with  which  a  witness 
of  any  event  will  often  be  able  to  discover  mistakes  in  the  accounts  of  the 
affair  which  appear  in  the  newspapers.  But  this  is  clearly  unintentional, 
and  constant  effort  is  being  made  to  correct  such  faults.  Another 
weakness  which  the  newspapers  are  outgrowing  is  blind  allegiance  to 
political  parties.  The  days  when  the  Republican  organs  told  the  people 
that  the  worst  Republican  was  better  than  the  best  Democrat,  and  the 
Democratic  papers  said  the  same  about  the  Republicans,  have  happily 
passed,  never  to  return  again.  The  growth  of  the  great  politically  inde- 
pendent press  is  one  of  the  most  hopeful  signs  of  the  times. 

And  now  it  is  time  to  consider  the  influences  which  the  newspaper 
exerts,  because  we  have  reached  the  conclusion  that  the  newspaper 
has  come  to  stay.  It  is  indispensable  and  necessary.  An  examination 
of  the  daily  paper  makes  a  man  well-informed  on  the  news  of  the  last 
twenty-four  hours.  Moreover,  the  place  of  the  newspaper  cannot  be 
filled  by  a  periodical  like  a  weekly  review,  because  the  average  reader  pre- 
fers to  form  his  own  opinions  from  the  cold  facts  of  the  case  before  he  is 
ready  for  outside  comment.  And  yet  the  periodicals  have  largely 
usurped  the  duties  of  the  editorial  page  of  our  daily  newspaper.  Whereas 
people  formerly  read  the  powerful  editorials  before  turning  to  the  few 
shabby  news  items  in  their  small  papers,  now  this  function  of  the  news- 
paper has  greatly  declined  in  importance  and  has  largely  fallen  into  the 
hands  of  national  publications,  which,  from  their  general  nature,  discuss 
most  issues  more  wisely  than  a  local  newspaper  can  from  its  limited  view- 
point. But  the  news-columns  of  the  newspaper  are  now  the  great 
medium  used  to  extend  the  influence  of  the  press.  Skilled  writers  have 
learned  to  so  flavor  their  articles  that  readers  are  unconsciously  led  to  the 
desired  conclusion,  and  a  cleverly  written  news  item  will  arouse  to  action 
a  man  who  would  regard  with  suspicion  a  pointed  editorial  on  the  subject. 

In  studying  our  newspapers  we  immediately  find  that  their  influ- 
ence is  exerted  along  lines  dictated  by  that  great  force  known  as  public 
opinion.  Advertisers  and  owners  are  both  dependent  upon  public 
opinion,  and  every  paper,  to  be  successful,  must  understand  and  aid 
this  popular  force.  The  one  great  aim  of  the  editors  of  a  paper  is  to 
make  it  a  success  and  for  this  purpose  they  will  often  adopt  a  policy 


264  The  Haverfordian 

of  which  they  do  not  personally  approve.  The  "funny  paper"  was  not 
invented  because  the  editors  wanted  it,  but  because  they  found  that  it 
appealed  to  children;  and  the  same  is  true  of  other  departments.  In 
fact,  so  completely  do  our  newspapers  reflect  public  opinion  that  they 
will  be  valuable  historical  references  in  the  future  for  studying  the 
conditions  of  today.  Newspapers,  like  works  of  literature,  reflect  national 
characteristics,  and  therefore  the  papers  of  different  countries  are  dis- 
tinct in  form  and  contents.  For  example,  compare  American  news- 
papers with  those  of  Europe.  We  in  America  want  our  impressions 
quick  and  complete.  In  Europe,  if  a  man  is  the  subject  of  newspaper 
comment,  they  describe  him  at  length,  but  in  America  we  print  his 
picture.  All  these  facts  show  that  the  newspapers  are  very  close  to 
the  people's  thoughts  and  that  there  is  no  more  accurate  authority  on 
what  the  people  want  than  the  newspapers. 

This  conclusion  is  a  most  important  one,  because  it  offers  the  one 
sure  method  of  attack  on  evils  which  may  exist  in  our  newspapers — 
namely,  an  attack  through  the  people.  Of  all  public  institutions  the 
newspaper  is  most  sensitive  to  changes  in  popular  taste  and  it  must 
conform  to  them  or  disappear.  News  will  be  pictured  sensationally 
only  as  long  as  there  is  an  appreciable  number  of  people  who  desire  news 
in  that  form.  No  amount  of  railing  against  unwholesome  influences  will 
better  our  press,  for  public  opinion  is  the  controlling  force  and  we,  who 
help  to  form  that  opinion,  must  make  it  our  first  thought  to  encourage  in 
newspapers  all  that  is  uplifting  and  permanent,  and  to  discourage  the 
reverse.     That  way  lies  all  opportunity  for  improvement. 

—Kenneth  W.  Webb,  '18. 


ilan  or  iHannersi? 

(Continued) 

TWO  ordinary  weeks  went  cavorting  by  in  true  New  York 
style.  Laddie  waited,  nourishing  an  optimistic  belief  that 
something  would  happen.     The  something  came  as  follows: 

It  was  a  Saturday  morning.  A  stiff-legged  floorwalker  passed 
Laddie's  counter  at  regular  intervals,  ignorant  of  the  forbidden  magazine 
which  her  downcast  eyes  were  devouring.  She  had  been  idle  for  several 
hours.  The  hand-embroidered  and  imported  lingerie  on  the  fifth  floor, 
found  buyers  only  between  eleven  and  one,  when  the  better  class  of 
women  ventured  to  brave  the  cold  in  their  well-heated  limousines. 

Laddie,  thoroughly  absorbed  in  her  story,  was  gliding  past  the 
signer's  house  in  a  Venetian  canal  and  casting  longing  looks  up  at  the 
dark  latticed  windows,  when  a  sharp  woman's  voice  called  to  her  across 
the  globe,  and  demanded  the  price  of  a  bit  of  expensive  underwear  in  the 
show  case  above  her.  The  girl's  head  bobbed  suddenly  above  the 
counter,  and  the  magazine  slid  to  the  floor. 

"What's  that,  mam?"  she  asked,  her  expression  showing  deep 
concern. 

"I  speak  very  clearly,"  replied  the  customer,  eyeing  the  girl  with 
lofty  displeasure. 

She  was  a  tall,  pompous  person,  peering  with  a  bored  languor 
through  gold  lorgnettes  at  Laddie,  who  was  vaguely  speculating  at  the 
market  value  of  her  gown. 

"What  is  the  price  of  this?"  she  demanded  airily,  fingering  a  dainty 
creation  of  Irish  lace  which  the  girl  had  shown  her. 

"Twelve  dollars,  mam,"  Laddie  replied  casually,  letting  her  glance 
fall  from  the  woman's  face  to  her  diamond-clad  breast. 

"I  like  them.  Send  me  half  a  dozen,  size  40.  Mrs.  J.  R.  Lindley, 
448  Riverside  Drive;  will  you  have  them  there  by  to-night?" 

Laddie's  eyes  lifted  to  meet  her  glance  squarely. 

"Why — yes,  mam — but — how's  Horace?" 

Then  she  smiled  sweetly  as  though  she  were  asking,  "And  how  is 
the  dear  baby?"  of  some  proud  new  mother.  Of  course  it  was  only  a 
chance,  but  they  were  rare  in  New  York,  so  Laddie  always  took  them. 

The  two  words,  from  their  effect,  might  have  been  "  Presto-change. " 
The  lorgnettes  dropped,  the  eyes  narrowed,  the  flabby  cheeks  contracted, 
and  the  two  scant  eyebrows  puckered  ominously. 

"I  beg  your  pardon,  girl!  Is  it  possible  that  you're  inquiring  after 
my  son's  health!" 


266  The  Haverfordian 

"  I  wasn't  sure  if  he  was  your  son,  madam.  There  were  so  many  in 
the  telephone  book:  but  he  looked  as  if  he  lived  on  Riverside  Drive.' ' 

She  lingered  on  the  last  phrase  and  Mrs.  Lindley's  face  registered 
horror. 

"Impossible!  You  don't  know  him,  a  common  store  girl!  I  think 
you're  lying!"     She  darted  a  keen  glance  into  Laddie's  eager  eyes. 

"I'm  not  lying,  Mrs.  Lindley, "  She  answered  earnestly.  "I 
had  dinner  with  him  one  evening!  You  took  his  car  and  made  him  late 
getting  home,  so  he  stayed  down  town. " 

" I  can't  believe  it!"  the  indignant  mother  gasped  tragically.  "Did 
he  make  love  to  you?"  she  asked,  while  a  shiver  passed  through  her 
over-dressed  body. 

"No,  he  didn't:  that's  why  I  liked  him,"  replied  Laddie  with  a 
calmness  which  belied  her  throbbing  pulse  and  flushed  cheeks. 

"And  where  did  you  meet  him?"  the  woman  demanded  with  a 
fierce  glare  which  said,  as  plainly  as  eyes  can  talk,  "You  low  creature, 
how  dare  you  entrap  my  darling  son  in  your  snares!"  Laddie  saw  the 
look,  translated  it  correctly,  and  smiled  back  at  the  woman  with  ingenuous 
familiarity. 

"I  met  him  through  a  friend  of  mine.  I  hope  you  will  extend  to 
him  my  kindest  regards  when  you  see  him:  and  now — you  wish  to  pay 
for  these,  madam? 

Mrs.  Lindley  gave  a  disgusted  little  snort  at  the  imperturbable 
shopgirl,  pulled  out  her  gold  purse,  sighed  deeply  and  tragically  said: 

"This  is  very  annoying  to  me:  I  did  not  think  my  son  had  stooped 
so  low." 

Laddie  took  the  blow  calmly,  but  her  cheeks  paled  and  her  eyes 
flashed  fire  as  she  exclaimed  quietly : 

"So  low?  A  rather  hasty  judgment,  isn't  it?  I'll  have  them  up 
by  six.    Thank  you,  madam." 

Then  the  girl  bowed  politely  and  returned  the  change  to  her  very 
angry  and  somewhat  bewildered  customer:  but  when  she  saw  the  large 
figure  sink  out  of  sight  in  the  elevator  her  mouth  slowly  twisted  into  a 
grimace. 

"Lord,  how  can  he  have  a  mother  like  that!"  she  muttered  per- 
plexedly. 

Two  days  passed  and  Laddie  began  to  believe  that  her  "presto 
change"  question  had  been  nothing  but  a  crazy  impulse,  which  could 
not  possibly  have  helped  matters.  Lindley  was  rapidly  becoming  a 
memory,  and  that  memory  was  becoming  confused  and  glorified  by  a 
haze  of  thought  pictures  which  her  imaginative  mind  had  built  around 


Man  or  Manners?  267 

him.  But  on  the  third  evening  she  sat  in  her  accustomed  place  at  Mrs. 
Olry's,  where  she  had  eaten  regularly  since  the  memorable  stormy  night, 
and  was  just  about  to  swallow  a  spoonful  of  soup  when  Lindley's  figure 
appeared  outside  the  door,  and  the  soup  fell  back  into  the  plate.  As  he 
came  up  the  aisle,  tall,  strong,  smartly  dressed,  with  his  face  wearing 
the  same  genial,  thoughtful  smile  which  she  had  admired  the  former 
evening,  he  seemed  very  wonderful  to  Laddie:  and  when  he  stood  by 
her  table,  removed  his  hat,  and  said  "Good  evening,"  it  was  a  small, 
far-away  voice  that  answered  his  greeting.  He  sat  down  opposite  her 
and  his  face  sobered  instantly. 

"I  came  here  tonight  to  try  to  find  you,  and  tell  you  what  a  foolish 
girl  you  have  been,"  he  began  briefly. 

Laddie  flushed  and  her  ears  began  to  buzz  horribly.  Lindley's  tone 
was  earnest,  almost  angry,  and  try  as  she  might  she  could  not  lift  her 
eyes  to  meet  his;  the  longer  she  kept  her  lashes  lowered  the  more  she 
felt  like  a  scolded  child.     Lindley  paused,  and  continued: 

"I  don't  know  what  gods  of  chance  conspired  against  me  and  led 
my  mother  to  the  fifth  floor  of  Wanamaker's,  when  she  rarely  shops  there: 
but  I  do  know  this,  that  your  very  kind  solicitation  after  my  health  has 
put  me  in  most  horribly  wrong.  I  would  have  said  that  you  were  possess- 
ed of  a  little  more  tact." 

"  I  am  very  sorry,' '  murmured  Laddie  wretchedly. 

"Unfortunately,  that  doesn't  help  matters.  Listen,  Laddie,"  he 
went  on  rather  bitterly.  "I  am  engaged  to  the  daughter  of  one  of  my 
mother's  dearest  friends,  and  to  make  a  long  story  short,  mother  insists 
that  I  have  made  love  to  you,  and  declares  me  utterly  unfit  to  be  the 
husband  of  such  a  sweet  girl  as  is  my  fiancee.  She  also  says  she  will 
take  pains  to  see  that  the  girl  I  intend  to  marry  knows  about  my  'escapade' 
with  you,  since  no  happy  marriage  can  be  founded  on  deceit. " 

Laddie  had  listened  with  turbulent  interest.  His  engagement  had 
been  a  severe  shock:  but  it  was  indeed  thrilling  to  know  that  she  might, 
by  any  means  whatever,  come  between  Lindley  and  his  fiancee. 

"You  deceived  me  by  not  telling  me,"  Laddie  declared  with  a 
terrific  attempt  at  calmness.  "  I  did  not  suppose  that  a  gentleman  such 
as  you  seem  to  be,  would  care  to  talk  to  strange  girls  if  he  were  engaged 
to  a  girl  he  loved." 

Her  eyes  challenged  his  with  an  injured,  half-accusing  glance  and 
Lindley  looked  away.  He  was  thoughtful  for  a  moment  and  his  lips 
moved  nervously. 

"You  know  as  well  as  I, "  he  argued,  "that  our  dealings  were  purely 
platonic." 


268  The  Haverfordian 

"I  told  her  that." 

"You  did?" 

"Yes;  she  thought  I  was  lying.  I  wonder  if  she  thinks  all  store 
girls  are  liars.  We  have  a  bad  rep.  with  the  upper  classes,  haven't  we? 
They  read  too  much,  and  know  too  little  about  us,  I'm  afraid.  Our 
names  get  in  the  papers  when  we  have  gone  astray  or  committed  suicide, 
but  the  thousands  of  good  ones  are  never  mentioned. " 

"Perhaps  so.  But  listen!  What  I  came  to  say  is  this :  Neither  my 
mother  nor  her  opinion  of  me  are  all  that  they  might  be.  She  thinks 
I'm  a  hopeless  scapegrace,  and  that  none  of  me  is  worth  anything  except 
one  or  two  minor  characteristics  that  I  get  from  her.  Here's  the  point! 
Mother  is  not  going  to  say  anything  to  Julia  about  you  and  me,  if  you  or 
I  can  prevent  it!  I'm  sorry  this  has  happened,  Laddie,  and  if  you  will 
help  me  out  of  it,  I'll  see  that  you  don't  lose  by  it. " 

"You're  very  kind !' '  said  Laddie,  trying  to  hide  the  bitterness  in  her 
tone.  It  was  rather  a  tragedy  to  have  to  smooth  the  path  for  her  hero 
to  travel  to  the  altar  with  another  girl. 

"If  Julia  heard  anything  of  this,  it  would  annoy  me  greatly,"  con- 
tinued Lindley.     "You  know  what  a  girl  is  when  she's  in  love. " 

"I  know!"  said  Laddie  understandingly. 

"Well,  you  and  I  are  going  to  mother  and  tell  her  frankly  the  truth, 
that  we  had  supper  together,  conversed  casually  for  half  an  hour  and 
parted  supposedly  forever.     Is  that  not  the  truth?' ' 

"Yes, "  Laddie  agreed  meekly,  thanking  God  that  he  could  not  read 
her  thoughts.     "But  won't  we  have  to  tell  her  about  tonight  too?' ' 

"Certainly,  and  if  she  has  not  the  insight  to  understand  the 
possibility  of  a  man's  talking  sanely  to  a  girl  without  anything  further, 
I  shall  tell  Julia  myself,  and  trust  that  the  wife  I  have  chosen  is  broader- 
minded  than  the  mother  the  Lord  gave  me.    And  now  let's  have  dinner. " 

"All  right,  if  you  think  it's  safe,"  Laddie  agreed  uncertainly. 

"Dangers  don't  exist  until  you  acknowledge  them.  I  haven't  ac- 
knowledged you  yet.  Laddie,"  he  smiled. 

"But  why  will  your  mother  believe  me  again,  if  she  thought  I  lied 
in  the  store?"  she  demanded,  perplexed. 

"If  we  get  together  we  can  make  her  believe  anything,"  declared 
the  precocious  son. 

The  pair  finished  their  dinner  under  the  malicious  gaze  of  Mamie, 
who  sulked  jealously  in  the  rear,  and  were  soon  whirling  uptown  in  a 
taxi:  for  Lindley  declared  that  there  could  be  no  delay,  since  his  ever 
suspicious  mother  had  reached  that  peculiar  stage  of  silence  and  sighs 
which  forestalls  a  general  explosion  of  feminine  emotion.     His  disagree- 


I 


Man  or  Manners?  269 

ments  with  her,  he  declared,  had  lately  sounded  more  like  the  quarrels  of 
married  couples  than  ever  before,  for  they  knew  each  other  so  horribly 
well  that  every  scathing  sentence  sounded  old  and  hackneyed,  and 
every  point  of  difference  had  been  worn  threadbare  years  before. 

Laddie  sat  back  in  the  dark  cab,  oblivious  of  the  clang  of  the  streets 
and  the  lights  of  Broadway.  She  was  happy  to  be  alone  beside  Lindley, 
yet  trembling  within,  at  the  thought  of  the  scene  that  was  to  come. 
She  had  decided  one  thing,  that  prayers  on  her  knees  paid  good  interest. 
She  had  found  Lindley  again  almost  by  a  miracle,  and  felt  strangely  sure 
that  she  was  sailing  up  Broadway  on  Wings  of  Faith,  which  could  not 
carry  her  astray. 

She  listened  spell-bound  while  he  talked  of  himself;  of  Julia,  whom 
she  had  learned  to  hate  thoroughly;  of  travel,  of  New  York,  of  busi- 
ness, and,  last  and  most,  of  herself:  then  the  car  stopped  and  Laddie 
stepped  out  before  a  gaily  lighted  house  with  a  wide  piazza  around  it. 
For  a  moment  the  strangeness  of  her  situation  and  a  sense  of  unfitness 
in  such  surroundings  made  her  courage  sink,  but  she  set  her  teeth, 
swallowed  three  times,  and  followed  her  god-like  hero  up  to  the  stately 
entrance.  Inside  she  had  a  brief  but  dazzling  impression  of  rich  fur- 
niture, Chinese  screens,  and  shining  silverware;  then  heard  Lindley 
saying: 

"This  way,  Laddie;  mother's  in  the  library." 

As  she  passed  through  the  door,  she  remembered  her  feelings  on 
entering  the  operating  room  when  she  had  her  appendix  removed.  She 
saw  the  old  lady  sitting  by  a  reading  lamp  at  the  center  table,  with 
newspaper  fallen  to  the  floor,  eyebrows  scowling,  such  as  they  were, 
and  mouth  wide  with  surprise.  Laddie  wondered  incongruously,  whether 
she  could  have  looked  any  fiercer  if  she  were  suddenly  to  announce  her 
engagement  to  Lindley. 

"What's  this  mean,  Horace?"  she  piped  shrilly.  "How  dare  you 
bring  that  shopgirl  into  my  house?" 

Something  in  the  old'  lady's  tone  vibrated  through  the  chords  of 
Laddies  sensitive  heart,  like  the  cry  of  a  ghost,  and  turned  her  pale  with 
anger  and  resentment.  Fear  vanished  like  snow  in  a  furnace  and  she 
stood  in  front  of  the  old  lady  with  a  faint  smile  on  her  pretty  lips,  eyes 
bright,  and  wits  as  keen  as  the  scorn  in  her  heart. 

Lindley  spoke  first : 

"Mother,"  he  said,  calmly  but  firmly,  "I'm  tired  of  arguing  with 
you.  I  have  brought  this  girl  up  here  tonight  to  tell  you  in  queen's 
English  what  she  told  you  once  before  in  regard  to  the  dinner  we  had  to- 
gether the  other  evening." 


270  The  Haverfordian 

Mrs.  Lindley  winked  several  times,  pursed  her  lips  spitefully,  and 
addressed  Laddie: 

"Why  don't  you  stay  behind  the  counter  where  you  belong  instead 
of  worming  your  way  into  decent  society?"  she  demanded  in  a  moaning 
tone  which  was  a  cross  between  reproof  and  condescending  advice. 
Then,  turning  a  shrewd  glance  on  the  other  member  of  the  rebellious 
pair,  she  addressed  her  son: 

"Horace,  I've  known  you  twenty-five  years, "  she  snapped,  "and  you 
can't  tell  me,  after  all  your  tantrums  with  girls  since  you  put  on  knicker- 
bockers, that  you've  suddenly  reached  the  stage  when  you  will  force 
acquaintance  with  a  shopgirl,  take  her  to  dinner,  and  still  conduct  your- 
self in  a  way  befitting  a  man  who  is  engaged  to  a  girl  of  your  fiancee's 
station  in  society.  If  such  be  the  case,  it  doesn't  speak  very  well  for  your 
intellect!" 

"Nor  for  mine!"  observed  Laddie,  with  whimsical  quietness. 

"Then  you  think  we  are  both  liars,"  said  Lindley  coldly. 

"It  looks  that  way,"  declared  Mrs.  Lindley  raspingly.  Then  she 
sniffed  stubbornly  and  picked  up  her  paper,  while  the  pair  looked  at 
each  other. 

"Mr.  Lindley,  may  I  have  a  few  words  alone  with  your  mother?" 
Laddie  asked  suddenly. 

"Certainly!" '  said  the  son,  in  puzzled  surprise. 

He  withdrew  quietly,  and  Laddie  calmly  pulled  up  a  chair  and  sat 
down  beside  the  bewildered  mother,  who,  in  spite  of  her  austerity,  was 
taken  aback  at  the  thought  of  a  private  interview  with  what  she  con- 
sidered little  better  than  a  streetwalker:  for  she  was  a  "poor  old  rich 
lady' '  who  measured  humanity  by  its  family  name  and  its  bank  account, 
and  for  whom  the  working  classes  were  merely  subjects  for  charity,  and 
long-distance  sympathy. 

"I  am  very  sorry  your  son  has  taken  a  fancy  to  me,  but  really  I 
couldn't  help  it,' '  Laddie  began  easily. 

"Well?"  ejaculated  the  suspicious  listener. 

"  I'm  also  sorry  that  chance  let  you  find  us  out.' '  The  girl's  tone  was 
a  beautiful  imitation  of  a  sincere  confession.  "I  took  a  liking  to  your 
son  the  minute  I  laid  eyes  on  him  in  the  restaurant.  He's  a  fine-looking 
man,  you  know,  and  I  thought  he  was  some  high-up  stuff;  so  when  he 
asked  if  he  could  sit  with  me  I'd  have  been  a  fool  to  say  no,  now,  wouldn't 
I?  We  girls  don't  get  chances  like  that  every  day.  There's  lots  of  men, 
but  not  like  him.  Well,  we  had  a  dandy  little  dinner,  then  he  asked  if 
he  could  take  me  home.  I  thought  there  was  a  taxi  and  maybe  a  theatre 
in  for  me,  so  I  said  "Sure,'  and  went  with  him.     I  built  him  a  nice  little 


Man  or  Manners?  271 

fire  in  the  sitting-room,  such  as  it  is,  and  we  sat  before  it,  on  the  torn  old 
sofa,  and  talked  confidentially  about  our  lives,  and  ambitions.  I  told  him 
about  my  men  friends,  and  he  would  have  told  me  about  his  girls,  but 
they  were  so  stylish  and  society-like  they  made  me  jealous,  and  I  told 
him  they  didn't  interest  me. 

"Well,  it  was  warm,  and  we  were  very  comfortable,  and  I  somehow 
felt  myself  drawn  toward  him;  he  was  very  handsome  with  the  firelight 
on  his  face,  and  his  manners  were  so  gentle  and  considerate  of  a  girl's 
feelings.  He  kept  asking  me  if  he  might  kiss  me  and  naturally  I  was 
crazy  to  let  him,  but  it  doesn't  pay  to  give  in  too  soon.  Of  course  I 
finally  yielded  and  let  him  take  me  in  his  arms.  You  know  how  young 
people  are,  Mrs.  Lindley!  You  were  young  yourself  once  and  forgot  some- 
times what  the  world  said  you  must  do,  and  did  as  you  felt.  Now  please 
don't  scold  him  or  tell  Julia  about  it,  because  he  couldn't  help  it  any  more 
than  I  could." 

During  this  charming  tale  Mrs.  Lindley's  fat  face  had  been  going 
through  such  a  series  of  contortions  that  Laddie  had  found  difficulty  in 
refraining  from  laughter. 

"Tell  Julia!  How  do  you  know  her  name?"  demanded  the  exasperat- 
ed old  lady. 

"He  told  me  all  about  her,  and  said  if  he  had  been  free  and  never 
met  Julia  he  might  perhaps — " 

"He  declared  he  did  not  make  love  to  you,"  she  interrupted  in  a 
trembling  voice. 

"Naturally  he  wouldn't  confess  it  to  you,  of  all  people,"  answered 
Laddie  with  an  air  of  superior  understanding.  "Don't  tell  him  I  told 
you  this,  will  you?"  she  added. 

"Bah!"  shrieked  the  old  lady,  in  a  full-fledged  explosion.  "It's  lies, 
lies!  every  word  of  it  lies!  Horace,  Horace,  come  here,  my  boy!"  she 
called  shrilly. 

The  son,  who  had  been  quietly  smoking  in  the  billiard  room,  hurried 
to  the  call,  while  Laddie  arose,  properly  insulted,  and  faced  him  with  all 
the  dignity  and  injured  pride  of  an  outraged  coquette. 

Lindley  cast  a  hurried  glance  first  at  her,  then  at  his  mother. 
"Horace,"  informed  Laddie  tartly,  "I  told  your  mother  about  the 
wonderful  hours  we  spent  together  on  my  little  sofa,  and  she  says  it's  lies. 
Mind  you,  the  nerve  of  it!   Lies!" 

"And  so  it  is  'lies,'"  declared  Lindley  furiously.  "I  have  never 
been  near  that  girl's  house  and  don't  know  even  where  she  lives.  I 
brought  her  here  to  tell  the  truth  and  this  is  what  I  get  for  it.  Once  for 
all,  mother,  I  had  no  dealings  with  her  beyond  an  ordinary  conversation. 


272  The  Haverfordian 

It's  my  word  against  hers.  Now  choose,  by  Heaven,  which  will  you 
believe?" 

"O  my  boy!  my  boy!!  I  believe  you,"  wept  the  old  lady  weakly. 
"You've  got  something  fair  and  decent  in  you  somewhere.  You  couldn't 
stoop  to  such  a  tawdry  love  as  she  describes:  such  cheap  park-bench 
affection  is  below  you.     Come  here  and  kiss  me. " 

Then  the  boy  leaned  over  and  kissed  his  mother,  while  Laddie  with- 
drew discreetly  into  the  shadows. 

"Send  that  vile  girl  away,  and  don't  ever  go  near  a  shopgirl  again. 
Stay  in  your  own  class  whatever  you  do.  You  will,  my  boy,  I  know  you 
will!" 

"Mother,  she's  not  so  bad!"  murmured  Lindley,  with  a  new  light  of 
understanding  in  his  troubled  eyes.  "You'll  not  speak  to  Julia  about 
this?  Please!" 

"No,  if  you  promise  me — ' ' 

"Don't  worry,  mother;   I  shan't  disgrace  either  you  nor  myself." 

Thus  he  left  the  excited  old  lady  with  her  paper  and  her  thoughts. 
He  found  Laddie  leaning  against  the  outer  door,  patiently  awaiting  him. 

"Well,  you  fooled  me  all  right,"  he  said  in  a  low  tone.  "What  did 
you  tell  her?" 

She  looked  up  with  a  queer,  pained  expression,  and  gazed  earnestly 
at  Lindley's  face. 

"She  would  not  believe  the  truth,  so  I  told  her  lies  about  you  and 
me — and  pretended  to  try  to  win  her  to  my  side  of  the  question ;  then  she 
saw  that  I  was  as  common  as  she  thought  I  was,  and  became  willing  and 
glad  to  believe  that  my  lies  were  lies.  That's  the  way  you've  got  to 
handle  a  woman  like  her,  Horace,  but  it's  a  mean  job!  She  has  forgiven 
you.     That  is  all  you  needed  me  for.     Good-bye!' ' 

It  took  all  the  courage  she  possessed  to  extend  her  hand  to  him,  but 
she  held  it  there,  giving  him  ample  opportunity  to  leave  her  for  all 
time. 

"You  little  wonder!"  he  exclaimed  slowly,  ignoring  her  hand. 
"Yet  she  thinks  you're  as  low  as  they  come,  and  I  might  as  well  tell  her 
that  the  sun  won't  rise  in  the  morning  as  try  to  make  her  believe  other- 
wise." 

His  lips  curled  in  a  half-tender,  half-cynical  smile  as  he  looked  back 
toward  the  library. 

"What  can  you  do  with  people  like  her.  Laddie?" 

"Nothing  except  to  try  and  not  be  like  them, "  said  Laddie  so  serious- 
ly that  he  thought  her  fine  eyes  were  filling  with  tears. 

"Come,  I'll  take  you  home,"  he  declared  with  boyish  suddenness. 


Man  or  Manners?  273 

Seizing  her  hand,  he  pulled  her  down  the  steps.  Before  they  reached  the 
sidewalk  her  faint  resistance  was  overcome. 

"You  ought  to  leave  me  now, "  she  warned  as  they  stood  waiting  for 
a  taxi.     "You  promised  your  mother — ." 

"Hush,  child!"  he  laughed.  "Don't  advise  me.  I've  got  to  live 
my  own  life,  and  you're  not  going  home  alone." 

Laddie  silently  blessed  him,  and  resigned  herself  with  a  free  conscience 
to  whatever  the  future  might  hold  for  her. 

When  they  halted  before  her  boarding-house  Lindley  reached  up 
without  hesitation  and  paid  the  driver.  Laddie  was  not  slow  to  take  the 
hint. 

"It's  not  very  late;  won't  you  come  in?  It  isn't  very  beautiful 
inside,  but — "  she  stopped,  thankful  that  the  darkness  would  hide  her 
confusion. 

He  hesitated  for  several  seconds  as  if  making  up  his  mind.  "What's 
the  difference!"  he  muttered  at  length.  He  frankly  admired  Laddie  for 
the  cool,  dramatic  little  scene  of  which  his  entrance  had  formed  the 
climax.  Somewhere  in  the  back  of  his  mind,  a  comparison  between  Laddie 
and  his  intended  wife  was  unconsciously  forming  itself.  He  had  been 
curious  to  carry  it  further,  as  soon  as  he  had  realized  that  he  was  not 
ashamed  to  associate  Laddie  in  the  same  thought  with  her.  With  all 
his  faults,  he  was  a  stubborn  seeker  after  truth,  and  seized  with  a  sort  of 
grim  satisfaction  at  the  unpleasant  realities  which  humanity  is  too 
cowardly,  too  lazy,  or  too  proud  to  face.  It  was  a  normal  process,  he 
thought,  to  measure  each  being  with  whom  he  came  in  contact,  beside 
the  men  or  women  who  had  climbed  the  highest  toward  his  own  ideal: 
for  Lindley,  being  one  of  those  unfortunate  unbalanced  souls  who  have 
the  insight  to  see  far  beyond  the  point  they  have  the  strength  to  reach, 
was  considered  inconsistent,  unsettled,  and  sometimes  utterly  lawless 
by  some  of  his  more  easy-going  companions.  They  could  not  quite  com- 
prehend the  intricate  mental  construction  of  a  man  who  could  lean  over 
the  bar,  glass  in  one  hand,  bottle  in  the  other,  and  discuss  the  social 
evils  of  his  sex  with  a  straight  face.  And  so  Lindley,  smiling  inwardly 
at  himself,  a  trifle  careless  of  the  future,  a  trifle  uncertain  of  the  present, 
seized  the  rusty  iron  railing  firmly,  and  climbed  up  the  steps. 

In  the  tiny  hallway  she  reached  and  turned  up  the  gas.  They  un- 
consciously looked  at  each  other,  and  laughed.  Behind  Laddie's  bright, 
tender  eyes  was  the  thought,  "Kitty,  old  girl,  he's  here,  dropped  out  of 
the  millions.     Three  days!    God  made  pretty  good  time." 

"Hang  your  hat  there,"  she  said  quite  simply.  "Try  to  forget 
you're  in  a  ten-dollar  boarding-house,  and  I'll  try  to  help  you." 


274  The  Haverfordian 

"Why — this  is  fine — "  he  exclaimed  with  an  effort. 

"So  it  is,  to  some  people,"  she  murmured,  opening  the  door  into  a 
neat,  but  cheaply  furnished  sitting-room.  In  the  fireplace  the  embers 
had  died  to  a  dull  red  glow,  which  cast  vague  shadows  on  the  four  picture- 
covered  walls.  She  leaned  over  and  stirred  the  fire  while  Lindley  stood 
motionless  in  the  background,  and  watched  her  thoughtfully.  After  a 
little  coaxing,  the  flames  danced  up  and  she  invited  him  to  sit  by  her  on  a 
gaily  colored,  old-fashioned  sofa  with  a  high  back  and  springs  that 
accurately  announced  the  slightest  shift  of  weight.  He  sat  gingerly 
down,  folded  his  arms  and  stared  at  the  fire  doggedly. 

'*If  mother  could  only  see  you  now,"  mused  the  girl  with  a  rueful 
smile,  "she'd  disown  you  or  else  have  you  treated  for  insanity." 

"It's  good  to  be  a  little  insane  sometimes.  Laddie.  Every  one  is 
too  rational  these  days:  they  run  it  into  the  ground.  The  world  is  over- 
ladened  with  people  who  are  'nice  and  normal, '  and  as  dull  as  a  London 
fog." 

Having  thus  delivered  himself,  he  realized  that  it  disturbed  him  to 
be  alone  with  Laddie  as  an  evening  caller.  It  savored  of  an  intimacy 
contrasting  strongly  with  the  impersonal  argument  of  the  hour  before. 
Still,  Laddie  was  refreshing.  She  came  as  a  complete  reaction  to  Julia, 
who,  charming  as  she  was,  lacked  the  sympathy  and  understanding  that 
suffering  teaches.  For  the  time  being,  Laddie's  vivid  personality  ab- 
sorbed him  and  crowded  from  his  mind  the  idol  of  his  worship.who,  under 
most  conditions,  had  claimed  his  sole  attentions. 

He  sat  for  some  moments  lost  in  the  coiling  flames  and  she  moved 
up  beside  him. 

"You  know  women  are  eternally  curious,"  she  broke  in  softly. 
"Why  did  you  come  home  with  me  to-night?" 

"Why?"  he  hesitated.  " I  guess  it  was  habit.  You  were  a  girl — and 
girls  ought  not  to  travel  alone  at  night,  in  this  city.  It's  sort  of  second 
nature,  to  take  a  girl  home,  you  know. " 

"But  I'm  used  to  going  alone.  I  can  take  care  of  myself,"  she 
laughed.     "And  why  did  you  come  in?   Was  that  habit  too?" 

"  No,  Laddie,  I  didn't  want  to  leave  you  so  early,  to  be  quite  frank — 
I  wasn't  sleepy." 

"Oh,  that  was  mean!"  she  said  in  a  low  tone.  "You  didn't  come  in 
because  you  weren't  sleepy,  but  because  I  prayed  to  God  that  you  would.' ' 

Lindley  darted  a  careful  glance  at  her  averted  face  and  saw  that  she 
had  spoken  earnestly. 

"Did  you  really!"  he  exclaimed,  astonished.  "Well,  I'm  glad  I'm 
here:  yet  I  don't  know  why  I  came.      I  never  dreamed  of  it  when  I  left 


Man  or  Manners?  275 

home.  I  pitied  you  at  my  house.  You  were  brave  and  suffering  and 
helpless.  I  was  a  stranger,  and  you  did  more  to  get  me  out  of  trouble 
than  some  girls  would  do  for  their  lovers." 

"Not  more  than  I  would  do — " 

She  checked  herself  and  he  filled  in  her  sentence. 

"'For  mine,'  you  were  going  to  say?" 

"Why — ^yes,"  she  admitted  confusedly,  turning  away. 

Lindley  studied,  for  a  moment,  the  squatting,  shadowy  figure  beside 
him,  and  wondered  how  such  a  little  being  could  so  completely  fill  a 
room  for  him.  She  had  drawn  her  feet  up  beneath  her  skirt  and  was 
sitting  perched  like  an  Egyptian  goddess  before  an  altar  flame.  He  felt 
that  the  room,  the  dusky  outline  of  picture  frames,  the  monotonous 
clock  in  the  corner,  and  even  the  squeaky  couch  which  bore  his  weight, 
had  all  drifted  far  into  the  back  of  his  consciousness,  leaving  a  shining 
head,  set  on  a  divine  little  neck,  alone  in  the  foreground. 

"Why  do  you  sit  that  way?  It's  bad  for  the  circulation,"  he  de- 
clared suddenly  to  break  the  silence  of  his  mental  soarings  and  bring 
them  back  to  words. 

"Just  habit!"  she  retorted  briefly,  and  then  smiled  wickedly  at  the 
annoyed  look  on  his  face. 

They  talked  on  while  the  fire  arose  to  its  height,  sagged,  and  finally 
sank  into  glowing  ashes.  Each  five  minutes  brought  Laddie's  temper- 
ament into  fuller  view.  He  discovered  a  quick  brain  behind  her  spark- 
ling eyes;  he  discovered  a  level  of  thought  and  a  longing  for  better 
things,  of  which  he  had  only  gained  a  glimpse  on  the  first  evening;  and, 
above  all,  he  saw  that  she  had  an  insight  which  could  appreciate  and 
measure  values  that  were  utterly  unexplored  by  the  average  girl. 

They  had  been  talking  of  the  struggles  of  the  poor  in  New  York, 
and  Lindley  was  eagerly  devouring  her  words,  for  she  spoke  with  an 
enthusiasm  and  sincerity  that  compelled  attention. 

"You  come  across  some  terrible  people  in  this  city, "  she  was  saying. 
"Last  week  I  had  to  go  'way  down  town  to  see  one  of  our  girls  who  was 
sick.  She  lives  all  alone  in  a  mean  little  room  with  half  the  paper  off 
the  wall.  She  had  had  the  doctor,  and  the  woman  who  owned  the  house 
was  taking  care  of  her.  Well,  the  last  time  I  went  there  no  one  answered 
the  bell,  so  I  walked  in  and  went  upstairs  to  Betty's  room.  I  opened 
the  door  and  saw  a  man  leaning  over  her  bed  with  his  arms  about  Betty, 
kissing  her.  He  stood  up  quickly  as  I  entered.  Betty  blushed  red,  and 
it  was  the  only  color  I  had  seen  in  her  cheeks  in  a  month.  The  man  left, 
mumbling  excuses.  Betty  said  he  was  the  doctor  who  had  been  so  good 
to  her  and  loaned  her  money  to  tide  her  over  her  sick  spell.     Well,  I 


276  The  Haverfoedian 

was  suspicious  right  away.  I  saw  some  harmless  looking  pills  on  the 
table  by  her  bed.  She  said  they  were  a  headache  medicine  that  he  had 
given  her.  I  took  them  home  with  me  and  paid  to  have  them  analyzed. 
They  were  morphine,  pure  and  simple,  just  enough  to  keep  her  laid  up 
so  that  he  could  make  love  to  her  undisturbed.  Well,  that  doctor's  in 
jail  now  and  Betty's  well  and  working.  She  couldn't  afford  a  good 
doctor — so  you  see  what  girls  like  us  run  into.  But  I'd  rather  have  saved 
Betty  from  him  than  have  ten  dollars'  raise  in  my  salary." 

"That  was  a  good  job,' '  Lindley  exclaimed.  "  If  I  ever  did  anything 
like  that  I'd  think  I  was  a  hero.' ' 

"You  would  be  if  you  had  the  chance!"  said  Laddie  worshipfully. 
"Julia  probably  wants  to  marry  a  hero.     Most  girls  do." 

"I  wish  you  would  not  speak  of  her.  I  have  managed  to  forget 
her,  and  I  should  think  you  might." 

"Has  it  been  such  hard  work?"  she  asked,  with  ineffable  meaning. 

Lindley  was  silent.  This  girl  knew  too  much.  She  wasn't  safe. 
She  was  "deliberately  friendly:"  moreover,  she  was  infernally  pretty 
just  at  that  time.  Her  surroundings  did  not  touch  her  any  more  than  a 
leaden  setting  dulls  the  brilliance  of  a  diamond.  A  palace  was  none  too 
good  for  her  that  night!  Yet  what  had  Mamie  said  about  "any  fellow, 
any  time!"  Were  the  two  facts  reconcilable?  Surely,  his  judgment 
was  better  than  hers.  Besides,  girls  were  fiendishly  jealous  of  a  little 
good  looks.     Why  not  ask  her? 

"By  the  way,"  he  began  discreetly,  "is  Mamie,  the  girl  at  the  res- 
taurant, a  friend  of  yours?" 

"Yes.     Why?"  was  her  truly  feminine  answer. 

"  I  was  speaking  to  her  of  you. " 

"Were  you?  What  did  she  say?"  demanded  Laddie,  all  interest. 

"Well,"  continued  the  man  carefully,  "she  said  you  often  came  there 
with  different  men." 

"What  kind  of  men?"  quizzed  the  girl  keenly. 

"Do  you  know  all  kinds?"  inquired  Lindley  with  feigned  perplexity. 

"No,  no;  but  tell  me  what  she  said,"  Laddie  demanded,  annoyed 
at  the  hidden  reproof,  and  embarrassed  because  she  had  revealed  her 
feelings. 

"Well— any  kind!" 

"O,  did  Mamie  say  that!"  she  echoed  in  a  low  tone.  "Well,  perhaps 
it's  true!  There  are  few  of  the  men  I  know  that  I  admire.  I  go  with 
them  because  I  want  a  good  time,  to  be  quite  frank.  They  don't  mean 
anything  to  me  beyond  that.  I  knew  you  were  different  from  them  at 
first  glance.     I  saw  how  cheap  their  manners  and  methods  were  beside 


Man  or  Manners?  277 

yours.  I  saw  a  vision  of  the  girls  you  must  know  and  associate  with, 
and  longed  to  be  like  them.  I  was  afraid  of  my  clothes,  afraid  of  my 
English,  afraid  of  my  whole  self,  except  my  earnest  desire  to  make  my- 
self over  to  meet  you  on  your  own  level. " 

Lindley  was  touched  by  this  tribute  so  artlessly  paid,  and  felt  keenly 
how  little  he  deserved  it.  He  was  trying  to  conjure  up  a  plausible  answer 
when  Laddie,  too  nervous  to  sit  still,  jumped  up  and  stirred  the  sleeping 
fire.  She  was  thinking  that  he  would  soon  be  gone,  probably  forever. 
Her  eye  caught  the  time  on  the  mantel  clock.  11.30!  How  the  evening 
had  flown!  Still  Lindley  kept  silent.  Surely  a  speech  such  as  that,  de- 
served some  reply.  Perhaps  she  hadn't  said  anything  unusual,  after  all. 
Perhaps — 

But  the  couch  had  squeaked  and  Lindley  had  arisen  unheeded. 
Laddie  felt  strong  hands  on  her  shoulders.  She  swayed  lightly  and 
then  for  a  few  eternal  seconds  her  thin  shoes  brushed  the  floor  of  Para- 
dise while  Lindley  took  her  in  his  arms  and  kissed  her. 

"I  must  go.     It's  late,"  he  said  briefly,  on  releasing  her. 

"I  hope  we  can  see  each  other  again,"  ventured  Laddie  timidly, 
eyes  shining  and  cheeks  aglow. 

At  that  moment  the  door  was  slowly  thrust  open  and  Kittie's  head 
and  shoulders  emerged  through  the  crack. 

"Come  in,  Kittie!"  said  Laddie,  quickly  recovering  herself. 

The  intruder  came  slowly  forward,  carrying  a  newspaper  in  one  hand 
and  staring  at  the  couple  in  blank  astonishment. 

"My,  you're  late,  kid,  aren't  you?  Who  is  he?"  she  inquired, 
absorbing  Lindley  from  head  to  foot. 

"He's  the  one  I  told  you  about,  Kittie.  Remember!  Mr.  Lindley, 
I— " 

"What!"  cried  Kittie,  stepping  back  in  horrified  surprise.  "Ye 
gods!  what's  he  doing  here?  He's  going  to  be  married  to-morrow." 

"To-morrow!"  echoed  Laddie  staring  at  him. 

"Yes.  Here's  the  notice  of  the  wedding  in  St.  Thomas's  Church — 
a  big  social  affair.  Thousands  of  dollars'  worth  of  presents,  crowds  of 
people ;  all  New  York — ' ' 

Kittie  stopped,  out  of  breath,  and  they  both  turned  to  the  man 
who  watched  them,  arms  quietly  folded,  with  the  same  weird  smile  that 
he  had  given  his  mother  earlier  in  the  evening. 

"  It  is  true.  The  reporter  evidently  did  his  work  well, "  he  remarked 
easily. 

"Why  are  you  not  with  her  to-night?"  demanded  Laddie,  eyes  wide 
with  surprise. 


278  The  Haverfordian 

"She  has  been  out  of  town  for  a  short  time  and  returns  to-morrow 
morning. " 

Kittie  looked  him  up  and  down  and  gave  a  disgusted  little  snifT  at 
Laddie. 

"When  I  get  married  to  Bill  he  won't  spend  his  last  evening  with 
any  girl  unless  it's  me. " 

"But  she's  away — "  attempted  Laddie,  trying  to  protect  Lindley 
from  the  scathing  criticism  which  she  foresaw  in  Kittie's  tone  and  manner. 

"Any  man  rich  or  poor  who  stays  till  twelve  o'clock  at  night  with 
one  girl,  and  marries  another  one  the  next  day,  isn't  worth  much.  Read 
this!" 

She  thrust  the  paper  into  Laddie's  passive  hands  and  bounced  out 
of  the  room. 

"What  do  you  think  about  that.  Laddie?"  suddenly  asked  the  man 
in  question. 

But  for  the  moment  Laddie  seemed  to  have  lost  her  tongue.  Her 
jealousy  of  Julia  had  been  temporarily  forgotten  under  the  potent  spell 
of  his  presence.  It  came  back  now  with  all  the  impulsiveness  of  a  sen- 
sitive girl.     He  was  hopelessly  cold-blooded,  that  was  certain:  and  yet — 

"I  think  you  must  be  a  very  funny  man,"  she  answered  at  length. 

"So  I  am,"  he  agreed  calmly. 

"Why  didn't  you,  why  didn't  your  mother  tell  me  you  were  to  be 
married  so  soon?   It  would  have  saved  this — this  trouble,"  she  faltered. 

"Mother  wouldn't  tell  you  anything.  She  was  horrified  because 
you  even  knew  Julia's  name:  and  I — I  didn't  thinkit  would  help  matters. " 

"No  wonder!  Do  you  love  her?"  demanded  the  girl  incredulously. 

"As  much  as  I  can  love  any  one,  Laddie." 

"  Don't  talk  in  riddles.     What's  that  mean?  " 

"It  means  that  I  need  a  wife  both  to  hold  me  down  and  boost  me 
up:   and  I  know  that  she  will  be  a  good  one." 

"Isn't  that  awful!"  exclaimed  Laddie  angrily.  "You're  as  bad  as 
Kittie.  She  needs  a  husband.  'If  a  man  loves  you  and  is  worth  anything 
at  all,  it's  better  to  marry  him.'     That's  what  she  says." 

"Perhaps  Julia  says  that  too,"  smiled  Lindley  bitterly. 

In  Laddie's  heart  there  was  a  dead  weight: — the  dreary,  aching 
void  left  when  an  ideal  is  torn  out  by  the  roots.  He  was  no  god-like  hero 
after  all,  but  just  a  very  human  man  with  plenty  of  money,  who  was 
quite  calmly  marrying  a  girl  with  plenty  more. 

Her  eyes  looked  miles  past  him,  into  the  shadows  of  the  future,  and 
her  lips  barely  moved  as  she  spoke: 


Man  or  Mannkrs?  279 

"I  hope  some  day  I'll  find  a  man  who'll  marry  me  in  spite  of  myself 
and  the  devil.     Then  I'll  know  he  lo\es  me. " 

"I  hope  so  too:     you  deserve  him,  whether  you  find  him  or  not. 
I've  enjo>ed  this  e\ening.     I  think  it's  done  me  good,  even  though  I  am 
to  be  married  to-morrow.    Come  to  the  wedding  if  you  can,  but  be  care- 
ful what  you  say  to  anyone:  I  trust  you.  It's  at  twelve  o'clock    sharp." 

Then  she  led  him  into  the  hall,  gave  him  his  hat,  and  opened  the 
door. 

"Good  night,  and  good  luck  to  you  to-morrow  and  afterwards. 
Thanks  for  bringing  me  home,  Horace." 

"Good  night.      I  hope  you'll  meet  him  some  day,  Laddie." 

They  shook  hands  in  the  doorway,  and  as  his  figure  disappeared 
into  the  darkness  she  felt  that  she  had  spent  the  evening  with  a  weird 
combination  of  a  man  and  a  coward.  Then  gradually  she  began  to  see  a 
certain  wild  scheme  to  his  nature.  He  was  not  altogether  without  order 
or  reason.  He  had  something  of  the  artist,  and  something  of  the  cold 
thinker  in  him..     "Funny  man  to  be  getting  married!"  she  mused. 

When  she  returned  to  the  empty  parlour  to  turn  out  the  light  her 
mind  was  unconsciously  reaching  out  to  follow  him  home.  A  voice 
within  kept  clamoring  through  her  outward  pride,  for  mental  recogni- 
tion, and  saying,  "You  love  him:  strength,  weakness  and  all."  She  had 
Iniilt  a  god  out  of  him  and  worshipped  him  at  a  distance.  She  had  longed 
for  him  with  that  desire  for  the  unattainable  which  tortures  a  baby  who 
cries  for  the  moon.  Then,  when  she  had  him  beside  her,  and  felt  herself 
in  his  arms  against  the  heart  that  another  girl  thought  was  hers  alone, 
there  came  a  strange  reaction.  He  came  down  from  his  throne  in  her 
mind,  and  walked  with  other  men.  In  the  beginning  he  was  a  gentleman. 
For  that  she  adored  him.  But  was  a  gentleman  always  a  man?  "His 
brain  doesn't  rule  him.  He  isn't  strong-willed  or  he  ne\er  would  have 
come  home  with  me  to-night,"  she  pondered  regretfully  half-way  up  the 
stairs.  It  did  not  seem  possible  that  a  man  with  any  self-respect  could 
put  his  arms  about  another  girl  or  even  be  alone  with  her  on  the  night 
before  his  marriage;  perhaps  he  just  had  money  and  manners,  with  a 
character  that  was  easy  prey  for  a  pretty  face  or  flirting  eyes:  he  was 
horribly  used  to  girls,  which  could  easily  be  seen  by  his  calm,  natural 
manner  of  approach  in  the  restaurant.  "I  may  ha^■e  been  just  amuse- 
ment for  him  all  the  time.  Now  his  back  is  turned  on  me,  I  may  never 
ha\e  existed  to  him;  perhaps  Julia  is  a  good,  sweet  girl  and  is  deceived 
in  him.  Perhaps — perhaps  lots  of  things;  but  he's  a  gentleman  and  I 
won't  believe  them." 

With  these  thoughts  pouring  through  her  mind,  she  opened  Kittie's 


280 


The  Haverfordian 


door.     The  mistress  of  that  apartment  was  leisurely  undressing  on  the 
edge  of  the  bed.     She  looked  up  quietly. 

"O,  he  went  home,  did  he?  I  thought  perhaps  you'd  fix  him  up  on 
the  couch  downstairs." 

"Don't  be  sarcastic.  I'm  not  in  the  mood  for  it,  "  ordered  Laddie,  in 
an  even  tone. 

"I  suppose  he's  given  up  his  other  girl  and  going  to  marry  you  in 
the  morning,"  continued  Kitty  pleasantly'.  "You'd  better  stay  in  yer 
own  class  after  this,  instead  of  hooking  on  to  millionaires. " 

"Shut  up!"  He  is  in  my  class!"  cried  Laddie,  bursting  into  tears. 
It  was  a  little  too  much  to  have  Mrs.  Lindley's  words  thrown  at  her 
from  Kittie's  lips. 

"Now  that  I'm  engaged  to  Bill,  do  you  think  I'd  look  at  another 
man  edgeways?  The  night  before  he's  married!  O  Lord!  Those  society 
folks  are  all  rotten." 

"He's  not  rotten,  "  shouted  Laddie  viciously.     "  He's  a  gentleman.  " 

"Then  give  me  laborers!"  muttered  Kittie,  jumping  into  bed. 

— C.  Van  Dam,  '17. 
{To  be  concluded) 


I 


The  Spirit  of  Modern  German  Liticrature,  by  Ludwii;,  Leivisohn; 
B.   W.  Huebsch,  New  York,  $1.00  net. 

At  a  time  when  Germany  is  coming  in  for  so  many  hard  knocks 
from  EngHsh  and  American  writers  it  is  refreshing  to  read  a  sane  and 
constructive  appreciation  of  one  phase  of  modern  Teutonic  culture. 
Professor  Lcwisohn  takes  up  German  Hterature  of  the  kast  forty  or  fifty 
years,  and  finds  it  a  fiekl  of  rich  emotional  and  intellectual  significance. 

According  to  the  author,  two  main  tendencies  may  be  discerned  in 
recent  productions  of  German  novelists,  poets  and  playwrights.  In  the 
first  place,  there  is  the  doctrinal  naturalism  which  concerns  itself  with 
social  and  economic  conditions  to  the  exclusion  of  more  purely  aesthetic 
objects.  \Miile  this  mo\cmcnt  has  not  possessed  any  exponent  of 
surpassing  greatness,  it  has  received  a  powerful  impetus  from  the  mass 
of  industrial  problems  which  the  Fatherland  has  been  compelled  to 
face  since  the  memorable  events  of  1871.  To  a  certain  extent  it  has 
influenced  even  such  a  noted  dramatist  as  Hauptmann,  in  the  construc- 
tion of  realistic  works  like  "The  Rats." 

The  second  characteristic  is  the  tendency  towards  individual  ex- 
pression and  more  humanistic  ideals  of  beauty.  In  this  connection  the 
author  mentions  with  high  praise  three  lyric  poets,  George,  Rilke  and 
Hofmannsthal.  But  the  leading  figure  among  niodern  German  humanists 
and  individualists  is  the  poet-philosopher,  Friedrich  Nietzsche.  Dr. 
Lewisohn  is  enthusiastic  in  his  appreciation  of  Nietzsche.  He  ranks  him 
among  the  fixe  or  six  great  prose  stylists  of  the  world ;  and  speaks  elo- 
quently of  the  beneficial  effect  which  such  a  powerful  personality  cannot 
fail  to  have  upon  an  age  that  is  steeped  in  smug  materialism. 

In  a  final  summary  of  the  two  tendencies  the  author  traces  both  of 
them  back  to  that  greatest  and  most  uni\ersal  genius,  Goethe.  Alike 
the  feeling  for  realism  and  naturalism  and  the  feeling  for  pure  artistry 
can  be  found  in  the  creator  of  "Faust"  and  "Wilhelm  Meister." 

Professor  Lewisohn  has  given  us  an  excellent  piece  of  critical  writing 
in  the  present  work.  He  attains  the  difficult  combination  of  sound 
judgment  with  a  style  that  is  both  brilliant  and  attractive.  And,  in 
addition,  he  has  to  his  credit  one  achievement  which  is  almost  unique. 
In  the  year  of  grace  1916  he  has  written  a  work  dealing  intimately 
with  modern  Germany  without  a  single  reference  to  the  Great  War 
or  a  single  eft'ort  to  dissect  and  analyze  that  misty  and  tenuous  substance, 
the  "soul"  of  the  German  people.  And  for  this  forbearance  the  neutral 
world  certainly  owes  him  a  debt  of  profound  gratitude.         — W.  H.  C. 


282  The  Haverfordian 

The  Shining  Adventure,  by  Dana  Burnet.  Harper  and  Bros.;  $1.50, 
net. 

Mr.  Dana  Burnet  is  a  writer  on  the  Sun:  his  rhymed  news  forms 
the  dehght  of  many;  he  is  also  one  of  the  most  gifted  of  our  younger 
poets.  In  narrative  poetry  no  American  poet  of  to-day  is  more  capable — 
a  dubious  compliment  since  Amy  Lowell  is  one  of  his  competitors! 
However,  Mr.  Burnet  once  wrote  a  poem  called  "Grayheart"  which  is 
as  good  as  anything  any  living  American  has  done.  Ernest  Poole  in 
his  novel  "The  Harbor"  is  not  more  pathetic  nor  more  eloquent.  .  .  . 

"The  Shining  Advejiture"  is  Mr.  Burnet's  first  novel  and  it  has 
been  looked  forward  to  with  much  hope;  now  that  we  have  read  it  we 
must  add  that  it  comes  fully  up  to  expectation. 

It  is  a  story  about  children  written  for  adults.  The  King,  an 
adopted  son  of  Miss  Van  Zendt,  who  is  much  interested  in  charities, 
decides  that  he  is  to  set  out  upon  his  Shining  adventure.  A  certain 
bishop,  Trippet  by  name,  being  invited  by  the  King's  guardian  to  assist 
at  the  meeting  of  the  United  Charities,  of  which  movement  Miss  Van 
Zendt  is  chairman.  Miss  Van  Zendt  decides  to  send  the  King  with  his 
governess  to  the  Holland  House  until  the  visit  of  the  reverend  personage 
and  the  meeting  of  the  United  Charities  are  over.  The  governess,  how- 
ever, elopes  with  a  taxi-driver  and  the  King  is  left  alone  in  his  kingdom, 
the  large  park  in  front  of  the  house.  With  the  recklessness  of  a  youthful 
monarch  of  eight  summers  the  King  smashes  the  Pig,  the  custodian  of 
his  accumulated  fortune,  and  sets  out.  Having  bought  the  kingdom 
from  the  gardener  for  a  penny,  the  King  invites  his  subjects — slum- 
children  from  O'Connor's  alley  who  have  never  been  permitted  to  wander 
to  the  right  side  of  the  railing — to  enter  into  his  Kingdom.  A  lame 
child,  Maggie,  is  made  queen  and  after  conquering  the  tyrant  of  the 
Alley,  a  redoutable  knight  yclept  Micky,  the  King  is  crowned.  The 
rest  of  his  savings  go  to  buying  poor  Maggie  a  plush-covered  crush  that 
she  has  wistfully  admired  in  the  window  of  a  pawnbroker's  for  many 
days.  The  Bad  Woman  appears  and  is  howled  at  by  his  subjects  until 
the  monarch  assumes  the  role  of  Sir  Galahad  and  goes  to  her  home. 
There,  in  a  pitifully  furnished  hall  bedroom,  he  falls  asleep  in  the  arms 
of  the  Bad  Woman,  who  sadly  recounts  the  story  of  her  past,  of  her 
own  child  whom  God  saw  fit  to  take  away  from  her,  and,  just  before 
he  goes  off  to  the  realm  of  sleep,  makes  him  say  as  she:  "  \ou  must 
begin.  ..."  she  murmurs  in  her  soft  voice. 

"  You  must  begin.  ..."  repeats  the  King. 

"  With  the  children." 

"With — the — children.  ..."    says    the    King    in    a    low,    drowsy 


Book  Rkviews  283 

voice.  .  .  .  Meanwhile  the  Bishop  (who  writes  books  about  the  poor 
and  destined  for  the  poor  but  which  are  pulijished  only  in  de  luxe  editions 
at  ten  dollars  a  \olume  and  wliich  can  onh"  be  read — as  Miss  Van  Zendt 
docs — with  the  help  of  strong  coflfee  and  smelling  salts)  has  been  ex- 
pounding his  theory  of  remo\ing  the  poor  from  the  cities  to  the  coun- 
try- anil  the  Doctor,  a  \er\-  likable  old  fellow  seriously  suspected  of 
having  a  sp.eaking  liking  for  Miss  Van  Zendt,  has  been  heatedly  attack- 
ing this  wonderful  charity  system.  The  car  ordered  for  the  Bishop 
happens  to  run  o\er  the  King,  who  is  very  badly  hurt,  almost  fatally 
injured — and  who  repeats  slowly  and  softh'  before  losing  conscious- 
ness:    "  You  tniist  begin  with  the  children." 

How  Miss  Van  Zendt  realizes  what  nonsense  those  United  Charities 
of  hers  are,  how  right  the  Doctor  is,  how  she  should  look  after  the  King 
instead  of  trying  to  do  the  inevitable,  how  Maggie  ends  by  living  cured, 
how  the  King  recovers  and  in\ites  his  subjects  to  a  feast  at  the  Round 
Table,  how  Miss  Van  Zendt  realizes  that  the  country  must  be  brought 
to  the  city  and  not  the  cit>'  to  the  country,  and  how  the  Doctor  becomes 
father  of  the  King  is  told  in  The  Shining  Adventure. 

Mr.  Burnet  reminds  one  here  and  there  of  Mr.  Booth  Tarkington, 
but  his  is  not  the  same  character  as  the  creator  of  Penrod.  The  King  is 
infinitely  more  pathetic  than  any  of  Mr.  Tarkington's  figures;  indeed, 
the  novel  of  Mr.  Burnet  is  one  of  the  most  beautiful  pieces  of  child- 
study  I  have  ever  read.  The  Bishop,  the  Governess,  Miss  Van  Zendt, 
that  poor,  unfortunate  Bad  Woman  who  throws  herself  into  the  river, 
Maggie,  Micky — every  character  li\es  and  breathes  the  fetid  air  of  the 
city.  There  is  not  the  lady-novelists'  conception  of  the  boy  and  his 
adventure;  it  is  a  story  told  by  a  strong  and  virile  man  who  can  be 
pathetic  yet  not  sentimental,  who  has  the  most  exc|uisite  sentiment 
without  being  maudlin.  The  imagination  of  this  King  is  very  much 
awake  and  very  finely  exposed;  Mr.  Burnet  writes  like  a  poet.  Every 
incident  he  describes  is  true  and  beautiful  because  he  lends  his  mind  so 
freely  to  the  moods  that  prompt  these  incidents.  The  Shining  Adventure 
is  a  charmingly  conceived  and  beautifully  related  story:  it  bears  a  mess- 
age yet  does  not  persistently  remind  us  of  the  fact  in  the  annoying 
manner  of  many  of  our  preacher-novelists;  the  style  is  simple  yet 
^■ery  rich  in  sentiment;  Mr.  Dana  Burnet  by  this  one  novel  puts 
himself  in  a  very  high  place  in  the  ranks  of  our  no\elists;  his  book 
is  a  masterpiece  in  its  line. 

— /.  G.  Le  C. 


^^^ 


Francis  Stokes,  '52,  Manager  of 
Haverford  College  from  1885  to  the 
time  of  his  death,  and  father  of 
Francis  J.  Stokes,  died  Tuesday, 
January  2nd.  He  was  born  in 
Philadelphia  on  June  15th,  1883, 
son  of  John  Stokes  and  Hannah 
Gilpin  Smith.  He  entered  Haver- 
ford in  1848  and  left  1850.  Besides 
his  long  term  as  Manager  of  Haver- 
ford College,  he  was  Vice-President 
of  the  Alumni  Association.  He 
had  long  been  a  member  of  the 
Historical  Society  of  Pennsylvania. 
Mr.  Stokes  was  a  dry  goods  mer- 
chant and  had  been  a  lumber 
merchant  1858  to  1886.  He  mar- 
ried Katharine  Wistar  Evans  on 
March  23,  1865.  His  residence 
was  Locust  Ave.,  Germantown, 
Philadelphia. 


Besides  his  great  interest  in  the 
welfare  of  the  College,  he  was  con- 
spicuous for  his  intense  interest  in 
cricket. 

The  Alumni  Dinner  was  held  on 
the  27th  of  January.  Dr.  William 
Wistar  Comfort,  of  Cornell  (Haver- 
ford,'96),  was  toastmaster.  Among 
the  speakers  were  William  H.  Taft 
and  President  Schurman  of  Cornell. 
Dr.  Sharpless  who  recently  return- 
ed from  England  was  present  at 
the  dinner. 

The  regular  monthly  luncheon  of 
the  Haverford  New  York  Society 
was  held  at  the  Machinery  Club, 
50  Church  Street,  New  York  City, 
on  Wednesday,  January  10,  at  one 


MEN'S 

1312  Chestnut  St. 


SHOES 

1232  Market  St. 


MAKKET    STREET    SHOP    OPEN    EVEMINGS 


Smart  Flat  Lasts 


Prices: 

$5  to  $9 


'^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^M^MmmmMmm^MmMmmmM&mimmmMmMm 


Alumni 


285 


o'clock.      Plans  were  discussed  for 
the  annual  dinner. 

The  Haverford  Society  of  Chester 
County,  of  which  Christian  Brinlon, 
'92,  is  president,  held  the  annual 
dinner  at  the  West  Chester  Golf 
and  Country  Club  on  Salurda\', 
January  20. 

Henry  Cope,  '69,  has  the  follow- 
ing message  for  all  Ha\-erfordians — 

"As  is  generalK"  known.  President 
Sharpless  retires  next  commence- 
ment. An  album  will  be  presented 
to  him  containing  the  names  of  all 
donors  to  "Isaac  Sharpless  Hall" 
(no  amounts  being  gi\-en),  and  it  is 
expected  to  make  this  list  a  very 
long  one.  All  hold  him  in  honor, 
and  all  can  give  something  to  this 
permanent  memorial  to  'the  maker 
of  Haverford,'  who  has  made  this 
College's  advancement  his  life- 
work." 

The  Flditorof  The  Haverfordi.vx, 
Dear  Sir: 

This  sonnet  by  Charles  Wharton 
Stork,  '02,  is  so  good  I  think  the 
Haverfordian  might  consider  re- 
printing it. 

I'aithfuUy  yours, 
Christopher  Morley,  '10. 


WILL'S  COUNSELLOR 
By  Charles  Wharton  Stork 
"Give    over,    l]'il!.      Spur    not    thy 
jaded  lines 
To  fresh    invention.      Dost   thou 
iveen  forsooth 
To  set  thy  lady's  name  where  Stella 
shines, 
Or  rival  Spenser  with  thy  rhymes 
uncouth' 
Doth  now  thy  lean  muse  travail  of  a 
play.^ 
When  wilt  thou  help  a  Tamburlane 
to  birth? 
Or  teach  mad  Greene  to  daff  our  cares 
away? 
Or  fill  the  room  of  Lyly's  courtly 
mirth? 
Thou   would-hc  shake-scene   of  this 
mighty  land. 
Thou    country  jackdaw   dight   in 
peacock's  plumes. 
That  hast   nor  n'it   nor  passion   at 
command, 
And  canst  but  mar  the  weave  of 
former  looms; 
Give  o'er,  I  say;    untune  thy  feeble 

note!" 
The  other  smiled,  but  paused  not  as 
he  wrote. 

'63 
The  First  Congregational  Church 
of    Pro\-idence,    Rhode    Island,    re- 
cently celebrated  its  one  hundredth 


We  will  rent  you  a  late  model 

Underwood  Typewriter 

3  Months  for  $5.00 

and  apply  the  first  rental 
payment  on  the  purchase 
price  if  you  desire  to  buy 
th 


e  macnine. 


MARCUS  &  CO. 

STATIONERS— TYPEWRITERS 
1303  Market  St.,  Philadelphia 


286 


The  Haverfordian 


anniversary,  addresses  being  made 
by  the  representatives  of  the  four 
churches  which  took  part  in  the 
dedicatory  services  in  1816. 
Thomas  J.  Battey  spoke  for  the 
Society  of  Friends  and  read  appro- 
priate selections  from  Whittier. 

'82 
George  A.  Barton  was  elected 
President  of  the  Pennsylvania  So- 
ciety of  the  Archaeological  Insti- 
tute of  America.  On  December 
14th  he  read  a  paper  before  the 
Oriental  Club  of  Philadelphia  on 
"Two  Babylonian  Religious  Texts 
of  the  Period  of  the  Dynasty  of 
Agade. " 

•85 
Rufus  M.  Jones  has  been  elected 
President  of  the  Board  of  Trustees 
and   of    Directors   of   Bryn   Mawr 
College. 

'87 
Alfred  C.  Garrett  is  Director  of 
the   Philadelphia   Training   School 
for  Religious  Teachers. 

'92 
The  leading  article  of  the  month 
in  the  December  number  of  Vanity 
Fair  was  by  Christian  Brinton  and 
entitled  "Ignacio  Zuloaga."  The 
article  was  illustrated  with  seven 
pictures  never  before  reproduced 
in  America,  and  in  its  treatment  of 
the  interesting  episodes  in  the  life 
of  the  Spanish  painter  and  criticism 
of  his  productions  proves  to  be  an 
interesting  and  remarkable  essay. 

'93 
C.  G.  Hoag  published  an  article 
in  a  recent  number  of   the  Survey 
on    proportional    representation. 


This  ancient  belt  drives  a  flour  mill  at 
Doylestown,  Pa.  It  was  originally  an  18- 
inch  double.  After  considerable  service  it 
was  reinforced  with  a  6-inch  strip  on  each 
edge.  In  this  form  it  has  completed 
thirty-four  years  of  service,  and  looks 
good  for  years  to  come. 

For  the  last  twenty  years  it  has  been  treated  at 
proper  intervals  with  Rhoads  Leather  Belt  Pre- 
server. This  is  one  reason  for  its  strength  in  old 
age. 

J.  E.  RHOADS  &  SONS, 


PHILADELPHIA, 
12  North  Third  Street 


NEW  YORK, 
1 02  Beekman  Street 


CHICAGO, 
322    W.    Randolph  Street 

FACTORY  AND  TANNERY,     WILMINGTON,  DEL. 


?Cmas   Supplies 

LET  us  HELP  YOU  SOLVE 
THE  GIFT   PROBLEM 

CANDY  PERFUMES 

STATIONERY 

CIGARS     CUT  GLASS      KODAKS 

C.  G.  WARNER,  P.  D. 

Pharmacist  HAVERFORD,  PA. 


Joseph  C>  Ferguson,  Jr. 

6-8-10    South  Fifteenth  Street 

(Optical  anb 
^f)otograp!)ic  (§oobs; 

OF  EVERY  DESCRIPTION 
Below  Market  Street 


Alumni 


287 


'97 

Richard  C.  Brown  has  had  an 
article  in  the  Westonian  for  Janu- 
ar\\ 

'00 
Win.    B.    Bell   has  accepted   the 
position  of  manager  of  the  Pocono 
Lake  Preserve  in  place  of  Egbert 
S.  Cary,  '92. 

'03 
Henry  Joel  Cadbury  was  chair- 
man of  the  committee  of  arrange- 
ments for  the  meeting  of  the  Society 
of  Biblical  Literature  and  Exegesis 
held  December  27th  and  28th. 
He  was  elected  Recording  Secretary 
for  1917. 

'05 
Frederick    W.    Ohl    is    teaching 
Greek,   Latin  and   German  in  the 
Germantown    High   School,    Phila- 
delphia. 

Twins  were  bom  to  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
John  L.  Scull,  and  named  John  and 
Phoebe. 

'06 
A  recent  issue  of  the  Outing 
Magazine  has  a  number  of  pictures 
by  T.  K.  Brown,  Jr.  The  accom- 
panying article  is  written  by  T. 
Morris  Longstreth,  '08. 

•10 
A  daughter  was  bom  December 
28th  to  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Page  AUinson, 
and  named  Marv  M.  P.  Allinson, 
Jr. 

E.  S.  Cadbury  has  been  trans- 
ferred by  the  Carter,  Macy  Co.  to 
Chicago,  111. 


Established    1S64 

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Wardrobe  Trunks     - 


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TR.A\-ELLING    B.AGS  .AND  SUIT  CASES  OK 
FINEST  MATERIALS  .AT  MODERATE  PRICES 


Ladies'  Hand  and  Overnight  Bags 

CENTRAL  TRUNK  FACTORY 

908  Chestnut  Street 


i 
t 

((Daniel  E.Westom)) 

0©S©  (BCaSSu  03®^  ■SWr^^'iF 

i?GooD=«a®BCL[pmazi^ 

INSURANCE 

Fire  or  Burglary  Insurance  on  stu- 
dents' personal  effects  while  at  college 
or  elsewhere. 

Tourists'  Floating  Insurance  on  per- 
sonal effects  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  prop- 
erty or  for  injuries  to  persons. 

LONGACRE  &  EWING 
Bullitt  Bldg.,       141  So.  Fourth  Street 

PHILADELPHIA 


288 


The  Haverfordian 


E.  N.  Edwards  has  announced 
his  engagement  to  Miss  Elizabeth 
Allison  of  Haverford. 

'12 
C.  T.  Moon  has  entered  the  em- 
ploy  of   Carter,    Macy   Co.,    New 
York. 

The  Westotiian  for  January  con- 
tains an  article  by  Joshua  A.  Cope. 

Messrs.  Hans  Froelicher,  Jr.,  and 
Leo  Fesenmeier  have  announced 
that  they  have  formed  a  partner- 
ship for  the  general  practice  of  law 
under  the  firm  name  of  Froelicher 
and  Fesenmeier,  with  offices  in  the 
MunseyBuilding,  Baltimore,  Mary- 
land. 

'14 
C.    R.    Williams    married    Miss 
Grace  Jones  of  Atlantic  City,  New 
Jersey. 

'16 

The  following  is  a  list  of  address 
changes:  W.  M.  Allen,  1012  North 
Broadway,  Baltimore,  Md.;  J. 
Carey,  3rd.,  Drayton  Hall,  Boyls- 
ton  Street,  Cambridge,  Mass.;  F. 
W.  Carey,  Drayton  Hall,  Boylston 
Street,  Cambridge,  Mass.;  B.  L. 
Corson,  Y.  M.  C.  A.;  Syracuse,  N. 
Y.;  H.  A.  Johnson,  1129  Jersey 
Street,  Elizabeth,  N.  J.;  John 
Kuhns,  1010  Clinton  Street,  Phil- 
adelphia; J.  G.  Love,  53  Rodney 
House,  University  of  Pennsylvania, 
Philadelphia;  U.  J.  Mengert,  Dray- 
ton Hall,  Boylston  Street,  Cam- 
bridge, Mass.;  E.  R.  Moon,  care 
Harris-Forbes  Co.,  56  William 
Street,  New  York  City;  F.  P. 
Sharpless,  4740  Hazel  Avenue, 
Philadelphia;  L  T.  Steere,  4740 
Hazel  Avenue,  Philadelphia;  D.  C. 


Pictures  Framed 

to  order,  and  in  an  artistic 
manner,  and  at  reasonable 
prices. 

J.  E.  BARKMAN, 

24  W.  Lancaster  Avenue 

Ardmore,  Pa. 

Pictures,    Stationery,    Gifts 

BARCLAY  HALL  AZPELL,  Proprietor 

Musical    Supplies 

SHEET  MUSIC  PLAYER-ROLLS 

TALKING  MACHINES 
and  RECORDS 

Weyman  &  Gibson  Instruments 

32  EAST  LANCASTER  AVENUE 

ARDMORE,  PA. 

Open  Evenings  Phone  1303-W 

Bryn  Mawr  Motor  Co.,  Inc. 

Main  Line  Agents 

BUICK 
AUTOMOBILES 

Branch    of 

HALE  MOTOR  GO.  Wayne,  Pa. 


Wendell,  Drayton  Hall,  Boylston 
Street,  Cambridge,  Mass. 

Ex-members — W.  G.  Farr,  30 
Newbury  Street,  Boston,  Mass.; 
F.  C.  Goerke,  565  High  Street, 
Newark,  N.  J.;  J.  S.  Marine,  30 
Newbury  Street,  Boston,  Mass. ; 
C.  Van  Buskirk,  1010  Clinton 
Street,  Philadelphia ;  Harold  York, 
Haverford  College,  Haverford,  Pa. 

James  E.  Shipley  is  connected 
with  the  Girard  Shoe  Manufactur- 
ing Company,  313  Vine  Street, 
Philadelphia. 


Al.UMNI 


289 


•16 
("laiie  Kendig  is  employed  in  a 
laboratory  at  Coatesvillc,  Pa.     He 
is  conducting  work  along  chemical 
lines. 

The  fiftJi  Cecil  Rhodes  Scholar- 
ship to  be  won  by  a  Haverfordian 
within  the  past  six  years  has  been 
awarded  to  F"elix  Muskett  Morley, 
of  Baltimore,  Maryland.  He  is 
the  brother  of  C.  D."  Morley,  '10, 
who  is  also  a  Rhodes  Scholar.  He 
was  engaged  in  active  work  in 
France  during  1915-1916  in  the 
service  of  the  Friends'  Ambulance 
Unit.  His  contributions  to  various 
newspapers  while  there  gave  evi- 
dence of  marked  literary  ability 
and  since  his  return  he  has  con- 
tinued his  writing  as  a  reporter  on 
the  Public  Ledger.  He  has  also 
attained  prominence  on  the  lecture 
platform  in  appeals  for  funds  for 
war  suflerers. 


Headquarters  for  Everything 
[Musical 


Banjos,       Ukuleles, 
Mandolins,    Violins 
Mandolules.  Gui- 
tars. Cornets,  etc. 


,^      Pianos  and 
#1     Player- 
Pianos 

Victrolas  for  Victor  Records 

Popular,  Classical  and  Operatic  Sheet  Music 

mYMANN 

1108  Chestnut  Street,       Philadelphia 


Aside  from  its  careful  work  in  filling  pre- 
scriptions 

Haverford  Pharmacy 

has  become  known  as  a  place  where  many 
of  the  solid  comforts  of  life  may  be  ob- 
tained. One  worth  mentioning  is  the  fa- 
mous Lotion  for  sunburn,  chapped  hands 
and  face,  and  other  irritations  of  the  skin. 
DecHne.  gently  but  firmly,  any  other  said 
to  be  "just  as  good." 

WILSON  L.  HARBAUGH. 


Protection  is  the  Best  Policy 
The  Best  Policy  is  the  Best 
Protection 


Write  or  c.-\U  on 


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John  K.  Garrigues 


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r 


^atierforbtan 


Contents; 


In  Remembrance  of  Philosophy  4 Albert  H.  Stone,  '16  292 

Books,  Art  and  Morality 293 

J.  G.  C.  Le  Clercq,  '18,  and  W.  H.  Chamberlin,  '17 

Man  or  Manners?  (Concluded) C.  Van  Dam,  '17  302 

An  Old  Song W.  S.  Nevin,  '18  308 

Ether H.,  '19  309 

The  Judgment  That  Snapped H.  E.  McKinstry,  '17  311 

Ode  To  Doris WiUiam  W.  Wilcox,  Jr.,  '20  317 

The  Quest  of  Beauty J.  G.  C.  Schuman  Le  Clercq,  '18  318 

Alumni H.  P.  Schenck,  '18  325 


jFebruarp 

1917 


Marceau 

Photographer 


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Philadelphia 

Special  rates  to  students 
Phone,  Spruce  5606 


Capital 
$1,000,000 


Surplus  and  Undivided 

Dividends 

$476,000 


Logan  Trust  Company 
of  Philadelphia 

1431-33    Chestnut  Street 


We  Intite  Correspondence  or  an  Inlertieu)  Rdtdite 
to  Opening  Accounts. 

OffiocM 

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EDITORS 
Robert  Gibson,  1917  Editor-in-Chief 
W.  H.  Chamberlin,  1917  J.  G.  C.  LeClerco,  1918 

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The  Haverfordian  is  published  on  the  twentieth  of  each  month  during  college 
and  year.  Its  purpose  is  to  foster  the  literary  spirit  among  the  undergraduates 
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  twenty-fifth  of  the  month  preceding  the  date  of  issue. 

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


Vol.  XXXVIII  HAVERFORD,  PA.,  FEBRUARY,  1917. 


No.  8 


Sn  i^ememtirance  of  ^I)tlosioptP  4. 

When  I  behold  the  broad  moon's  silver  face 
Dimming  the  stars  with  its  more  glorious  light, — 
Or  poised,  a  golden  disk,  on  wooded  height; 
And  when  I  contemplate  the  boundless  space, 
And  with  a  wond'ring  eye  attempt  to  trace 
The  fixed  stars  in  their  eternal  flight 
Across  the  trackless  sky,  till  from  the  sight 
They  sink  below  the  distant  mountain's  base; 
When  I  behold  the  waves  on  pebbled  shore 
Race  their  prescribed  course,  and  turn  again; 
Or  faintly  hear  the  curling  breakers  roar, — 
Beating  their  rocky  boundaries  in  vain; 
My  dull  faith,  rising  like  a  mighty  wind. 
Acknowledges  an  universal  Mind. 

— Albert  H.  Stone,  '16. 


I 


THE    HAVERFORDIAN 


Vol.  XXXVIII.  HAVERFORD,  PA.,  FEBRUARY.   1917  No.  8. 

Poofes!,  iSrt  anb  iWoralitp 

By  J.  G.  C.  Le  Clercq  and  W.  H.  Chamberlin 

The  Loves  and  Losses  of  Pierrot,  by  William  Griffith.  Published  by 
Robert  J.  Shores,  New  York,  $1  net. 

Amores,  by  D.  H.  Lawrence.  Published  by  B.  W.  Huebsch,  New  York, 
$1.25  net. 

Harvest  Moon,  by  Josephine  Preston  Peabody.  Published  by  Hough- 
ton, Miffl.in  and  Co.,  Boston,  $L25  net. 

Poems  of  War  and  Peace,  by  Robert  Underwood  Johnson.  Pub- 
lished by  the  Bobbs  Merril  Co.,  New  York,  $1  net. 

Verse,  by  Adelaide  Crapsey.  Published  by  the  Manas  Press,  Roches- 
ter, New  York. 

Ireland's  Literary  Renaissance,  by  E.  A.  Boyd.  Published  by  the 
John  Lane  Co.,  New  York,  $2.50  net. 

The  Trufflers,  by  Samuel  Merwin.  Published  by  the  Bobbs  Merril 
Co.,  New  York,  $L35  net. 

Rodmoor,  by  John  Cooper  Powys.  Published  by  G.  Arnold  Shaw, 
New  York,  $L50  net. 

Suspended  Judgments,    by  John   Cooper  Powys.      Published    by    G. 
Arnold  Shaw,  New  York,  $2.00  net. 

I 

Mr.  Griffith's  book  of  poems  is  indeed  a  valuable  asset  to  American 
literature.  It  has  in  it  the  spring  gladness  and  the  spring  sorrow  of 
Pierrot;  his  joy  can  be  as  delicate  and  rare  as  the  mouth  of  one  who 
has  never  kissed,  his  sorrow  as  poignant  and  tragic  as  a  broken  heart. 
Carefree  Pierrot,  airy  Columbine,  the  ineffably  lovely  coquette  Pierrette 
and  the  graceful  Harlequin  flit  through  these  poems,  bringing  with 
them  sunshine  and  shadow,  trouble  and  peace,  hope  and  despair,  and 
we  are  always  forced  to  share  the  mood  of  the  poet. 


294  The  Haverfordian 

How  exquisite  the  music  of  these  lyrics  is!  From  the  tender,  happy 
"Homecoming  of  Pierrette"  to  the  high  garret  they  call  home: 

"Blinded  by  star-dust  in  our  eyes. 

Do  we  regret 

Our  home  is  very  near  the  skies? 

Pierrette,  Pierrette." 
to  the  last,  wistful  words  of  "The  Stricken  Pierrot": 

"  Cut  down  my  pride 

Close  to  the  sod. 

Dead.  .  .  .  Say  he  died 

Playing  with  God." 
there    are    a    thousand    different  shades  of    emotion,  each   expressed 
with  the  most  delightful  fantasy.     They  live,  these  characters;  Pierrot, 
the  dear  fool,  the  beloved  dreamer,  how  we  see  him  in  the  flesh: 

"  Fool  to  ransack  the  sky 

Seeking  a  sonnet 

Instead  of  ways  to  buy 

Pierrot  a  bonnet! " 
And  that  last,  lovely  farewell  to  "Pierrette,"  who  is  now  but  a 
memory: 

"She  went  so  softly  and  so  soon, 

Sh! — hardly  made  a  stir. 

But  going  took  the  stars  and  moon 

And  sun  away  with  her." 
Nothing  so  dainty,  so  fantastic,  so  full  of  the  witchery  of  the  love 
men  feel  for  Beauty  which  vanishes  like  the  bursting  of  a  bubble  but 
which  is  ever  in  our  minds  for  its  brief  flight  through  the  sunlight,  has 
been  done  since  Austin  Dobson;  no  American,  certainly,  heis  ever 
shown  so  much  of  a  Banvillesque  lightness  of  touch  unless  it  be  H.  C. 
Runner.  Americans  take  themselves  too  painfully  seriously  to  do  it; 
very  rarely  one  throws  off  all  his  cares  and  material  thoughts  and  wan- 
ders in  a  paradise  of  artificiality  to  pluck  the  sun-kissed  flowers  of  fancy 
and  bring  them  back  with  him  into  the  stifling  world  where  in  their 
loveliness  they  are  left  gasping  for  breath! 

The  author  of  "Amores"  is  an  Englishman:  Mr.  D.  H.  Lawrence. 
He  publishes  some  very  curious  poetry,  mostly  dealing  with  passion 
in  a  perfectly  frank  and  straightforward  manner.  There  is  a  bitterness 
born  of  experience  in  his  work;  there  are  the  pangs  and  irritation  of 
unsatisfied  desires;  the  disillusion  of  unfulfilled  dreams,  and  yet  withal 
an  almost  indomitable  force  and  vigor.  Evidently  Fate  has  not 
been  over-kind  to  the  poet :  much  of  the  work  is  troubled  and  rebellious, 


Books,  Art  and  Morality  295 

much  the  result  of  a  well-governed  mind  suddenly  and  swiftly  pouring 
out  a  torrent  of  bitterness.  But  he  is  young;  and  now  and  then  the 
old,  old  sorrows  of  the  past  are  forgotten  and  blindly,  heroically  reckless, 
he  plunges  into  a  dream  or  is  swept  away  by  a  desire  the  immediate 
fulfilment  of  which  is  his  only  desire.  At  the  end,  always,  is  disillusion, 
which  engenders  not  a  violent  anger  and  fury,  but  a  quiet,  hard,  silent 
resignation  and  a  black  memory.  Amid  the  discouraging  gloom  and 
darkness,  here  and  there  are  rays  of  bright,  warm  sunlight:  the  songs 
of  mother  and  child  are  the  purest  expression  of  a  noble  love  and  radiate 
around  them  a  veritable  halo  of  "sweetness  and  light." 

Mr.  Lawrence  succeeds  with  his  rhythms  very  well:  the  sudden 
change  of  metre  to  express  a  sudden  change  of  mood  is  a  very  effective 
vehicle  for  the  interpretation  of  the  uncommon  emotions  the  author 
feels;  this  together  with  sure  touch  and  a  force  and  power  of  character 
make  a  strange  and  fascinating  poetry.  .  .  . 

In  "Harvest  Moon"  Mrs.  L.  S.  Marks  shows  that  she  possesses 
an  abundant  joy  and  love  of  life;    a  passion  for  the  bettering  and  ad- 
vancement of  human  existence;  a  tenderness  and  sympathy  for  guiltless 
sufferers  and  a  remarkable  gift  of  music  and  imagery.     It  is  dedicated 
to  the  Women  of  Europe  and  is  one  of  the  most  earnest  utterances  of 
a  generous  heart  on  the  subject  of  the  war.     The  dedication  ends  with 
these  lines — a  dialogue  between  woman  and  soldier: 
"   .  .  .  .  And  I  must  dare. 
— Who  bade  you  try? 
— My  manchild  here,  his  cry. 
— /  cannot  let  you  by; 

Woman  I  stand  on  guard. 
— And  I." 
"The  Cradle  Song,"  first  published  in  Scribner's  Magazine;    the 
poem  "  Dead  Chimes,"  and  several  sonnets  on  the  war  are  nobly  imagined. 
Mrs.  Marks  is  especially   happy  in  the  Sapphics  of  "  Harvest  Moon : 
1916,"  in  which  she  bids  the  "moon  of  compassion"  look  down  and  at 
last  "on  the  hungering  face  of  the  waters"    "there  shall  be  Light": 
"Light  of  Light,  give  us  to  see  for  their  sake; 
Light  of  Light,  grant  them  eternal  peace; 
And  let  light  perpetual  shine  upon  them; 
Light,  everlasting." 
Mr.  Robert  Underwood  Johnson  has  in  his  poems  several  on  the 
war,  notably  the  well-known  "The  Haunting  Face:    on  the  portrait  of 


296  The  Haverfordian 

a  child  lost  in  the  Lusitania"  and  the  sonnet  on  Edith  Cavell.     The  ode 
"Goethals  of  Panama"  with  its  striking  ending: 
' '  O  soldier  of  the  blameless  sword! 
Who  serves  mankind  is  servant  of  the  Lord. 
Servant  of  God,  well  done," 
is  in  its  field  as  great  a  poem  as  has  been  written  in  America.      But 
where  the  poet  succeeds  best  is  in  his  perfectly  personal  poems,  espe- 
cially in  "A  Song  at  Parting,"  slightly  reminiscent  of  Robert  Bridges 
and  yet  absolutely  individual  and  characteristic : 
"Nights  of  the  waning  moon, 
Go  not  so  soon!" 
Neither  Dobson  nor  Calverly  have  better  conjured  up  the  figure  of 
Horace  than  Mr.  Johnson  in  his  poem  on  "Reading  Horace": 
"He,  humble,  candid,  sane  and  free, 
Whom  e'en  Maecenas  could  not  spoil, 
Who  wooed  his  fields  with  minstrelry 
As  rich  as  wine,  as  smooth  as  oil, 
And  kept  a  kiss  for  Lalage." 

II 

One  of  the  greatest  losses  American  poetry  has  suffered  is  the  death 
of  Miss  Adelaide  Crapsey,  a  poet  who  succeeded  in  inventing  a  new 
form:  the  cinquain.  It  is  a  means  of  expression  of  one  of  the  most 
dynamic  imaginations  that  have  been  expressed  in  poetry:  it  is  like  an 
exquisitely  wrought  gem  and  when  throughout  there  is  the  ever-appear- 
ing and  haunting  vision  of  death.  Miss  Crapsey  attains  undisputed 
genius.  One  has  but  to  read  "Triad": 
"These  be 

Three  silent  things: 

The  falling  snow the  hour 

Before  the  dawn  .  ...  the  mouth  of  one 

Just  dead," 
or  that  superb,  terrible  "Warning": 
"Just  now 

Out  of  the  strange, 

Still  dusk  .  ...  as  strange  as  still  .... 

A  white  moth  flew  ....  Why  am  I  grown 

So  cold?" 
to  be  convinced  that  here  is  an  artist  pouring  out  the  most  sincere  and 
pathetic  and  perfectly  interpreted  emotion  of  which  the  soul  is  capable. 


Books,  Art  and  Morality  '297 

Nothing  like  these  cinquains  has  been  done  before;  it  is  very  unlikely 
that  anything  like  them  will  ever  be  done  again.  They  have  been  so 
perfectly  done  by  Miss  Crapsey.  It  is  conspicuously  infrequent  to 
find  a  great  and  beautiful  thought  expressed  in  such  a  brilliant  and 
all-powerful  way.  In  vain  the  poet  says: 
' '  Still  as 

On  windless  nights 

The  moon-cast  shadows  are, 

So  still  will  be  my  heart  when  I 

Am  dead." 
Her  heart  is  not  still ;  it  bleeds  before  us  and  we  are  chastened  and 
weep;  it  sings  and  we  are  glad ;  wherever  we  go  we  hear  it  in  her  poetry; 
it  is  in  the  "falling  snow"  she  wrote  about;  it  fills  "the  hour  before  the 
dawn";  it  lingers  on  and  sweetens  "the  mouth  of  one  just  dead."  Its 
echo  will  never  die;  it  palpitates  and  we  cannot  but  hear  it;  as  long 
as  men  love  exquisite  thought  and  perfect  expression,  so  long  will  it 
be  by  us. 

Ill 
The  literature  of  Ireland  has  always  been  interesting;  not  the  work 
of  men  accidentally  Irish  like  Congreve,  Bernard  Shaw  and  Oscar 
Wilde — English  wits  have  always  been  Irish! — who  belong  to  English 
literature,  but  that  of  men  like  W.  B.  Yeats,  Lord  Dunsany,  Padraic 
Colum,  Thomas  Macdonagh  and  St.  John  G.  Ervine.  Mr.  Boyd  dis- 
cusses the  whole  of  Celtic  literature  from  James  Mangan  and  Sir  Samuel 
Ferguson  to  Rutherford  Mayne  and  Lady  Gregory.  The  causes  of 
Irish  literature,  its  tendencies,  its  doctrine,  its  influences,  its  expression 
and  its  achievements  are  dealt  with  in  a  scholarly  and  sympathetic 
manner.  Mr.  Boyd  is  an  Irishman  himself;  he  has  been  associated 
with  practically  all  the  poets  of  his  country;  he  knows  its  literature 
and  is  proud  of  its  history;  he  is,  in  fine,  considered  an  expert  in  this 
field.  As  such  he  unfortunately  assumes  now  and  then  that  the  reader 
is  better  acquainted  with  the  subject  than  is  the  case:  but  as  a  well- 
written,  critical,  authoritative  statement  of  the  revival  of  letters  in 
Ireland  and  as  a  book  indispensable  to  a  student  of  this  phase  of  literary 
development,  simply  because  it  is  literature  and  not  a  history  of  liter- 
ature (though  a  certain  amount  of  the  latter  is  indispensable  and  is  in 
the  book),  Mr.  Boyd's  work  will  not  soon  be  surpassed.  Its  value  as  a 
source-book  is  unfortunately  lessened  by  its  lack  of  an  index;  it  is  to 
be  hoped  that  successive  editions  will  supply  this  want. 


298  The  Haverfordian 

IV 

"The  Trufflers,"  by  Mr.  Samuel  Merwin,  gives  the  public  what  it 
wants.  It  is  not  "highbrow";  it  is  honestly  written  for  the  masses. 
But  it  is  superior  to  most  novels  of  the  sort.  It  is  a  good  story  told  in 
a  free  and  easy  manner.  To  those  who  have  lived  in  Greenwich  Village, 
who  have  lunched  at  the  Dutch  Oven,  dined  at  the  Brevoort  and  danced 
at  the  Liberal  Club  to  pianola  accompaniment,  it  is  very  dear:  it  draws 
a  good  picture  of  life  around  Washington  Square.  The  story  is  interest- 
ing and  shows  what  humbugs  the  radicals  are — or  the  would-be  radicals — 
in  a  jocular,  humorous  vein.  There  are  no  embellishments  and  no 
graces;  no  English  influence  and  no  creeds;  it  is  sober,  convincing, 
entertaining;    the  humor  is  typically  American. 

A  novel  of  a  very  different  sort  is  "Rodmoor."  The  book, 
dedicated  to  the  spirit  of  Emily  Bronte,  shows  her  influence.  Rod- 
moor  is  a  village  on  the  North  Sea:  here  the  author  lays  the  action  of 
his  plot.  About  this  sea  hovers  an  inexpressibly  morbid  atmosphere. 
"Our  sea  is  not  the  same  as  other  seas,"  exclaims  one  of  the  char- 
acters; "it  eats  into  us."  That  is  precisely  what  it  does;  there  is  the 
pre-eminent  feature  of  the  novel.  The  old  families  of  the  region  are 
invariably  queer;  there  is  a  streak  of  madness  in  them;  they  take  to 
drink,  go  mad,  kill  themselves  or  each  other.  The  sinister  influence 
exercised  by  the  sea  assails  all  in  its  reach;  sojourners,  even,  are 
struck  by  the  terrible  loneliness  of  the  place. 

The  story  is  gloomy:  Mr.  Powys'  characters  live  lives  that  are  a 
barren  and  desolate  waste.  They  accomplish  nothing,  they  pass  their 
dreary  days  in  listening  to  the  roar  of  the  sea,  a  sound  they  are  never 
able  to  shut  from  out  their  ears.  The  sea  affects  them  all:  shapes 
their  destinies.  To  some  it  brings  bitter  sorrow  and  tears  of  vexation; 
to  others  utter  gloom  and  despair;  to  the  sensitive  lunacy  and  death. 
These  people  are  all  half-wits  ruled  by  a  power  of  nature  beyond  their 
ken;  like  ghouls  they  gape,  like  East  Anglia  witches  they  grin.  The 
sea  and  the  terrific  power  of  impulse:  these  rule  them.  It  is  no  good 
kicking  against  the  pricks;  blindly  they  do  what  they  know  they  must 
and  the  rest  is  silence.  Indeed  this  motley  throng  of  imbeciles,  with 
their  wretched  characters  and  still  more  wretched  victims,  might  well 
suggest  the  wildest  fancies  of  Dostoievsky;  yet  here  and  there  are 
many  purely  Anglo-Saxon  touches,  to  wit,  the  man  who  beats  a  woman 
and  thereby  sows  the  seeds  of  a  passionate  love  in  her  breast.  Over 
and  above  everything  prevails  morbidity.  Mr.  Powys'  novel  is  non- 
constructive.  But  it  is  none  the  less  a  good  novel:  its  author  is  a 
keen  psychologist;   he  knows  human  impulses,  be  they  healthy  or  not; 


Books,  Art  and  Morality  299 

his  insight  into  human  instincts  and  his  expression  of  the  power  Nature 
exerts  over  human  beings  are  among  the  notable  features  of  a  style  the 
like  of  which  has  not  been  shown  since  Mr.  Hardy's  "Jude  the  Ob- 
scure." 

In  these  days  when  constructive — hideous  word! — novelists,  in 
their  presumptuous  goodness  of  heart,  aim  to  make  this  mad  old  world 
of  ours  the  better  and  brighter  by  their  vapid  sentimentality  and 
tradesmen 's-entrance  philosophy,  it  is  with  a  feeling  of  infinite  relief 
and  gratitude  beyond  words  that  we  turn  to  a  man  who  writes  for  the 
pure  joy  of  artistic  creation. 

V 

The  same  author  achieves  a  distinct  success  in  another  field  of 
literary  expression  in  his  recently  published  essays  with  the  significant 
title  of  "Suspended  Judgments."  Nothing,  perhaps,  is  more  difficult 
than  expressing  new  ideas  about  men  whose  position  has  been  fixed  by 
the  arbitrary  canons  of  conventional  judgment.  Our  critics  usually 
solve  the  problem  by  selecting  the  "best"  writers  by  an  application  of 
certain  objective  methods  much  as  Mr.  Walter  Camp  selects  his  all- 
American  football  team.  But  not  so  Mr.  Powys.  In  his  likes  and  dis- 
likes he  acknowledges  no  authority  beyond  his  own  taste  and  fancy. 
It  is  for  this  reaison  that  his  writing  never  conveys  any  suggestion  of 
unimpassioned  praise  or  commonplace  condemnation.  His  interpreta- 
tion of  the  writers  with  whom  he  deals  has  always  the  note  of  personal 
enthusiasm:   as  Swinburne  said:    "The  critic's  function  is  to  praise." 

A  grievous  peril  is  now  confronting  American  learning:  we  have 
but  to  glance  at  the  courses  of  a  college  curriculum  to  see  that  we  are 
not  being  taught  literature,  but  the  history  of  literature.  We  are  get- 
ting the  wrong  thing:  it  is  choking  our  culture  in  its  incipient  stages. 
For  Mr.  Powys,  however,  an  appreciation  of  a  man's  art  does  not  in- 
clude a  glorified  time-table  of  his  progress  through  this  vale  of  tears, 
with  due  notice  of  arrival,  stoppage  and  departure. 

Most  of  all  to  be  commended  is  Mr.  Powys'  ruthless  fight  against 
the  greatest  menace  which  American  culture  has  had  to  face :  the  insipid 
cant  and  pseudo-elevating  Protestantism  which  Browning  obscurely 
serves  up  as  a  substitute  for  Philosophy  and  the  art  of  living.  At  a 
time  when  our  greatest  city  is  called  upon  to  meet  the  humorous  but 
none  the  less  dangerous  possibility  of  having  its  soul  saved  by  the  good 
graces  of  Mister  William  Sunday,  the  following  quotation  from  Mr. 
Powys'  book  is  especially  grateful:  "When  one  considers  how  this 
thrice-accursed  weight  of  Protestant  Puritanism,  the  most  odious  and 
inhuman  of  all  the  perverted  superstitions  that  have  darkened  man's 


300  The  Haverfordian 

history,  a  superstition  which,  though  slowly  dying,  is  not  yet,  owing 
to  its  joyless  use  as  a  'business  asset,'  altogether  dead,  has,  ever  since 
it  spawned  in  Scotland  and  Geneva,  made  cruel  war  upon  every  childish 
instinct  in  us  and  oppressed  with  unspeakable  dreariness  the  lives  of 
generations  of  children,  it  must  be  regarded  as  one  of  the  happiest  signs 
of  the  times  that  the  double  Renaissance  of  Catholic  faith  and  pagan 
freedom  now  abroad  among  us,  has  brought  the  'Child  in  the  House' 
into  the  clear  sunlight  of  an  almost  religious  appreciation." 

Mr.  Powys  is  particularly  fortunate  in  his  appreciation  of  the 
great  French  humanists  who  have  attained  the  golden  mean  between 
the  two  extremes  of  sensual  abandon  on  the  one  hand  and  fanatical 
superstition  on  the  other.  The  calm,  clear  wisdom  of  Anatole  France, 
Remy  de  Gourmont  and  the  great  Voltaire  glows  anew  with  the  light 
of  warm  enthusiasm  in  Mr.  Powys'  admirable  review  of  these  authors. 
In  his  essay  on  Voltaire  Mr.  Powys  says:  "To  sit  listening  in  the  forlorn 
streets  of  a  Puritan  city — when  for  one  day  the  cheating  tradesmen 
leave  their  barbarous  shops — to  the  wailing  of  unlovely  hymns,  empty 
of  everything  except  a  degraded  sentimentality  that  would  make  an 
Athenian  or  a  Roman  slave  blush  with  shame,  is  enough  to  cause  one 
to  regard  the  most  scandalous  levity  of  Voltaire  as  something  positively 
sacred  and  holy." 

When,  we  are  tempted  to  add,  was  Mr.  Powys  last  in  Philadelphia, 
that  he  should  know  and  describe  it  so  well? 

VI 

A  typical  expression  of  this  middle-class  Puritan  philistinism  is 
the  campaign  now  being  waged  against  the  John  Lane  Company,  pub- 
lishers of  Mr.  Theodore  Dreiser's  novel  "The  Genius,"  by  the  Reverend 
Percy  Stickney  Grant.  After  the  difficulties  which  Mr.  Dreiser  en- 
countered in  the  publication  of  his  work — it  required  the  courage  of 
an  English  firm  to  publish  an  American  artist's  novel — it  might  seem 
as  if  he  should  be  immune  from  further  persecution  at  the  hands  of 
gentlemen  who  are  doubtless  worthy  but  mistaken,  and  whose  con- 
science is  more  highly  developed  than  their  aesthetic  perceptions. 

Why  do  people  insist  that  every  book  should  have  a  moral?  Why 
are  we  so  frequently  subjected  to  the  argument:  "Would  you  wish 
your  daughter  or  sister  to  read  it?" 

To  begin  with,  books  are  not  written  for  our  daughters  and  sisters: 
these  young  misses  have  a  literature  of  their  own,  unless  Miss  Alcott 
and  Whittier  have  lived  in  vain.  If  the  judgment  of  immature  girls 
is  to  be  the  criterion  of  literature,  let  us  have  done  with  the  whole  farce! 
Let  us  all  be  Longfellows  and  Bryants! 


{ 


Books,  Art  and  Morality  301 

Rabelais  is  acknowledged  a  master;  he  has  treated  sex  as  no  one 
before;  so  "completely  as  it  ought  to  be  treated."  Yet  his  work  is  a 
sealed  chapter — perhaps  rightly  so — in  many  a  woman's  experience. 
After  all  is  said  and  done,  if  our  mission  be  to  produce  children — liberis 
procreandis — and  keep  the  race  alive,  is  not  sex  the  greatest  and  most 
all-important  thing  in  life? 

Mr.  Dreiser  has  merely  painted  a  portrait  of  life:  sex  for  him  is 
its  chief  thing.  The  sorry  aspect  of  life  deserves  portrayal  as  well  as 
the  pleasant:  in  art  questions  of  "healthiness,"  "morbidity,"  "moral- 
ity" and  "immorality"  are  futile.  The  real  question,  the  only  ques- 
tion that  need  occupy  our  minds  is:  "Is  it  art?  is  it  well  done  or  badly 
done?  is  it  life?" 

What  de  Maupassant  and  Artzibasheff  have  done,  Mr.  Dreiser 
does:  only  unfortunately  he  is  neither  French  nor  Russian;  he  is  not 
distant  enough  for  these  dear  good  people  that  compose  the  reading 
public;  he  is  American,  he  writes  of  sex  and — they  lower  their  eyes  and 
blush! 

Moreover,  the  only  result  that  such  prurient  agitations  as  that 
of  Mister  Grant  accomplish  is  that,  instead  of  inviting  fair-minded 
criticism  on  the  part  of  intelligent  men  and  women,  they  arouse  the  un- 
healthy curiosity  of  adolescents  but  newly  awake  to  the  fact  of  sex. 
Mr.  Dreiser's  novel  shows  us  a  man  who  follows  his  impulses  rather 
than  his  thoughts,  and  who  is  punished  by  Fate,  which  is  invariably 
a  woman.  To  some  he  yields,  to  others  he  does  not.  It  is  what  Mr. 
Hardy  did  with  less  courage  but  with  humor  in  "The  Well  Beloved"; 
it  is  what  Mr.  Galsworthy  did  in  "The  Dark  Flower" ;  it  is  what  novel- 
ists have  constantly  been  doing.  It  is  a  topic  from  which  they  can  never 
get  away,  simply  because  it  is  Life.  Flaubert's  "Madame  Bovary" 
was  attacked  with  puritanical  venom,  but  is  now  regarded  as  a  work  of 
art ;  has  Mister  Grant  read  this  book?  or  Siidermann's  ' '  Song  of  Songs ' '  ? 
Mr.  Dreiser  is  an  artist ;  even  were  he  not,  his  work  would  deserve  praise 
merely  because  it  is  a  powerful  protest  against  the  smug  complacency  of 
the  puritanical  bourgeois,  whose  well-nigh  invincible  pettiness  of  out- 
look has  blighted  our  literature. 

VII 
In  these  days  when  opulent  feeble-mindedness  is  able  to  overrule 
law  and  order;  when  politics  are  filled  with  corruption  and  dishon- 
esty; when  the  present  generation  is  completely  lacking  in  aesthetic 
views  and  artistic  appreciation ;  when  religion  is  threatened  by  fanaticism 
and  vaudeville  methods,  it  would  seem  as  if  Mister  Grant's  abundant 
energy  might  better  be  steered  in  other  channels. 


iHan  or  iWannertf? 

(Concluded) 

THAT  night  Kittie's  maledictions  persistently  dogged  Laddie's 
brain.  They  danced  in  ugly  shapes  across  the  dark  threshold 
of  her  closed  eyes.  There  was  truth  in  them,  for  otherwise 
they  could  not  linger.  The  scorn  of  a  best  friend,  whether  justified  or 
not,  was  no  trivial  weapon  against  any  opponent,  were  it  a  man  or  a 
new  hat.  Kitty  not  only  did  not  care  for  Lindley,  she  despised  him  as 
being  utterly  inferior:  Laddie  too  began  to  doubt  his  sincerity  in  spite 
of  herself.  The  meeting,  the  game  she  had  played,  the  marriage, — the 
whole  affair  seemed  so  fabulous,  that  it  cast  a  veil  of  mistrust  over  the 
man  himself.  Yet  he  had  been  very  wonderful — a  new  type,  a  super- 
man to  her,  and  she  hated  to  acknowledge  him  a  fake.  The  men  that 
were  allotted  to  her  by  society  or  by  circumstances  were  of  an  infinitely 
low  order.  They  took  all  that  she  would  give,  of  her  time,  and  of  her- 
self, and  gingerly  paid  their  tainted  money  for  it.  They  left  scarce 
room  for  that  reverence  bom  from  admiration  and  love,  that  lets  the 
mind  reach  beyond  the  human,  and  build  its  object  into  a  half  divine 
thing  which  fills  all  the  requirements  of  a  hungry  soul. 

But  why  should  she  expect  so  much  of  Lindley? 

He  had  made  no  claims  for  himself.  "What  men  call  a  good  fel- 
low and  I  call  a  well-dressed  dummy"  was  not  a  very  extravagant  state- 
ment of  his  worth.  He  was  honest  in  spite  of  his  faults.  Perhaps  it 
was  possible  for  him  to  kiss  her  on  the  night  before  he  was  married  and 
yet  be  sincere  about  it.  He  had  been  respectful  to  a  fault.  Never  by 
word  or  deed  had  he  let  her  feel  that  she  was  beneath  him  in  the  social 
scale:  he  had  weighed  her  opinions,  listened  to  her  arguments,  and  con- 
versed as  thoughtfully  as  though  she  were  a  life-long  friend:  then  he 
had  kissed  her  as  though  she  were  more  than  that.  Before  she  fell 
asleep  she  determined  to  go  to  the  wedding.  It  was  something  to  see 
him  again,  even  if  he  was  marrying  another  girl.  Her  days,  previous 
to  her  meeting  with  Lindley,  had  slipped  by  in  an  outward  whirl,  but 
with  more  or  less  inward  peace.  Since  the  night  in  the  restaurant 
there  had  been  no  peace,  but  a  restless  suspense,  half  pain,  half  joy, 
which  lighted  fires  within  her  that  had  never  burned  before,  but  always 
slumbered  because  no  man  she  knew,  had  the  breath  of  finer  feeling 
to  kindle  them  to  flame.  However,  tomorrow  would  end  it  all  and 
she  could  go  back  and  be  herself  again,  except  for  a  memory,  and  a  new 
item  in  the  list  of  requirements  for  the  man  whom,  some  day,  she  hoped 
to  find. 


Man  or  Manners?  303 

On  the  following  morning  Laddie  had  barely  lifted  her  arm  to  take 
down  her  new  tailored  suit  from  its  hook  when  the  inexorable  Kitty, 
still  in  bed,  demanded  where  she  was  going.  It  was  no  use  hiding  facts 
from  Kitty,  for  she  could  look  straight  through  Laddie's  liquid  brown 
eyes  and  tell  her  the  minutest  details  of  what  was  going  on  behind 
them. 

"To  the  wedding,"  said  Laddie,  trying  to  be  casual. 

"Then  on  a  little  trip  with  the  bride  and  groom  to  Honolulu  or 
Cuba  or  maybe  to  the  Orient,  eh?  He  doesn't  want  you  at  the  wedding, 
dear  child!  Your  very  presence  will  be  a  nightmare  to  him,  if  he  should 
happen  to  see  you  in  the  crowd." 

"Why?"  demanded  Laddie,  in  nervous  perplexity. 

"Because  even  society  men  have  a  little  code  of  their  own  which 
says  that  store  girls,  charming  though  they  may  be  at  night,  are  not 
to  be  cultivated  in  the  day  time;  and  above  all  must  not  be  seen  at 
weddings  lest  they  recall  memories  which,  at  that  particular  ceremony, 
would  not  sit  well  on  the  smiling  brow  of  the  groom." 

"He  invited  me  and  I'm  going,"  declared  Laddie  with  final  emphasis. 

"What  shall  I  tell  them  at  the  store?" 

"Tell  them  I'm  sick:    tell  them  anything." 

Then  Laddie,  after  purchasing  new  shoes  and  gloves  and  making 
herself  as  charming  as  she  could,  attended  the  Lindley  wedding  on 
Fifth  Avenue.  When  she  climbed  the  wide,  low  steps,  and  saw  the 
stunning  machines  and  beautifully  gowned  women  escorted  by  fault- 
lessly attired  men,  she  felt  very  insignificant.  But  something  akin  to 
socialism  boiled  up  within  her  and  told  her  that  she  was  as  good  as  they. 
She  marched  boldly  into  the  vast  sea  of  pews.  The  church  was  already 
half  full  and  the  empty  spaces  were  rapidly  disappearing.  The  ushers 
seemed  occupied,  so  she  slipped  up  unnoticed  and  took  a  seat  on  the 
aisle  where  she  might  get  a  good  view  of  the  coming  sacrifice  and  feel 
the  full  cure  for  her  foolish  infatuation.  She  waited  patiently,  casting 
furtive  glances  behind  her  for  a  stolen  glimpse  of  the  bridegroom.  Then 
she  remembered  that  the  pair  would  not  appear  till  the  last  minute 
and  calmed  herself  with  the  amazing  thought  that  all  these  fashionable 
men  and  women  about  her  were  assembled  for  the  man  who  had 
spent  the  whole  past  evening  in  her  little  room.  She  thought  of 
his  mother  and  a  possible  encounter  with  her.  It  might  mean  public 
disgrace  and  uo  end  of  trouble  for  Lindley.  She  saw  visions  of  a 
headline  in  the  paper,  "Romantic  Store-girl  attends  Lindley  wed- 
ding," and  kept  her  head  lowered  while  people  passed  by  her  into 
the  pew.     She  did  not  want  her  face  to   be   seen    for  fear  it    might 


304  The  Haverfordian 

betray  how  hopelessly  out  of  place  she  felt.  After  all,  it  was  foolish 
for  her  to  have  come.  No  man  who  associated  with  the  class  of  people 
she  saw  on  all  sides,  would  bother  with  her  for  anything  more  than  a 
possible  evening's  amusement.  Here  was  another  wedding  that  felt 
like  a  funeral!  She  had  a  longing  desire  to  fade  away  under  the  seats, 
unnoticed  and  unknown. 

The  wedding  march  burst  the  air  mightily  from  the  full  lungs  of 
a  tremendous  organ,  and  drove  Laddie's  fears  down  her  throat  in  one 
big  gulp.  She  cast  a  hurried  glance  behind  and  saw  Lindley  leading  his 
bride  up  the  aisle,  followed  by  a  cavalcade  of  ushers  and  bridesmaids. 
They  passed  and  she  caught  a  brief  glimpse  of  the  bride's  profile.  "O, 
she's  glorious!"  murmured  Laddie  softly;  and  all  during  the  service 
the  picture  of  a  white-veiled  angel,  beautiful  as  the  dawn,  kept  flitting 
before  her  fanciful  eyes.  The  ceremony  progressed  in  a  dead  hush  of 
the  church.  As  the  moments  drew  near  to  the  meek  but  mighty  con- 
tract, Laddie  had  an  inordinate  desire  to  cry.  Some  emotion  more 
magnanimous  than  jealousy  made  her  pity  the  bride.  How  could 
Lindley  speak  last  night  as  he  did  of  that  wonderful  girl?  How 
and  why  could  he  "manage  to  forget  her,"  on  his  last  night  as  a  single 
man?  How  that  lovely  face  would  burn  with  anger  and  humiliation 
if  the  bride  suddenly  knew  that  the  man  she  was  swearing  to  love, 
honor  and  obey  had  last  night  kissed  one  of  Wanamaker's  host  of  em- 
ployees! If  that  girl  could  not  keep  Lindley  faithful,  with  beauty, 
education  and  money,  what  hope  had  Laddie  of  being  more  than  a 
passing  amusement  furnished  for  the  moment  by  time  and  place? 

The  bride  was  being  given  away  by  a  tall,  venerable  gentleman. 
The  ropes  were  beginning  to  tighten  around  the  pair  and  the  knot 
would  soon  be  inevitably  tied.  At  last  when  the  faint  murmur  of  assent 
came  from  both  of  them,  Laddie  closed  her  eyes  and  wanted  to  cry  out, 
"Wait!   He's  a  dummy,  a  well-dressed  dummy,  by  his  own  confession." 

It  was  all  quickly  over.  They  were  coming  down  the  aisle  and  this 
time  Lindley  was  on  the  inside  nearest  Laddie.  Every  step  of  the  way 
her  eyes  were  transfixed  on  his  face.  It  was  calm,  handsome,  and 
faintly  smiling.  He  was  just  in  front  of  her  when  their  glances  met,  held 
and  shifted.  Laddie  smiled,  but  not  a  trace  of  recognition  flashed  in 
Lindley 's  eyes  and  not  a  muscle  of  his  face  moved.  He  had  nodded  at 
others  as  he  passed,  but  Laddie  might  have  been  a  beggar  in  the  street 
for  all  he  noticed  her. 

She  was  staggered,  and  a  shiver  ran  the  whole  length  of  her  spine. 
She  drew  in  a  deep  breath  and  sighed.  Suddenly  she  became  frightened 
at  her  emotions  and  gazed  at  the  people  about  her,  one  by  one,  in  a 


Man  or  Manners?  305 

terrified  stare.  They  noticed  her  and  she  tried  to  calm  herself.  He 
had  cut  her  coldly  and  deliberately.  It  was  quite  simple.  He  was 
ashamed  of  her  and  ashamed  to  let  anyone  see  that  he  recognized  her. 
She  must  control  herself,  for  it  might  pass  and  she  might  be  able  to 
forget.  Other  things  almost  as  bad  had  come  to  her,  and  she  had  sur- 
vived them.  He  was  a  coward,  of  course,  and  their  evening  had  been 
a  silly  mockery.  If  she  only  had  not  come  to  the  wedding  she  might 
have  kept  on  believing  him  a  true  man.  How  foolish  people  were  to 
want  so  much!  The  measure  of  one's  hopes  was  never  known  till  they 
were  crushed.  There  were  no  real  gentlemen  after  all.  If  they  were 
fine  on  the  outside,  their  characters  were  pulpy! 

She  noticed  that  people  were  leaving.  Some  one  was  trying  to 
get  past  her  into  the  aisle.  She  arose  and  joined  the  departing  throng, 
determined  to  give  up  all  faith  and  take  it  for  granted  that  each  man 
she  met,  was  merely  animal  flesh  and  to  be  treated  as  such. 

The  sidewalk  was  massed.  She  stood  listless  and  disinterested 
in  the  shadow  of  a  pillar,  vaguely  wondering  what  she  should  do  next. 
The  gnawing  pain  would  not  leave  her.  It  dragged  heavily  at  her  heart. 
The  restless  uncertainty  of  it  nagged  her.  All  the  world  seemed  vain 
and  useless  through  one  man's  contempt  for  her;  all  effort,  ambition, 
accomplishment  and  victory  were  smothered  by  the  drab  curtain  of 
doubt.  Kitty  was  right.  If  he  had  even  been  posing  as  a  man  he  would 
not  have  gone  home  with  her:  yet  something  beyond  reason,  in  the 
far  recesses  where  instinct  lives,  fought  for  faith  with  the  fierceness  of  a 
last  resort.  There  was  no  half-way  in  the  stress  of  the  moment.  He 
was  either  all  that  a  man  could  be  in  honor,  chivalry,  and  strength,  or 
he  was  nothing:  she  was  not  quite  sure  which.  A  fearful  curiosity 
prompted  to  try  and  find  out. 

She  saw  the  machines  leaving.  Where  were  they  all  going,  surely 
to  the  reception?  Why  should  she  not  go?  The  two  ceremonies  were 
branches  of  the  same  function.  She  had  been  invited  to  one;  why 
not  the  other?     She  had  no  machine,  but  there  were  trolley  cars. 

"Something  may  happen;  I  can't  go  away  feeling  like  this.  I'll 
never  love  any  man  again  if  I  do,"  she  pondered:  then  with  eager  steps 
and  new  enthusiasm  she  darted  away  from  the  crowd  and  hastened 
through  to  Sixth  Avenue.  She  found  the  bride's  address  in  a  drug  store 
phone  book  and  boarded  an  up-town  car.  Within  fifteen  minutes  she 
stood  beneath  the  sheltered  entrance  of  Mrs.  Horace  Lindley's  parental 
home. 

A  long  line  of  cars  was  throbbing  impatiently  to  discharge  their 


306  The  Haverfordian 

occupants  at  the  door  and  whirl  away.  Laddie  hesitated.  She  knew 
that  she  was  about  to  do  a  crazy  deed  and  with  quick-breathed  nervous- 
ness she  tried  to  measure  whether  she  were  equal  to  it.  It  would  take 
courage  and  presence  of  mind  to  go  in  there  and  stand  before  him. 
She  did  not  want  to  lose  control  of  herself  and  make  a  scene.  She 
passed  her  hand  across  her  forehead  and  leaned  against  the  railing. 
The  four  hundred  was  flowing  by  in  a  steady  stream.  Perhaps  she  would 
not  be  noticed.  The  chance  was  worth  taking.  The  fierce  desire  to  make 
him  acknowledge  her  and  prove  to  herself  that  her  dreams  of  him  had 
not  been  nightmares  made  her  fingers  clench  and  her  soft  cheeks  turn  pale. 
It  was  no  longer  a  personal  affair.  He  was  married  and  that  ended  hira 
for  her.  It  was  no  impulse  of  sentiment.  She  was  above  that  toward 
a  man  who  did  not  want  her  affection.  It  was  a  matter  of  faith  in  all 
mankind,  for  if  the  best  that  she  had  ever  found  was  nothing  but  a 
pretty  imitation — a  glass  diamond — what  was  the  use  of  virtue,  of 
honesty,  of  poverty  and  all  that  goes  to  make  clean  living?  If  he  had 
refused  and  been  ashamed  to  speak  to  her,  where  was  there  any  reward 
for  fighting  to  be  decent,  for  everlastingly  putting  men  off,  for  the 
sincere  desire  for  refinement — that  he  had  awakened  in  her? 

She  weighed  the  situation  carefully  and  chose  the  lesser  of  two 
evils:  it  was  better  to  take  the  chance  of  shame  than  to  run  away  and 
hide  with  a  frightful  cynicism  that  might  lead  her  to  a  worse  fate — that 
of  utter  abandon. 

She  took  a  firm  grip  on  herself  and  walked  in  the  doorway.  The 
hall  was  crowded  with  a  laughing,  happy  throng  of  every  age,  size  and 
appearance.  She  stood  breathless:  she  was  in  full  view,  but  no  one 
noticed  her.  "  Her  hand  rested  unconsciously  on  a  piece  of  furniture. 
It  was  an  overloaded  hat-rack.  Seeing  that  they  were  all  without 
hats  and  coats,  she  removed  hers.  She  tried  to  think  what  she  should 
do  or  say  should  any  one  speak  to  her:  but  thoughts  would  not  come. 
She  only  knew  that  she  must  see  him,  cost  what  it  might.  After  a 
moment  it  became  evident  that  he  was  not  in  the  hall.  The  receiving 
line,  of  course!  She  moved  along  the  wall  as  inconspicuously  as  possible. 
Her  course  dislodged  several  men,  and  a  fat,  overdressed  woman.  Laddie 
recognized  Mrs.  Lindley,  turned  her  face  to  the  wall,  and  almost  fainted. 
She  stumbled  on.  Nothing  happened,  so  she  concluded  she  had  not 
been  recognized.  In  the  long,  stately  parlor  the  crowd  was  equally 
confusing.     She  saw  a  tiny  black  and  white  maid. 

"Is  there  a  receiving  line?"  she  asked  in  a  whisper. 
The  maid  looked  at  her  with  a  puzzled  smile. 
"Yes,  ma'am,  at  the  other  end,"  she  pointed. 


Man  or  Manners?  307 

Then  Laddie  caught  a  gUmpse  of  the  bridal  pair  dispersing  a  line 
of  some  fifteen  people  with  hand  shakes  and  laughter.  Others  were 
casually  taking  their  place  at  one  end,  and  Laddie  joined  them.  How 
incredibly  slow  the  line  crawled!  She  watched  the  bride  receive  a  blush- 
ing kiss  or  a  loving  embrace,  and  Lindley  a  few  feet  apart  from  her, 
beaming  handsomely,  and  perfectly  at  ease.  She  saw  visions  of  his 
buoyancy  crumpling,  and  his  smile  straightening  soberly  when  his  eye 
should  fall  on  her:  but  still  she  dragged  along,  step  at  a  time,  frightened, 
but  pale  with  determination.  When  fifth  in  line  she  turned  her  face 
away  and  kept  it  there  while  her  heart  thumped  madly  at  each  advance- 
ment. 

At  last  the  moment  came  and  she  swung  around  and  faced  him. 
He  had  been  joking  with  the  man  in  front,  and  her  hand  was  in  his 
before  he  even  looked  at  her.  Then  he  realized,  and  she  felt  his  grip 
involuntarily  tighten.  There  was  a  barely  perceptible  frown  and  then 
a  smile. 

"Why  didn't  you  speak  to  me?  Am  I  not  good  enough  in  the 
daytime?"  she  demanded  in  a  shaking  voice. 

"Where  were  you?"  he  inquired  mildly. 

"On  the  aisle.  I  looked  at  you  and  you  looked  through  me  as 
though  you  had  never  seen  me  before." 

"Bless  you.  Laddie,"  he  laughed,  taking  her  hand  in  both  of  his, 
"I  never  saw  you,  dear  child.     Smile  and  forgive  me!" 

"  I — I  can't  smile,"  said  Laddie,  after  a  tragic  attempt.  "  I  thought 
you  were  ashamed  to  speak  to  me." 

"I  should  say  not!"  he  declared  fervently,  and  she  did  not  know 
that  he  lied. 

Then,  taking  her  by  the  arm,  he  led  her  to  the  white  angel  and  said : 

"Dear,  this  is  Laddie  Putnam,  a  little  friend  of  mine." 

The  angel  withdrew  her  hand  from  the  reluctant  grip  of  some 
ardent  gentleman  and  cordially  clasped  the  small,  cold  hand  that  Lad- 
die offered. 

"How  do  you  do?"  she  said  gently.  "  I  love  to  meet  any  of  Horace's 
friends." 

Laddie,  whose  whirling  head  simply  told  her  that  she  must  say 
something,  answered: 

"  I  hope  you'll  be  a  good  wife  to  him." 

The  pink,  white-shrouded  face  sobered,  and  the  bride  answered 
with  frank  sweetness,    "I'll  do  my  best,  dear." 

That  was  all  there  was  to  it.  The  tears  flooded  Laddie's  big  eyes 
and  a  choking  tightness  gripped  her  throat  as  she  blindly  pushed  through 


308  The  Haverfordian 

the  crowd  and  escaped.     Once  on  the  sidewalk  she  fled  away  to  cry 
unseen. 

"He's  a  man — a  real  man,  after  all!"  she  sobbed,  with  infinite 
relief.  "I'll  work  hard  and  perhaps  forget  him  after  a  while.  He  was 
a  gentleman  and  I  thank  God  I  knew  him!" 

She  composed  herself  and  returned  peacefully  to  her  commercial 
routine,  in  merciful  ignorance  that  she  had  given  Lindley  the  worst 
scare  of  his  life. 

— C.  Van  Dam,  '17. 


He  struck  a  match  and  as  he  lit  his  pipe, 
Between  the  puffs  of  smoke,  he  turned  and  said — 
"  You  haven't  played  my  favorite  record,  yet" — 
And  then  there  was  a  click  and  a  soft  br-r-r, 
A  tinkling  run  of  far-off  fairy  notes. 
And  from  the  distance  came  a  long-drawn  cry 
That  swelled  and  died,  and  from  the  violin 
There  burst  a  rush  of  poignant  melody — 

"Gone  is  the  glory  of  sun-kissed  hair, 
Beauty  is  frailer  than  flowers, 
Swifter  than  flight  of  birds  through  the  air 
Flutter  the  light-footed  hours. 

"Laughter  and  dust  and  darkening  skies. 
Perfume  of  petals  that  cling, 
Gone  is  the  girl  of  the  April  eyes, 
Gone  is  youth  and — spring." 

It  may  have  been  the  fire  that  made  his  eyes 
To  twitch,  but  all  I  know  is  that  he  said, — 
"Oh,  faugh!  this  pipe  is  sour!   Have  you  a  dope?  " 

—W.  S.  Nevin,  '18. 


(Etfjer 

AND  now,  boy,  no  more  water."  The  nurse  went  out  and  closed 
the  door.  My  throat  immediately  felt  parched  and  my  tongue 
stuck  to  the  roof  of  my  mouth.  I  looked  at  my  watch  for  the 
fiftieth  time  since  daylight.  Five  minutes  past  nine,  and  down  at  the 
end  of  the  quiet  corridor  I  could  almost  hear  the  big  clock  ticking  off 
the  flying  seconds.  Two  hours  more  and  I  wouldn't  care  how  fast  the 
seconds  went,  I  wouldn't  care  about  anything  except  the  drumming 
and  ringing  in  my  ears  and  the  thick,  sweet,  sickening  taste  of  ether 
in  my  mouth.  And  then  to  wake  to  an  afternoon  such  as  the  man  in 
the  next  room  had  passed  a  few  days  before.  I  imagined  I  could  still 
smell  the  heavy  odor  of  ether  about  his  door  and  hear  the  paroxysms 
of  alternate  choking  and  groaning  that  seemed  to  wrench  his  very  soul. 
Then  all  would  be  quiet  for  a  moment  save  for  the  rustle  of  a  nurse's 
dress,  and  the  calm  voice  of  a  doctor. 

I  sat  up  in  bed,  uncomfortably  conscious  of  the  loosely  tied  bandage, 
and  of  the  iodine  burning  the  skin  made  tender  by  shaving  the  evening 
before.  It  was  a  perfect  day  in  early  November,  bright  and  crisp. 
Through  my  window  I  saw  an  ambulance  drawn  up  at  the  receiving 
ward  and  two  white-coated  orderlies  carrying  in  a  motionless  form 
covered  by  a  sheet,  while  a  policeman  stood  stolidly  by.  A  student- 
nurse  was  coming  down  the  path  from  the  wards,  her  dark  cape  blown 
back  so  that  the  graceful  curve  of  her  blue  waist  stood  out  in  sharp 
contrast  against  the  scarlet  background  of  its  lining,  and  her  hair,  escap- 
ing from  under  the  stiffly  starched  cap,  was  tossed  in  thin  wisps  about 
her  face. 

The  door  of  my  room  swung  open  and  my  nurse  brought  in  the  out- 
fit I  was  to  wear  in  the  operating  room,  worn  with  age  and  yellow  with 
many  visits  to  the  sterilizer.  It  consisted  of  a  loose  pair  of  linen  stock- 
ings which  reached  almost  to  my  hips,  like  rubber  boots,  a  tight  under- 
shirt, and  a  night  shirt  which  barely  reached  the  tops  of  the  stockings. 
Although  I  didn't  feel  exactly  cheerful,  a  glance  at  the  nurse's  face, 
convulsed  with  suppressed  laughter,  was  too  much  and  we  both  in- 
dulged for  the  first  time  that  day  in  that  which  makes  life,  under  any 
circumstances,  worth  living. 

At  five  minutes  of  eleven  the  surgeon  and  his  assistant  strolled 
nonchalantly  in  and  asked  me  if  I  was  nervous.  What  a  question! 
I  tried  to  smile  deprecatingly,  but  the  effect  was  somewhat  impaired 
by  an  involuntary  twitch  of  my  mouth.  "That's  fine,"  said  the  surgeon, 
feeling  my  pulse.     "Give  him  a  quarter  of  a  grain  of  morphia,  nurse. 


310  The  Haverfordian 

and  bring  him  up."  With  the  sting  of  the  hypodermic  needle  things 
seemed  quite  changed.  The  little  noises  that  had  been  making  me  jump 
were  farther  away,  and  as  my  nurse  helped  me  on  to  the  stretcher  and 
wheeled  me  down  the  corridor  everything  seemed  of  another  world. 
The  house  doctor  was  standing  near,  but  to  my  deadened  senses  he 
seemed  a  long  way  off,  and  although  the  elevator  stopped  with  a  jolt 
at  the  top  floor  I  hardly  felt  it.     I  seemed  to  be  floating  on  air. 

The  walls  of  the  anaesthetizing  room  were  bare  and  white,  and  the 
only  furniture  was  an  enameled  chair  and  a  formidable  array  of  steel 
bottles  connected  by  tubes  to  a  large  rubber  respirator.  Through  a 
half-open  door  I  could  see  a  part  of  the  operating  room,  its  snow-white 
walls  glistening  with  light  reflected  from  the  large  windows.  I  felt 
the  heated  air  against  my  face  and  caught  a  faint  odor  of  antiseptics. 
Under  the  skylight  the  surgeon  was  adjusting  the  operating  table,  his 
face  covered  with  beads  of  perspiration  and  looking  fairly  purple  against 
his  white  gown.  Behind  the  table  was  a  glass  cabinet  filled  with  row 
upon  row  of  shining  instruments,  and  in  the  comer  a  white-capped 
nurse  was  placing  piles  of  dressings  in  the  great  copper  sterilizer. 

The  surgeon  made  a  last  adjustment  on  the  table  and  gave  a  sign 
to  his  assistant.  The  head  nurse  covered  my  eyes  with  a  damp  cloth 
and  rubbed  my  lips  with  vaseline.  Then,  and  this  is  what  I  had  been 
dreading,  I  was  aware  of  the  choking,  nauseating  fumes  of  ether.  My 
nurse  took  hold  of  my  wrist,  but  she  seemed  miles  away.  I  took  a  few 
deep  inhalations.  From  a  great  distance  I  heard  the  assistant's  voice, 
"Now  if  I  choke  you,  just  grunt  and  I'll  let  up."  With  a  tremendous 
effort  I  answered,  "Shall  I  breathe  through  my  nose  or  mouth?" 

Dr.  Wilmer:    "Oh,  that  doesn't  matter." 

Myself:   "You're  giving  it  to  me  too  fast." 

The  next  thing  I  was  conscious  of  was  a  conversation  in  which  one 
of  the  speakers  was  the  doctor,  the  other  a  voice,  I  feel  sure  it  was  not 
my  own,  which,  however,  sounded  strangely  familiar. 

Voice:   "Hell,  this  is  fun." 

Dr.  Wilmer:  "Best  spree  you've  had  for  a  long  time,  isn't  it? 
Have  you  a  robe  for  me,  Miss  Smith?" 

Voice:    "I  know  I'm  swearing,  but  I  can't  help  it." 

Dr.  Wilmer:    "Oh  no,  you're  not  swearing." 

Voice:    "I  can  hear  Miss  Sisk  laughing,  by  damn." 

Dr.  Wilmer:    "She's  not  laughing." 

Voice:    "By  damn!    I  can  feel  her  laughing,  through  my  pulse." 

Dr.  Wilmer:    "That's  all  right;  go  to  sleep  now." 

Voice  (dreamily):     "Kiss  your  little  patient;  good  night,  nurse." 

H.,  1919. 


^be  Jubgment  (ITfiat  ^nappeb 

DARK,  cold  and  deserted  was  the  main  street  of  Pleasantville,  Pa., 
when  the  town  clock  shattered  the  sleepy  silence  with  twelve 
impudent,  self-asserting  clanks.  A  messenger  boy  had  just 
handed  Howells  a  yellow  envelope,  and  after  the  ceremony  of  "signing 
up,"  had  slammed  the  office  door  rebelliously  and  shuffled  up  the  street. 
Howells  unfolded  the  paper  nervously — telegrams  to  many  people 
spell  trouble — and  read  the  message,  which  expressed  itself  within 
the  ten-word  limit: 

Norwalk,  Pa.,  January  20. 
Charles  Howells,  Jr., 
Howells  Drug  Mfg.  Co., 
Pleasantville,  Pa. 

Norman  Stein  injured  in  explosion.     Serious  ofieration  necessary. 

G.  B ,  M.  D. 

Finding  his  nervousness  justified,  Howells  promptly  dismissed  it 
and  began  thinking.  "Guess  I'll  have  to  go,"  he  said  to  himself.  "There's 
nobody  else  to  look  after  him.     I  can  make  the  12.10  if  I  hurry." 

He  hastily  locked  the  door  of  his  little  laboratory  adjoining  the 
company's  office.  Here  he  had  been  consuming  midnight  amperes 
in  perfecting  a  more  economical  method  of  making  calomel — or  per- 
haps it  was  ipecac — it  doesn't  matter  particularly,  as  neither  of  these 
delicacies  is  concerned  in  the  story  in  hand. 

Howells  and  Stein,  be  it  parenthetically  remarked,  had  graduated 
together  from  Columbia  six  months  before,  at  the  end  of  a  four-year 
course,  in  which  (whisper  it  softly)  Broadway's  role  was  as  bright  as 
that  of  Morningside  Heights.  On  their  return  from  a  summer's  spree 
in  the  Yellowstone  and  Yosemite,  they  had  settled  down  in  nearby 
towns.  Stein  as  an  assistant  superintendent  in  a  "war  bride"  explosive 
industry  and  Howells  "working  for  the  old  man"  in  the  home  drug  plant. 

Sent  on  his  Samaritan  mission,  he  was  just  turning  the  comer  into 
the  dark  street  that  leads  to  the  railroad  station  when  he  stopped  short. 
"Hold  on,"  he  thought,  "the  poor  devil  hasn't  got  his  first  month's 
salary  yet.  Doctors  and  nurses  eat  greenbacks  three  meals  a  day. 
Yes,  I'll  have  to  snatch  some  dough — and  get  it  quick."  He  had  turned 
back  and  was  half  running,  half  sliding  over  the  icy  pavements  toward 
the  factory  office. 

"Wish  Dad  didn't  freeze  so  fast  to  the  key  to  the  cash  drawer," 
he  muttered  as  he  entered  the  office  again.     "Oh  well,  this  will  do  just 


312  The  Haverfordian 

as  well.  Regular  movie  stuff,  eh?"  The  last  remark  was  addressed 
to  the  office  cat  that  rubbed  against  his  legs  just  as  Howells  was  taking 
a  hatchet  and  chisel  from  the  tool-box  in  the  closet.  Pluto,  however, 
showed  little  interest  in  his  demonstration  of  the  novel  method  of  open- 
ing a  drawer  without  a  key. 

Funds  hastily  procured,  he  turned  out  the  light,  and  was  about 
to  open  the  big  office  door,  when  the  said  door  startled  him  by  opening 
without  his  aid,  and  a  negro  rushed  in  and  almost  bumped  into  him. 

"Ooh  golly,  Massah,  yo'  sca'ed  me,"  blurted  the  ebon  spectre 
in  a  frightened  voice. 

"Great  Heavens,  Jim,"  said  Howells,  recognizing  the  office  janitor, 
"what  are  you  doing  here  at  this  time  of  night?" 

"  I  come  up  to  look  after  the  fires,  sah." 

"Well,  look  here,"  said  Howells,  "you  tell  Father  in  the  morning 
that  I  have  to  go  away.     I  may  be  gone  several  days." 

"Yassah,"  said  Jim  as  Howells  brushed  past  him  and  into  the 
snowy  street. 

The  next  morning  it  was  still  snowing.  Colonel  Howells,  pro- 
prietor of  the  Howells  Drug  Manufacturing  Company,  was  pacing  up 
and  down  the  floor  of  the  main  office.  His  face  to  the  top  of  his  half- 
bald  head  was  flushed  the  color  of  diluted  grape-juice  and  blue  veins 
stood  out  at  his  temples.  His  chin,  with  its  white,  pointed  tuft  of  a 
beard,  worked  energetically  and  mechanically  as  he  chewed  tobacco 
and  spat  violently  at  intervals. 

The  rest  of  the  office  showed  no  signs  of  anything  particularly 
unusual.  The  stenographer  was  clacking  away  at  an  Underwood; 
the  office-boy  was  sealing  letters,  and  the  gaunt  bookkeeper  stood  at 
a  tall  desk  commensurate  with  his  own  height,  making  entries  in  the 
ledger.  In  the  room  to  the  rear  the  big  compressing  machines  were 
clattering  noisily,  and  at  times  a  faint  odor  of  chloroform  drifted  into 
the  room. 

Just  as  Colonel  Howells  was  sinking  back  into  a  chair,  the  office- 
door  opened,  and  through    it    strode  a  man  of  no  mean  proportions, 
either  in  altitude  or  circumference.      He  smoked  a  gold-mounted  pipe 
and  wore  eyeglasses — he  was,  be  it  known,  the  county  detective. 
"How  do,  Colonel?"  he  said.     "You  sent  for  me." 
"Yes,  suh,  come  heah,  please,  Mr.  Jackson.     Look  at  this,  suh!" 
Mr.  Jackson  looked.     He  puckered  his  lips  into  a  silent  whistle  as 
he  contemplated  the  shattered  cash  drawer. 


The  Judgement  That  Snapped  313 

"Humph!"  he  said,  holding  his  pipe  in  his  hand  and  letting  the 
smoke  drift  out  of  his  mouth  as  he  talked.     "When  did  it  happen?" 

"Last  night  some  time,"  replied  the  Colonel. 

"Much  in  it?" 

"About  two  thousand  dollahs." 

The  detective  whistled — audibly  this  time.  "Why  so  much  in  a 
cash  drawer?" 

"Two  thousand  dollahs,"  the  Colonel  repeated.  "Pay  envelopes, 
fust  of  the  month,  you  know.  Counted  and  stuffed  last  evenin' — all 
ready  for  the  help  today." 

"But  why,"  protested  the  ofificer,  "why  did  you  leave  it  in  a  cash 
drawer  over  night?     That's  plumb  foolhardiness." 

Colonel  Howells  flared  up  like  ignited  ether.  "Young  men,  I've 
kept  my  pay  envelopes  there  month's  ends  for  fo'ty  years,  and  I  intend 
to  keep  them  there  fo'ty  yeahs  more.  Don't  call  me  a  fool!  Place  is 
safe — windows  barred — dooh  locked.     Impossible  to  break  in." 

"Yes,  but  somebody  did,"  objected  the  officer. 

"That's  just  why  you're  heah,"  said  the  Colonel,  dodging  the 
objection  as  though  it  were  a  whistling  bomb. 

With  some  men  and  many  women  argument  does  not  pay.  Jack- 
son saw  that  he  was  dealing  with  one  of  this  genus.  "Yes,  yes,  to  be 
sure,"  he  said  soothingly. 

He  refilled  his  pipe  from  a  chamois  bag,  lit  it,  and  took  a  few  short 
puffs.  "The  doors  and  windows  are  firm  and  solid.  Evidently  the 
robber  had  a  key." 

"Exactly,  exactly,  yessuh,  that  feller  has  a  key,  quite  right." 

"Then  you  suspect  someone?" 

"It  was  my  son,  Charlie — nevah  amounted  to  nothin'  since  he 
went  to  college.  Gambled  and  loafed,  and  now  it  comes  to  stealin'." 
The  Colonel  shot  a  great  wad  of  tobacco  at  the  spittoon  and  sank  his 
back  teeth  into  the  comer  of  a  fresh  plug. 

"Your  son!"  exclaimed  the  detective,  rather  nonplussed;  then 
regaining  his  semblance  of  composure,  "Where  is  he  now?" 

"Gone,  suh,  that's  just  the  point.  Do  you  reckon  he'd  camp 
around  yere  when  he  stole  two  thousand  dollahs  last  night?  I'll  catch 
the  young  scapegrace!  I'll  show  him!"  The  Colonel  was  parading 
up  and  down  the  room  excitedly.  The  bookkeeper  looked  up  from  his 
ledger  and  eyed  his  proprietor  with  a  gloomy  mien.  The  clacking  of 
the  typewriter  stopped  abruptly  and  the  little  brown-eyed  stenographer 
bit  her  pink  finger-nails  as  she  stared  intently  at  the  dust  on  the  hard- 
wood floor. 


314  The  Haverfordian 

"Who  else  have  keys?"  asked  Jackson. 

"Only  myself  and  the  janitor." 

The  detective  took  off  his  horn-rimmed  glasses  and  held  them 
between  his  thumb  and  first  finger  as  he  stood  gazing  meditatively  at 
the  broken  drawer. 

"I  should  like  to  see  the  janitor,"  he  said,  whereat  the  freckle- 
faced  office-boy,  who  had  been  drinking  in  the  situation  during  the 
process  of  envelope-stamping,  left  his  chair  and  disappeared  down  the 
cellar  stairs. 

"The  janitor  wouldn't  steal  it,  suh;  he  wo'ked  for  me  these  fo'ty 
yeahs — I  brought  him  up  from  the  South  with  me.  Gets  religion  every 
revival.  Never  cheated  me  out  of  a  cent  in  his  life.  But  that  son  of 
mine — " 

The  detective  interrupted.  "Then  you  say  your  janitor  is  a  regular 
back  saint,  straight  as  a  die,  teetotaler,  and  all  that?" 

"Oh,  no,  suh,"  admitted  the  Colonel,  "not  exactly.  Fact  is  he 
drinks  too  much  occasionally — very  rarely,  very  rarely.  But  steal? 
No,  he  wouldn't  do  that.     Jim — " 

Just  then  the  office  door  opened,  and  the  oft-repenting  sinner 
slouched  in,  accompanied  by  the  office-boy.  Jackson  motioned  him 
to  sit  down,  taking  a  chair  himself.  Colonel  Howells  remained  stand- 
ing and  bit  off  a  fresh  centimeter  of  plug  tobacco. 

"Jim,"  said  the  detective,  "were  you  in  the  office  last  night?" 

"  Yassah,  I  come  up  to  look  aftah  de  fires  an'  see  dat  de  pipes  didn't 
freeze." 

"What  time?" 

"'Bout  midnight,  sah." 

"See  anybody  here?" 

"I  seen  Massah  Charlie.  He  come  out  jest  as  I  come  in.  He 
said  he  was  goin'  away  fo'  sev'al  days." 

"See  that,"  said  the  Colonel  excitedly;  "that's  just  what  Jim 
told  me  this  morning.     I  told  you  the  boy  did  it!" 

Jim  was  dismissed.  The  detective,  with  his  pipe  in  his  hand,  was 
blowing  perfect  rings  of  filmy  blue  smoke.  He  had  read  his  Conan 
Doyle  and  knew  just  how  a  detective  should  do  it. 

"Yes,"  he  said  reluctantly,  "it  looks  pretty  bad  for  Charlie — 
gambling  habits,  father  stops  funds — thefts — get-away — " 

"Exactly,  exactly.  I'll  show  that  young  prodigal!  I'll  teach 
him  the  biggest  lesson  he  ever  had!     I'll — " 

"Will  you  swear  out  a  warrant?"  asked  the  detective,  getting  up 
and  putting  on  his  overcoat  with  an  air  of  finality. 


The  Judgement  That  Snapped  315 

"Indeed  I  will,  suh.  That  dasta'dly  ingrate!  I'll  disinherit  him. 
Not  another  penny  of  mine  will  he  get.     I'll — " 

The  Colonel's  tirade  sputtered  on  indefinitely  like  the  red  fire  of 
an  ignited  Roman  candle. 

By  nine  o'clock  that  evening  the  storm  had  ceased  and  the  big 
full  moon  shed  a  silvery,  ghastly  light  upon  the  snow-covered  roofs 
and  pavements.  In  the  office,  Colonel  Howells  was  alone.  The  build- 
ing was  painfully  quiet  except  for  the  hollow,  rhythmic,  monotonous 
ticking  of  the  clock  on  the  wall.  The  old  man  was  sitting  beside  a 
sizzling  hot  radiator,  perusing  the  evening  paper  with  about  the  interest 
that  a  hod-carrier  would  show  in  "  Paradise  Lost."  For  a  few  minutes 
he  would  read,  then  his  eyes  would  wander  from  the  sheet,  he  would 
wrinkle  his  brow  and  gaze  as  if  looking  through  the  dingy  wall  into 
infinite  space  beyond.  Sometimes  his  fists  would  clench,  and  once  he 
mumbled,  "'Tain't  the  two  thousand  doUahs,  it's  the  boy." 

It  was  the  old  gentleman's  habit  to  come  to  the  office  in  the  eve- 
nings— he  had  nowhere  else  to  go — and  there  exchange  comments 
on  the  latest  submarine  outrage  and  the  general  perversity  of  the  times 
with  a  group  of  grizzle-haired  cronies  who  were  wont  to  wander  into 
the  comfortable  room.  But  tonight  the  sages  found  cold  welcome  and 
were  forced  to  toast  their  rheumatic  limbs  by  other  hearthstones. 

The  old  gentleman  was  lost  in  a  period  of  musing  when  the  book- 
keeper came  in,  and  along  with  him  a  gust  of  cold  night  wind.  The 
Colonel  muttered  something  unintelligible  that  might  be  construed  by 
an  optimist  to  mean  "Good  evening,"  and  the  accountant  came  to 
the  matter  in  hand  without  circumlocution. 

"Jim  Jacobs,  our  janitor,  is  shot,"  he  announced,  with  the  air  of 
a  judge  pronouncing  a  death  sentence. 

"Shot!"  exclaimed  the  Colonel. 

"Yes,  got  mixed  up  in  a  row  over  a  poker  game  down  at  Hank 
Smith's." 

"Well,  my  wo'd,  my  wo'd,  is  the  pooh  man  dead?" 

"No,  but  he's  in  pretty  bad  shape.  They  took  him  home  and  his 
daughter's  taking  care  of  him.  Doctor  says  he  may  not  live  till  morn- 
ing." 

"Confound  it,  why  does  everything  happen  at  once?  Pooh  old 
Jim!  I'll  nevah  get  another  man  like  him  again — nevah!  Had  his 
faults,  but  all  in  all — "  He  was  interrupted  by  the  telephone  bell  and 
the  bookkeeper,  who  was  in  reach  of  the  instrument,  picked  up  the 
receiver. 


316  The  Haverfordian 

"Norwalk  443  wants  to  speak  to  you,"  he  said,  handing  the  desk- 
phone  to  the  Colonel. 

"Yes,  yes,  this  is  Colonel  Howells.  What  do  you  want?  Who, 
Charlie?  Oh,  it's  you,  is  it?  You  young  reprobate, — you — 
you're  arrested.  You'll  be  wo'se  'n  that  before  we're  done  with  you — 
you  deserve  to  be  drawn  and  quartered!  Don't  guess  they  let  people 
run  around  loose  that  steal  two  thousand  dollahs,  do  they?  You  can't 
leave  who?  What  do  you  mean?  Who's  Stein,  anyway?  No,  I  won't 
bail  you  out — it's  all  a  frame-up — you  lie!  You're  a  thief  and  a  Hah. 
Don't  let  me  heah  another  wo'd  from  you!"  He  hung  up  the  receiver 
with  a  bang  that  made  the  instrument  shiver. 

"It's  that  dasta'dly  son  o'  mine.  Has  some  hard-luck  tale  about 
a  sick  friend.  Jackson's  arrested  him.  Reckons  I'm  going  to  let  him  off. 
I'll  nevah  do  it — nevah!     I'll — I'll — what's  this,  what's  this?" 

A  little  colored  girl  had  entered  the  ofhce  unnoticed.  Going  timidly 
up  to  the  counter,  she  handed  the  Colonel  a  grimy  envelope,  turned 
quickly  around  without  looking  into  his  face,  and  in  another  instant  her 
kinky  pigtails,  tattered  coat  and  calico  dress  had  disappeared  behind 
the  street  door. 

The  Colonel  glanced  inquisitively  at  the  fat  envelope,  held  it  up 
between  himself  and  the  tungsten  light  and  tore  off  the  end.  Out  fell  a 
roll  of  ten-dollar  bills,  a  torn  yellow  pay-envelope,  and  a  note  scrawled 
in  a  childish  hand  on  both  sides  of  a  piece  of  manilla  paper.  The  old 
man  squinted  and  held  the  paper  close  to  his  eyes,  for  the  writing  was 
scandalously  illegible. 

"Dear  Col.,"  it  read,  "i  am  shot  and  maybe  I  am  going  to  die 
and  if  i  do  i  want  to  have  a  clear  conchence  for  i  cant  bare  to  think  of 
Mr  Charley  getting  blamed  for  what  i  done  because  he  was  always 
so  good  to  me  and  so  i  am  getting  my  little  girl  to  write  to  you  for  me. 
I  went  to  the  ofiis  last  night  and  i  seen  Mr  Charley  and  he  said  he  was 
going  away  and  then  i  seen  the  busted  cash  drawer  with  lots  of  money 
left  in  it  and  I  said  there  my  chanst  the  Col  will  blame  Mr  charley  if  he 
dont  show  up  tomorrow.  Here  is  all  that  is  left  i  am  sorry  i  done  it.  My 
little  girl  couldnt  help  it  could  she  so  please  dont  tell  nobody  about  and 
get  her  in  truble  you  wont  wil  1  you.  I  havent  got  no  right  to  ask  you  but 
please  dont." 

In  an  unsteady  hand  the  signature  was  affixed — "James  Jacobs." 

The  Colonel  spat  viciously  at  the  cuspidor. 

"Well,  what  do  you  think  of  that?"  he  demanded  of  the  bookkeeper, 
mechanically  handing  him  the  crumpled  note,  all  the  while  gazing 
blankly  out  into  the  moonlit  street. 


Ode  to  Doris  317 

His  pedestrian  mind  had  been  struggling  desperately  in  an  effort  to 
comprehend  the  inconsistent  facts  in  which  he  had  so  suddenly  been  del- 
uged. 

Like  the  explosion  that  results  when  the  slow-burning  fuse  of  a 
grenade  transmits  its  spark  to  the  nitrocellulose,  was  the  start  with 
which  the  Colonel  acted  when  an  understanding  of  the  whole  affair 
suddenly  flashed  over  him.  He  reached  nervously  for  the  telephone, 
and,  putting  the  receiver  to  his  ear,  rattled  the  hook  as  though  it  had 
been  the  lever  of  a  fire  alarm. 

"What  was  that  number?  Operator,  give  me  Norwalk  443  and 
hurry  the  call!" 


0ht  to  JBorisi 

Ephemeral  maiden,  like  a  transient  dream; 
Are  all  thy  charms  as  real  as  they  seem? 
O  angel  mouth,  mouth  of  delirious  blisses; 
O  dear,  tired  eyes,  dear  eyes  fast  closed  with  kisses; 
O  soft  white  arms,  0  dark,  abundant  tresses; 
0  heart  so  soft  and  warm  with  love's  caresses — 
For  you  I  would  risk  all,  yea,  even  through 
The  jaws  of  Hell  I'd  gladly  go  for  you. 

William  W.  Wilcox,  Jr.,  '20. 


(E^fje  (©uegt  of  Peautp 

THE  chief  aim  of  a  poet  is  Beauty;  he  lives  for  it  and  often  it  is  for 
Beauty  that  he  must  needs  perish.  There  have  been  voices 
that  have  sung  of  other  things,  yet  those  which  are  as  clear  and 
as  poignant  as  when  they  first  were  heard  are  those  which  are  raised  in 
the  quest — and  occasionally  in  the  discovery — of  Beauty.  Some  poets 
have  found  Truth  and  they  have  called  it  Beauty,  even  as  some  have 
found  Beauty  which  they  have  named  Truth-^and  they  are  both  right. 
From  the  earliest  ages  we  have  heard  the  song  of  them  that  would  be- 
hold Beauty:  Sappho's  chant  is  as  mellow  as  ever  it  was  when  it  rang 
through  the  isles  of  Greece. 

In  Sappho  we  must  not  see  a  demon  and  a  perverted  virago  who 
croaked  passionately  and  shrilly  for  that  which  she  would  have,  nor 
must  we  see  in  her  a  sweet,  insipid  young  miss  that  tosses  herself  from 
off  the  Leucan  cliffs  for  love  of  the  ferryman.  If  we  think  of  her  as 
such  we  do  not  make  her  live,  and  she  was  so  extraordinarily  vital. 
A  chord  from  her  lyre  has  found  its  way  into  the  harp  of  Horace,  an 
echo  of  her  burning  voice  is  heard  in  Swinburne's  song — but  besides 
these,  just  as  clearly  as  hundreds  of  years  ago,  we  hear  her  melodies 
floating  through  the  air.  She  was  violent  and  her  song  tears  our  heart- 
strings, but  why?  Not  because  of  Mnasidika,  nor  Atthis,  nor  yet  An- 
aetorea  and  Gyrinna,  for  in  them  she  sought  Beauty  and  found  it  in 
them — only  to  lose  it.  It  is  because  she  could  not  keep  Beauty  beside 
her  ever  that  she  wept  those  burning,  blinding  tears  which  as  we  read 
her  poignant  plaint  we  seem  to  feel  upon  our  own  hands  as  rain- 
swept jewels  from  the  slopes  of  Parnassus. 

This  search  for  Beauty  in  Love  is  in   Catullus;    the   really   grand 
things  this  graceful  Cisalpine  did  were  the  wails  of  anguish  and  of  torture 
which  escaped  from  him  and  to  which  he  no  doubt  attached  the  least 
importance.     Two  things  in  his   life   and   two  alone  are  worthy  of  our 
interest  to-day:  his  brother's  death  and  Claudia.  The  first  made  him  write 
the  greatest  lamentation  on  the  death  of  a  loved  one  that  was  ever 
written:   Milton,  Malherbe,  Shelley,  Swinburne  and  possibly  Tennyson 
have  equalled  but  have  not  surpassed  it.     The  second  made  him  a  great 
poet  and  a  great  spirit  when  he  had  been  but  the  idle  songster  of  a 
dainty  age  and  a  philanderer.     Of  him,  as  of  Musset,  we  might  well  say: 
Rien  ne  nous  rend  si  grands  qu'une  grande  douleitr. 
Les  plus  desesperSs  sont  les  chants  les  plus  beaux 
Et  fen  sais  d'immortels  qui  sont  de  purs  sanglots. 
That  is  why  Catullus  is  great:    he  is  made  glorious  by  overwhelming 


The  Quest  of  Beauty  319 

grief,  and  his  song,  made  the  sweeter  by  being  hopeless,  is  immortal 
because  it  is  an  aching  sob  .... 

It  was  fortunate  for  us  if  unfortunate  for  him  that  he  was  the  only 
Roman  poet  who  was  not  forced  to  tear  himself  away  from  his  burning 
passion  to  write  a  hymn  to  the  emperor  or  a  poem  in  praise  of  the  country. 
"  Mulier  cupido  quod  dicit  amanti 
In  vento  el  rapida  scribere  oportel  aqua." 
"What  a  woman  says  must  be  writ  on  the  winds  and  on  the  waters" — 
there  we  have  the  true  Catullus.  .  .  . 

Of  Vergil  we  love  the  best  the  Aenid :  the  Georgics  and  the  Bucolics 
are  both  very  graceful,  but  to  us  they  seem  uninspired.  Pity  and  com- 
passion for  Marcellus,  for  Dido,  Aeneas  weeping  over  the  cruel  death  of 
young  Lausus,  are  what  Vergil  really  excelled  in.  This  tenderness  and 
his  sadness  have  made  his  work  beautiful;  his  vast  compassion  and  his 
ineffable  love  of  creatures  in  distress  are  his  great  inspiration.  We  like 
him  best  because  he  is  so  personal;  amid  the  hardness  and  materialism 
of  Roman  poetry  he  has  struck  a  new  note,  the  thrill  of  him  who  loveth 
his  fellow  men  and  who  is  kind — his  book  is  indeed  the  book  "of  com- 
passion and  death." 

As  for  Horace,  did  he  really  seek  Beauty? — Yes,  in  a  measure  he 
did,  but  the  Horation  quest  of  Beauty  was  that  of  Pope,  of  Dryden,  of 
Boileau.  His  mind  was  singularly  flexible  and  he  lay  back  on  his  lectus 
and  let  it  wander  to  Bandusian  founts,  and  groves,  and  cool  brooks, 
where  the  dryads  played,  just  as  Pope,  sitting  back  in  his  arm-chair, 
complacently  puffing  at  his  pipe,  babbled  of  green  fields.  And  both  of 
them  found  it,  though  they  hardly  lived  it.  .  .  . 

The  only  other  Roman  name  that  need  arrest  our  attention  is  that 
of  Saint  Augustine.  Rhetoric  and  preciosite,  violence  of  passion,  haughti- 
ness, pride,  fury,  strength — all  of  these  he  had,  yet  where  he  is  really  in 
search  of  the  true  and  of  the  beautiful  is  in  the  City  of  God  where  all  these 
qualities  are  blended  with  an  exquisite  and  tender  "sweetness  and  light" 
into  a  sublime  work  of  Truth  and  Beauty 

We  have  but  to  look  at  the  lives  of  Dante  and  Petrarch  and  the 
two  names  which  ruled  them,  Beatrice  and  Laura,  and  we  see  how 
the  Love  of  a  poet  can  be  the  religion  of  Beauty.  Chastened  by  great 
loves  they  are,  and  yet  there  is  no  bitterness  nor  even  regret;  Laura 
merely  continues  to  bring  forth  child  after  child  and  yet  she  is  still  the 
Vision  of  Loveliness  which  the  poet  sings.  Her  whom  a  poet  loves  can- 
not be  beautiful,  leastways  not  as  beautiful  as  he  sees  her;  to  her  charms 
he  adds  a  thousand  virtues  which  he  has  imagined  and  sees  her  as  the 
ideal  itself  instead  of  the  petty    earthly  representative  of  that  ideal. 


320  The  Haverfordian 

That  is  why  when  the  poet  becomes  disillusioned  and  sees  her  in  the 
true  light  his  complaint  is  so  painful  and  so  dolorous — and  they  who 
live  not  to  see  all  their  illusions  crumble  and  fall  about  their  head  are 
the  well-starred  few. 

Far  different  is  the  Vision  of  Beauty  which  offers  itself  to  the  eyes 
of  Spenser.  "Expectations  and  rebuffs,  many  sorrows  and  many 
dreams,  and  a  sudden  and  frightful  calamity,  a  small  fortune  and  a 
premature  end;  this  indeed  was  a  poet's  life."  It  is  the  word  dreams 
which  we  must  bear  in  mind;  there  it  is  where  Spenser  found  Beauty. 
Nor  was  he  forced  to  go  very  far  from  the  world  he  lived  in.  His  dreams 
are  dreams  of  chivalry  and  his  elevated  fancy  and  powerful  imagination 
led  his  spirit  into  the  realms  of  eternal  loveliness.  Everything  he  read, 
everything  he  heard,  everything  he  thought  was  shaped  into  one  great, 
fanciful  dream,  decorated  and  expressed  by  the  most  exquisite  and 
delicate  imagery.  Cervantes  "smiled  the  chivalry  of  Spain  away," 
said  Byron,  and  we  may  say:  Rabelais  roared  and  behold!  there  were 
no  more  good  men  and  true.  But  it  is  there  that  Spenser  finds  Beauty, 
and  doggedly,  desperately,  come  what  may,  he  clings  to  it;  sorrow, 
strife,  hatred  and  ruin  may  follow,  but  he  has  his  vision,  he  loads 
its  every  rift  with  ore  and  its  splendor  dazzles  us  even  as  it  dazzled  him. 
He  clung  to  it  and  kept  it  until  the  day  of  his  death. — Not  so  with 
Jonson,  poor  devil!  He  had  a  hard  time  to  keep  his  dreams.  He 
managed  to  do  it,  though,  and,  propping  himself  with  his  elbow  upon 
the  pillow  of  his  deathbed  he  forgot  his  pain  and  sickness  and  sorrow 
and  wrote  his  most  graceful  and  dainty  work.  The  Sad  Shepherd;  the- 
ories, alchemy,  metaphysics,  theatricals — all  of  them  had  choked  him, 
but  before  he  died  his  vast  imagination  conquered  the  morose  disposi- 
tion caused  by  his  life;  he  found  Beauty  once — and  died.  .  .  . 

A  dreamer,  too,  was  the  immortal  Will:  "As  You  Like  It  is  a  half- 
dream;  Midsummer  Night's  Dream  a  complete  one."  In  him  we  find 
Beauty  alway;  of  all  the  poets  in  this  world  of  ours  he  alone  kissed  her 
lips  and  held  her  by  him  forever.  Others  have  been  able  to  kold  her 
by  the  hand  if  but  for  an  instant  and  to  gaze  into  the  luminous  grace  of 
her  clouded  eyes  and  there  to  see  hope.  But  he  held  her  to  him  forever: 
in  dream,  in  life,  in  actions,  in  all.  And  he  ended  by  settling  in  Stratford 
more  like  a  shop-keeper  than  a  poet! 

The  sheer  power  with  which  he  coordinates  and  couples  every 
action,  every  emotion,  every  dream  so  that  the  whole  is  one  blinding 
blaze  of  light  is  his  own  secret.  To  have  realized  the  ideal  of  Beauty 
as  he  did  is  for  one  poet  in  the  history  of  the  world  and  one  alone;  it 
is  marvelous,  it  is  miraculous,  it  is  superhuman.     He  is  a  half-god  and 


The  Quest  of  Beauty  321 

yet  we  feel  all  that  he  felt;  excrything  he  found  beautiful,  we  find 
beautiful.  It  is  noi  the  work,  it  is  the  man  who  speaks  to  us,  and  we 
listen  and  wonder  and  weep  when  he  would  we  should  and  laugh  when 
his  fancy  wishes  it.  No  more  complete  realization  of  Beauty  is  to  be 
found — not  exen  in  Dante,  he  was  so  triumphantly  human  in  his  su- 
blimitx'. 

Milton's  Beauty  is  in  the  stringent  resolve  to  act  nobly.  He  is 
now  delicate  and  graceful,  then  noble,  majestic,  grand;  he  began  by 
the  former  and  ended  by  the  latter  manner.  The  older  he  grew,  the 
more  he  suffered,  the  more  stern  and  the  more  heavy  he  became.  His 
first  quest  for  Beauty  is  in  mythology;  the  eternally  youthful  story 
of  Greece  was  what  he  found.  Then,  when  the  enthusiasm  of  youth 
dies  down,  theology  becomes  Beauty  even  because  it  is  Truth.  Yet 
here  and  there  in  that  later  manner  is  something  of  the  former  quest: 
the  heat,  the  eloquence,  the  fervor,  the  sublime  power  and  strength. 
Two  forms  of  Beauty  did  he  know:  the  pagan,  the  emotional  ideal, 
fraught  with  sensibility  and  pure  fanc}-,  that  of  Jonson,  Spenser  and 
Shakespeare,  often  immoral,  always  beautiful — and  the  philosophical, 
metaphysical,  lawful,  religious,  moral.  In  both  was  he  great;  in  both 
he  found  Beauty. 

Pope  and  his  school,  following  Boileau,  are  Horaces;  very  urban 
and  very  much  satisfied  with  their  immediate  lives;  indeed  it  is  not 
until  the  coming  of  the  Romantic  poets  that  there  may  be  really  said  to 
he  a  quest  of  Beauty.  Foremost  of  all  is  Keats:  he  may  be  said  to  have 
lived  for  Beauty  and  Beauty  alone.  Lord  Byron  was  too  preoccupied 
in  himself  to  have  really  sought  it  out:  he  merely  ate  his  heart  out 
with  remorse  and  sorrow  for  the  humiliations  to  which  he  was  sub- 
jected. With  him  it  is  not  his  work  that  interests  us  so  much,  it  is  the 
man;  indeed,  Byron,  as  has  been  said  before,  was  a  notorious  example 
of  a  great  poet  who  wrote  bad  poems.  He  meditated  too  much  upon 
himself  to  be  enamored  of  anything  or  anyone  else,  but  "whatever  he 
touched,  he  made  palpitate  and  live;  because  when  he  saw  it,  his  heart 
had  beaten  and  he  had  li\ed.     He  could: 

Rejoice  to  share 

The  wealth  exuberant  of  all  that's  fair," 
but  he  was  only  interested  in  that  wealth : 

"which  lives  and  has  its  being  everywhere," 
because  in  it  he  in\-ested  his  own  ideas,  his  own  joys,  his  own  sorrows, 
himself!     His  real  doctrine  of  Beauty  is:    "Try  to  understand  yourself 
and  things  in  general."     And  poor  man!    though  he  tried  to  do  so,  he 
failed.     He  was  a  superb  failure,  but  a  failure  none  the  less;    the  halo 


322  The  Haverfordian 

of  glory  which  surrounds  him  shines  over  his  work.  Southey,  Cole- 
ridge, and  Wordsworth  sang  the  glory  of  Liberty;  the  first  was  a  Jaco- 
bine  and  his  Wat  Tyler  sang  the  glory  of  the  past  Jacquerie  and  the  glory 
of  the  revolution  but  ended  by  being  poet  laureate ;  the  second  dreamt  of 
a  socialistic  state  in  America  without  priest  or  king  and  ended  by  writing 
editorials  for  Pitt;  the  third  began  by  cursing  kings  and  ended  by  dis- 
tributing stamps.  "The  same  gospel  of  Rousseau  which  in  France 
produced  the  Terror,  in  England  produced  Sandford  and  Merton.'^ 
But  Byron  was  not  of  these;  when  the  time  came  for  him  to  draw  the 
sword  for  the  sake  of  the  liberty  which  he  had  sung,  he  was  ready,  he 
pressed  forward,  he  might  have  lived  to  have  seen*  it  but — he  died. 
Shelley's  death  is  sad,  Keats'  is  pathetic,  but  none  moves  us  like  Byron's. 
For  all  his  ranting  and  raving,  for  all  his  sighing  in  the  shadows  and 
tearing  his  hair  for  rage,  for  all  his  curses  and  for  all  the  misfortune 
which  he  endured  and  which  he  also  exaggerated,  which  he  vowed  had 
been  brought  upon  him  but  in  which"  he  had  been  the  greatest  instru- 
ment, he  is  a  man,  he  is  human,  he  is  one  of  us  disguised.  The  same 
bitter-sweet  of  love  he  has  tasted;  the  same  joys,  the  same  dreams  are 
his  as  are  ours,  but,  mightier  than  we,  he  has  the  courage  to  follow  the 
gleam,  knowing  he  can  never  set  his  eyes  upon  it.  He  realizes  the 
worth  of  Greece  and  her  liberty,  the  treachery,  the  futility  of  the  thing, 
and  yet  he  does  it.  "My  pang  shall  find  a  voice,"  he  says,  and  it  has; 
but  it  is  not  his  pang  any  more  than  anyone  else's.  He  gives  utterance 
to  it,  yes — but  we  have  felt  it;  Lammenais  has  it  when  he  says:  "Mon 
ame  est  nee  avec  une  plaie."  All  our  souls  are — or  we  imagine  them  to  be 
— born  with  a  scar.   .   .   . 

Shelley,  too,  sought  Beauty;  in  the  pure  delights  of  nature  more 
than  in  anything  else.  That  is  why  whenever  the  wind  sobs  and  sighs 
in  the  trees,  whenever  the  sun  sets  over  the  peaceful  valley  and  is  hid 
behind  the  majestic  mountain,  whenever  the  moonlight  gleams  across- 
the  waters  and  whenever  the  sea  chants  its  litany  to  the  tall  rocks  that 
guard  it,  if  we  think  of  poetry  it  is  of  Shelley's  that  we  think.  As  we 
are  young,  so  is  he  young,  he  is  a  child  all  his  life.  His  dreams,  his 
philosophy,  his  hopes,  his  love  of  his  fellowmen  are  childish;  the  first 
dreams  we  dream  we  never  remember,  our  first  hopes  are  replaced, 
our  love  of  our  kind  becomes  indifference,  then  hatred,  or  hatred,  then 
indifference — as  Byron's,  if  he  ever  did  have  any,  which  I  doubt — but 
it  is  only  a  few  great  lovers  of  the  universe  that  keep  them  always. 
To  Shelley  Beauty  was  everywhere  and  he  worshipped  it — yet  there 
were  fools  who  called  him  atheist.  Yes,  he  began  by  a  piece  of  magnifi- 
cent  impertinence   and   superbly   quixotic   youthfulness,    but   the   real 


Tiiii  Quest  of  Beauty  323 

Shelley  is  he  who  finds  his  god  everywhere.      Here  is.no  cheap  atheist, 
here  is  a  man  whose  faith  and  love  are  so  great  that  where\er  he  goeth 
he  fintietli  hght,  and  lo\e,  and  (iod.     But  of  all  those  who  sought  Beauty 
in  her  purest,  most  unadulterated  form  Keats  is  the  greatest: 
"  .l/_v  ear  is  open  like  a  i^reedy  shark 
To  catch  the  tuniuii^s  of  a  voice  divine.  " 
Where  shall  he  catch  them? 

"Glory  and  loveliness  have  passed  aicay, 
For  if  we  u-ander  out  in  early  morn 
Xo  li'reathed  incense  do  we  see  upborne 
Into  the  east  to  meet  the  smiling  day." 
He  lives  in  an  age  of  materialism  and  politics,  liberty,  religion — he  does 
not  care  a  straw  for  them:    his  chief  concern  is  Beaut>-,  pure,  sheer, 
unadulterated  loveliness.      He  dreams  of  it,  he  forces  himself  to  think 
of  it.     Good  heavens! 

"  The  poetry  of  earth  is  never  dead" 
and  he  is  a  poet,  so  let  him  seek  it.  Did  he  find  it? — Yes,  he  foimd  it, 
but  he  had  to  wander  far  before  he  did,  until  he  reached  the  land  which 
he  had  builded  with  his  dreams,  a  land  that  is  green  and  fair  and  smiling 
with  plenty,  filled  with  sweet  forms  and  angel-voices;  and  when  he 
beheld  it : 

"  Upon  his  knees  he  sank,  pale  as  smooth-sculptured  stone." 
But  he  could  not  constanth'  dream  himself  back  into  the  fever  which 
produced  this  \ision  of  the  Land  Beautiful.      As  often  as  not  he  was 
unable  to  do  what  he  wished,  to 

"  Fade  far  away,  dissolve  and  quite  forget 
What  thou  among  the  leaves  hast  never  known." 
More  often  he  had  to  endure  life  and 

"  The  weariness,  the  fever  and  the  fret 
Here  where  men  sit  and  hear  each  other  groan." 
Occasionally  he  can   "away!     and   flee"   with   her,   but  the  ine\itable 
must  happen  and  he  is  brusquely  awakened  by  them  that  liring  him 
back  from  Beauty  to  himself  and 

"Adieu!    the  fancy  cannot  cheat  so  well 
As  she  is  famed  to  do,  deceiving  elf." 
Alas!    the  anthem  fades  and  passes  by  meadow,  still  stream  and  flowery 
hillside  till  it  is  buried  deep  and  lost  in  the  next  valley  glades,  whilst  he 
can  but  rub  his  eyes  and  ask: 

"Was  it  a  vision  or  a  waking  dream?" 
Is  this  Beauty  right?     Is  it  Truth?     He  does  not  care:    it  is  Beauty  and 


324  The  Haverfordian 

that  is  all  that  matters.     Let  us  call  it  Truth  even  if  in  the  end  of  things 
we  die  from  it: 

"Beauty  is  truth,  truth  beauty — that  is  all 
Ye  know  on  earth  and  all  ye  need  lo  know." 
He  is  happy,  even  when  in  this  bitter  life,  that  there  has  been  a  time,, 
one  supreme,  beautiful,  never-to-be-forgotten  moment  when  he  pressed 
his  lips  to  those  of  Beauty  and  drew  her  breath  into  his  mouth;  in  his 
own  life  there  jare  no  followers  of  Beauty : 

"No  voice,  no  lute,  no  pipe,  no  incense  sweet 
From  chain-swung  censer  teeming; 
No  shrine,  no  grove,  no  oracle,  no  heat 
Of  pale-mouth' d  prophet  dreaming." 
Yet  he  is  ever  ready  as  a 

" casement  ope  at  night. 

To  let  the  warm  Love  in," 
because  he  has  tasted  of  it,  fed  on  it  and  found  it  sweet.  His  is  the 
supreme  quest  for  Beauty;  other  things  to  him  were  nothing.  The 
feverish  anguish  of  him  who  loves  Beauty  yet  cannot  taste  of  her  at  will 
is  a  burning,  consuming  fire  that  destroys  him:  he  pines  and  wastes 
away,  yet  his  last  cry,  his  last  word,  is  that  superb  and  triumphant  praise 
of  loveliness: 

"Bright  star,  would  I  were  steadfast  as  thou  art." 
Baudelaire  sought  to  find  Beauty  in  the  mire;   his  "pale  blossoms"  and 

"  .  .  .  .  lovely  leaf-buds  poisonous" 
were  for  him  Beauty.  He  dragged  a  certain  beauty  from  the  unhealthy 
marshes  by  the  hair  and  gazed  into  her  eyes,  and  the  gases  of  the  place, 
which  he  thought  perfumes,  asphyxiated  him.  Keats  also  died  and 
died  from  Beauty,  but  a  different  Beauty;  his  was  caused  by  the  sheer 
effort  and  physical  and  mental  strain  of  him  who,  at  the  sacrifice  of  all 
things,  forces  himself  into  the  Vision  Beautiful  by  means  of  which  he 
can  see  her.  Alas!  it  is  her  name  that  is  writ  in  water,  though  we  chase 
her  and  bruise  our  feet  and  fear  our  flesh  in  the  quest  of  this  will-o'-the- 
wisp — but  his  name  lives  immortal,  for  he  was  born  for  her  and  it  was 
for  her  that  he  lived,  sang,  suffered,  and  died. 

— /.  G.  C.  Schuman  Le  Clercq,  '18. 


JL  UMNI 


Andrew  C.  Craig,  Jr.,  '84,  clul)- 
man,  traveler  and  big  game  hunter, 
died  January  18th  of  pneumonia  at 
his  liome,  222  South  Thirty-ninth 
Street,  Phihulclphia,  after  an  ill- 
ness of  two  days.  He  was  in  his 
fifty-third  year. 

Mr.  Craig  was  the  son  of  the  late 
Joseph  B.  Craig  and  Emma  Lei- 
bert  Craig,  and  a  nephew  and  heir 
of  the  late  Andrew  Catherwood 
Craig,  a  merchant.  He  was  born 
in  Philadelphia,  and  received  his 
education  at  Ury  Hall,  Fox  Chase, 
and  Haverford  College.  Follow- 
ing his  graduation  from  college, 
Mr.  Craig  studied  law,  although 
he  never  practised.  Mr.  Craig  in 
his  younger  days  was  a  famous 
cricketer  and  oarsman.  He  was  a 
member  of  the  Manufacturers', 
Art  and  Undine  Barge  Clubs. 

Michael  Henry  March,  of  the 
Class  of  1907,  died  at  his  home  in 
Pottstown,  December  14,  1916, 
after  an  illness  of  only  a  few  days 
of  double  pneumonia.  He  was 
born  in  Pottstown,  December  4, 
1881.  His  father  was  Thomas  J. 
March,  who  was  a  graduate  ot 
West  Point  and  a  Lieutenant  in  the 
famous  7th  Cavalry  when  he  re- 
signev.  His  mother,  who  sur- 
^•ives  him,  was  Miss  Emma  Kulp. 


Mr.  March  graduated  from  Hill 
School  and  entered  Hax'erford  in 
September,  1903.  He  was  presi- 
dent of  his  class  the  first  half  of  the 
Sophomore  year  and  the  last  half 
of  the  Senior  year,  the  two  most 
important  terms.  He  was  manager 
of  the  football  team,  proving  him- 
self one  of  the  most  efificient  mana- 
gers Haverford  ever  had.  After 
leaving  College,  he  spent  a  year 
continuing  his  study  of  analytical 
chemistry,  entering  the  coal  and 
coke  business  in  Philadelphia.  He 
became  secretary  of  the  Bader  Coal 
Company,  Boston,  Mass.,  from 
which  position  he  resigned  last 
summer  on  account  of  his  health. 

On  June  9,  1913,  he  married 
Miss  Susan  B.  Richards,  who  sur- 
vives him. 

He  was  a  member  of  the  Class 
Honor  Committee  all  four  years, 
vice-president  of  the  Athletic  As- 
sociation, was  on  the  freshman 
football  team,  debating  team,  mem- 
ber of  the  student  council  during 
Junior  and  Senior  years,  and  served 
two  terms  as  class  president,  and 
was  manager  of  the  football  learn. 


William  Wistar  Comfort,  now 
head  of  the  Department  of  Ro- 
mance Languages  of  Cornell  L'ni- 
^•ersitv.    has   been    elected    by   the 


326 


The  Haverfordian 


Board  of  Managers  to  succeed 
President  Sharpless  as  head  of 
Haverford  College.  Dr.  Comfort 
is  a  thorough  Haverfordian  of  the 
second  generation  and  has  been  con- 
nected with  the  College  both  as  a 
student  and  a  professor.  He  was 
regarded  by  many  as  the  logical 
man  for  the  ofhce,  and  even  before 
President  Sharpless's  resignation 
it  was  rumored  among  Haverford 
circles  that  Dr.  Comfort  would 
eventually  succeed  him. 

He  is  pre-eminently  a  scholar 
and  holds  an  A.  M.  and  Ph.  D. 
from  Harvard.  He  has  studied  in 
several  foreign  countries  and  has 
written  much  along  the  line  of 
Romance  languages. 

He  was  bom  on  May  27,  1874, 
a  son  of  Howard  and  Susan  Foulke 
Wistar  Comfort.  His  father  was  a 
member  of  the  Class  of  1870  and 
was  a  manager  of  the  College  from 
1880  until  1913. 

While  at  Haverford  Dr.  Com- 
fort was  president  of  his  class  in 
Senior  year  and  was  president  of 
the  Y.  M.  C.  A.  He  took  honors 
in  modern  languages  and  was 
elected  to  Phi  Beta  Kappa,  of 
which  organization  he  served  at 
one  time  as  secretary.  He  was  a 
member  of  the  Banjo  Club  and 
during  his  last  two  years  played 
on  the  first  cricket  eleven. 

Graduating  from  Haverford  in 
1894,  he  spent  three  years  at 
Harvard,  then  came  back  to  Haver- 
ford as  an  instructor  for  the  year 
1897-96.     The  next  three  vears  he 


spent  abroad,  studying  in  Ger- 
many, France,  Spain,  Italy,  and 
in  England  at  Oxford. 

On  his  return  he  came  to  Haver- 
ford again  and  was  connected  with 
the  Romance  Department  here 
from  1901  to  1909,  when  he  resigned 
his  position  as  head  of  the  depart- 
ment to  become  head  of  the  Ro- 
mance  Department  at    Cornell. 

In  1902  he  received  his  doctor's 
degree  from  Harvard.  In  June  of 
the  same  year  he  was  married  to 
Miss  Mary  Fahs,  of  Lake  Forest, 
111.  Dr.  and  Mrs.  Comfort  have 
four  children — one  boy  and  three 
girls. 

He  is  now  president  of  the 
Alumni  Association  of  Haverford 
College. 

His  writings  include:  "Char- 
acter Types  in  the  Old  French 
Chansons  de  Geste"  1906;  "French 
Prose  Composition,"  1907;  "The 
Moors  in  Spanish  Popular  Poetry," 
1909  (published  in  the  collection  of 
Ha^•erford  Essays) ;  an  edition  of 
Calderon's  "LafVida  es  Sueno," 
1904,  and  more  recently  a  transla- 
tion of  "Chretien  de  Troyes"  in 
the   Everyman  Series. 

In  an  editorial  the  Haverford 
News    expressed    the    following: — 

"DR.    COMFORT'S    APPOINT- 
MENT 

"The  announcement  of  Dr.  Com- 
fort's unanimous  election  to  suc- 
ceed President  Sharpless  meets 
with  very  general  approval  among 


Al.UMXI 


327 


the  facult\'  and  alumni.  Scholar, 
gentleman,  and  thorough  Haver- 
fordian,  he  is  highly  respected  and 
regartled  as  thoroughly  competent 
for  the  position  to  which  he  has 
been  appointed.  A  certain  dignity 
and  reserve  serves  to  make  his 
opinions  doubly  weighty,  and  his 
personality  in  man-to-nian  talks 
makes  him  a  winner  of  warm 
friends. 

"He  was  brought  up  in  the 
Ha\-erford  atmosphere,  swung  a 
bat  on  the  cricket  crease,  and 
listened  to  lectures  in  Founders' 
Hall.  He  knows  Haverford  through 
and  through — Ha\'erford  men, 
Haverford  problems  and  Haverford 
ideals.  He  has  acquired  scholastic 
honors,  a  reputation  in  the  educa- 
tional world,  and  what  is  more, 
that  breadth  of  experience  that 
comes  with  much  travel  and  con- 
tact with  many  men.  He  as- 
sumes the  presidential  duties  at  a 
time  when  the  Ha\erford  adminis- 


tration is  face  to  face  with  serious 
problems — the  T.  Wistar  Brown 
legacy  to  be  utilized  w'iscly  in  the 
inauguration  of  graduate  work; 
money  to  be  expended  on  new- 
chair  in  history  and  other  deijart- 
ments;  Sharpless  Hall  to  be  erect- 
ed, ecjuipped,  and  occupied;  great- 
\y  increased  numbers  of  candidates 
for  admission  necessitating  regula- 
tion of  entrance  standards — these 
serve  to  suggest  the  magnitude  of 
the  situation.  \Miile  they  are  all 
signs  of  the  prosperous  condition 
of  the  College,  they  nevertheless 
will  present  crises  which  only  a 
steady  hand  can  wisely  steer 
through. 

"We  feel  that  in  the  soKing  of 
these  problems  Dr.  Comfort  has 
the  undivided  support  and  con- 
fidence of  a  thousand  Haverford- 
ians  as  he  takes  up  the  work  of 
President  Sharpless  toward  'mak- 
ing the  greater  Haverford  a  better 
Haverford.'" 


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3  Months  for  $5.00 

and  apply  the  first  rental 
payment  on  the  purchase 
price  if  you  desire  to  buy 
the  machine. 

MARCUS  &  CO. 

STATIONERS— TYPEWRITERS 
1303  Market  St.,  Philadelphia 


328 


The  Haverfordian 


The  "Anthology  of  Magazine 
Verse  for  1916,"  which  has  just 
been  published,  contains  the  names 
of  several  Haverfordians.  Chris- 
topher D.  Morley's,  '10,  "Ars 
Dura,"  originally  published  in  the 
Boston  Transcript,  is  among  the 
poems  reprinted.  "Sea  and  Bay," 
qy  C.  Wharton  Stork,  '02,  is 
placed  among  the  fifteen  important 
volumes  of  poems  published  dur- 
ing the  year.  W.  S.  Hinchman, 
'00;  W.  C.  Green,  '10,  and  L.  B. 
Lipmann,  '14,  are  mentioned  as 
having  published  poems  in  Con- 
temporary  Verse. 

The  following  is  reprinted  from 
McClitre's  Magazine: — 

A  CHARM 

For  a  New  Fireplace,   To  Stop  Its 
Smoking 

By  Christopher  Morley 

O  wood,  bum  bright;    O  flame,  be 

quick; 

O  smoke,   draw  cleanly  up  the 

flue! 

My  lady  chose  your  every  brick. 

And  sets  her  eager  heart  on  you. 

Logs  cannot  burn,  nor  tea  be  sweet. 
Nor  white  bread  turn  to  crispy 
toast 

Until  the  spell  be  made  complete 
By  love,  to  lay  the  sooty  ghost. 

And  then,  dear  books,  dear  waiting 
chairs. 
Dear  china  and  mahogany. 
Draw  close,  for  on  the  happy  stairs, 
My  brown-eyed  girl  comes  down 
for  tea. 


ITS  STRENGTH  SAVES  STOPS 

In  a  cross  belt  running  at  6.000  feet  per 
minute  a  lace  of  Tannate  after  two  weeks' 
service  showed  hardly  any  wear  or  stretch. 

In  a  main  drive  belt  where  high  grade  rawhide 
lasted  about  90  days,  Tannate  lace  was  still 
running  after  a  year  of  service. 

Such  lace  saves  stops  and  trouble,  and  it 
costs  you  less  per  year  because  it  lasts  so 
long. 

J.  E.  RHOADS  &  SONS, 


PHILADELPHIA. 
12  North  Third  Street 


NEW  YORK. 
102   Beakman  Street 


CHICAGO. 
322  W.   Randolph  Street 

FACTORY  AND  TANNERY,     WILMINGTON,  DEL. 


LET  US  HELP  YOU  SOLVE 
THE  GIFT   PROBLEM 

CANDY  PERFUMES 

STATIONERY 

CIGARS     CUT  GLASS      KODAKS 

C.  G.  WARNER,  P.  D. 

Pharmacist  HAVERFORD,  PA. 


Joseph  C  Ferguson,  Jr. 

6-8-10    South  Fifteenth  Street 

Optical  anb 
3^})otosrapf)ic  (ioobsJ 

OF  EVERY  DESCRIPTION 
Below  Market  Street 


Alumni 


329 


To  the  Kclitor: — 

Ma\'  I  ask  i\\v  pri\ilegc  of  your 
columns  to  call  to  the  attention  of 
\our  readers  the  pending  forma- 
tion by  the  American  Ambulance 
Field  Service  in  F^rance  of  se\eral 
new  sections  and  the  opportunity 
which  will  be  a\ailable  during  the 
next  few  months  for  an  additional 
nimiber  of  \oliuiteers  wlio  are 
interested  in  France  and  who 
would  like  to  be  of  service  there-* 

We  have  already  more  than  two 
liundrcd  cars  driven  by  American 
volunteers,  mostly  university  men, 
grouped  in  sections  which  are 
attached  to  divisions  of  the  French 
army.  These  sections  ha\e  served 
at  the  front  in  Flanders,  on  the 
Somme,  on  the  Aisne,  in  Cham- 
pagne, at  Verdun  (five  sections 
including  one  hundred  and  twenty 
cars  at  the  height  of  the  battle)  in 
Lorraine  and  in  reconquered  Alsace, 
and  one  of  our  veteran  sections  has 
received  the  signal  tribute  from 
the  French  arm>-  staiT  of  being 
attached  to  the  French  army  of 
the  Orient  in  the  Balkans.  We  are 
now  on  the  point  of  greatly  en- 
larging our  service  for  the  last  lap 
of  the  war,  and  a  considerable 
number  of  new  places  are  available. 
Every  American  has  reason  to 
be  proud  of  the  chapter  which 
these  few  hundred  American  youths 
have  written  into  the  history  of 
this  prodigious  period.  Each  of 
the  se\eral  sections  of  the  Ameri- 
can Ambulance  Field  Service  as  a 
whole  and  fifty-four  of  their  in- 
dividual members  ha\'e  been  deco- 
rated by  the  French  Army  with 
the  Croix  de  Guerre  or  the  Me- 
daille  Militaire  for  ^■alor  in  the 
performance  of  their  work. 

The   nature   of   this   work,    and 
the    reason    for    these    remarkable 


EST.\nLlSIIED     1864 


Buy  from  Makers    Save  Money 


dsnw 


Wardrobe  Trunks 


$14  to  $75 


TR.WELLING    B.AGS  .\ND  SUIT  C.VSES  OF 
FINEST  MATERIALS  AT  MODERATE  PRICES 

Ladies'  Hand  and  Overnight  Bags 

CENTRAL  TRUNK  FACTORY 
908  Chestnut  Street 


Daniel  E.WestomIi 

pcaDfLaEiECLLPCoazJi    • 


INSURANCE 

Fire  or  Burglary  Insurance  on  stu- 
dents' personal  effects  while  at  college 
or  elsewhere. 

Tourists'  Floating  Insurance  on  per- 
sonal effects  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  prop- 
erty or  for  injuries  to  persons. 

LONGACRE  &  EWING 
Bullitt  Bldg.,       141  So.  Fourth  Street 

PHILADELPUI.\ 


330 


The  Haverfordian 


tributes  from  the  Army  of  France 
is  clearly  presented  in  the  official 
report  of  the  first  year  and  a  half's 
service  published  by  Houghton, 
Mifflin  &  Co.,  of  Boston,  under  the 
title  of  "Friends  of  France." 

Information  as  to  the  require- 
ments of  and  qualifications  for  the 
service  will  be  gladly  sent  by 
Henry  D.  Sleeper  from  the  Boston 
Headquarters  of  the  Field  Service, 
at  Lee  Higginson  &  Co.,  40  State 
Street,  or  may  be  obtained  from 
Wm.  R.  Hereford,  at  the  New- 
York  Headquarters,  14  Wall  Street. 

The  American  Ambulance  Field 
Service  has  recently  been  described 
by  a  member  of  General  Joft're's 
staff  as  "The  finest  flower  of  the 
magnificent  wreath  offered  by  the 
Great  America  to  her  little  Latin 
sister." 

There  are  surely  many  more  of 
the  sterling  youths  of  America 
who  would  like  to  add  their  little 
to  that  wreath. 

A.  Piatt  Andrew, 

Inspector  General, 
American  Ambulance  Field 

Service. 
'60 

Cyrus  Lindley  died  January  30, 
1917  at  Rlarysville,  California. 

'61 

In  a  letter  to  the  Haverford- 
I.A.N,  J.  H.  Stewart,  of  Urpes,  Min- 
nesota, sums  up  the  wonderful 
development  that  the  College  has 
seen  under  President  Sharpless's 
administration  and  hopes  that  the 
development  under  his  successor 
may  attain  such  a  degree  of  prog- 
ress and  success. 

'65 
A.  Haviland  will  be  retired  for 
age  from  the  employ  of  the  New 
York  Central  R.  R.  after  the  com^ 
ing  summer. 


Pictures  Framed 

to  order,  and  in  an  artistic 
manner,  and  at  reasonable 
prices. 

J.  E.  BARKMAN, 

24  W.  Lancaster  Avenue 

Ardmore,  Pa. 

Pictures,    Stationery,    Gifts 

BARCLAY  HALL  AZPELL,  Proprietor 

Musical    Supplies 

SHEET  MUSIC  PLAYER-ROLLS 

TALKING  MACHINES 
and  RECORDS 

Weyman  &  Gibson   Instruments 

32  EAST  LANCASTER  AVENUE 

ARDMORE,  PA. 

Open  Evenings  Phone  1303-W 

Bryn  Mawr  Motor  Co.,  Inc. 

Main  Line  Agents 

BUICK 
AUTOMOBILES 

Branch    of 

HALE  MOTOR  GO.  Wayne,  Pa. 

The  address  of  B.  A.  Vail  is 
Elizabeth,  New  Jersey. 

'92 
Dr.  Brinton's  article  in  The 
American  Magazine  of  Art  was  the 
subject  of  an  illustrated  article  in 
The  Literary  Digest  for  January 
20th. 

W.  Morris  Hart  has  just  pub- 
lished a  collection  of  English  pop- 
ular ballads.  The  book  is  in  the 
series  of  the  Lake  English  Classics. 

'94 
Professor    W.    W.    Comfort,    of 
Cornell,  the  successor  of  President 


Alumni 


331 


Sharpless,    IkkI  an    arliclc    in    The 

Dublin  Rei'iew  ior  October,    19U). 

entitled      "A  Lapsed      Relation- 
ship." 

'08 
The  engagement  of  Walter  W. 
Whitson   to    Miss    Myra  H.  King, 
of    Peoria,   Illinois,  has    been    an- 
nounced. 

'11 
The  engagement  has  recenth- 
been  announced  of  William  1). 
Hartshorne,  Jr.,  to  Miss  Edith 
Corinne  Ligon,  daughter  of  Wil- 
liam D.  and  Julia  A.  Ligon,  of 
Nelson  Count\-,  Virginia.  Mr. 
Hartshorne  is  associate  principal 
and  co-founder  of  the  Ward  law- 
School  at  Plainfield,  New  Jersey. 
He  will  ha\'e  charge  of  the  boys' 
demonstration  playground  at  the 
coming  summer  session  of  Columbia 
Uni\ersity,  of  which  he  has  been 
director  for  the  past  three  summers. 

'14 
John  K.  Garrigues  is  working  in 
the     Trust     Department     of     the 
Girard  Trust  Company. 

'15 
Brinkle\-  Turner,  formerly  of  the 
Girard  Trust  Company.-,  has  ac- 
cepted a  position  with  Harper 
and  Turner  as  manager  of  their 
Statistical  Department. 

'16 
Herman  Olierholtzer  is  with  New- 
burger,     Henderson      and      Loeb, 
1410  Chestnut  Street,  Philadelphia, 
Brokers. 

Bolton  L.  Corson  has  been  with 
the  Franklin  Automobile  Com- 
pany, Syracuse,  New  York,  since 
graduation.  He  is  in  the  engineer- 
ing department. 


Headquarters  f*""  Everything 


Musical 

Banjos.       Ukuleles. 

Mandolins.    Violins 
Mandolutes,  Gui- 
tars. Cornets,  etc. 

Pianos  and 
Player- 
Pianos 


Victrolas  and  Victor  Records 

Popular.  Classical  and   Operatic  Slu-i-t   Music 

W&YMAHN 

1108  Chestnut  Street,      Philadelphia 


Aside  from  its  careful  work  in  filling  pre- 
scriptions 

Haverford  Pharmacy 

has  become  known  as  a  place  where  many 
of  the  solid  comforts  of  life  may  be  ob- 
tained. One  worth  mentioning  is  the  fa- 
mous Lotion  for  sunburn,  chapped  hands 
and  face,  and  other  irritations  of  the  skin. 
Decline,  gently  but  firmly,  any  other  said 
to  be  "just  as  good.  " 

WILSON  L.  HARBAUGH. 


Protection  is  the  Best  Policy 
The  Best  Policy  is  the  Best 
Protection 


Write  or  call  on 


Richards.  Dewees  & 

John  K.  Garrigues 


for  information. 


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THE 
HAVIRPOEDIAN 

VOLUWl  3S 


HAVIRPCRD  CCLLE3E 
1917-1918 


■.^^^ 


V  OF 

■'•  ■^"■^)  College. 

HAVfeRFORD. /»A. 


WU    ^aberforbian 


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Jacques  LeClekq,  Edilur-in- Chief 
W.  S.  Nevin  H.  p.  Schenck 

BUSINESS  MANAGERS 

A.  E.  Spellissy,  {Mgr.)  H.  Beale  Brodhead,  {Sub.  Mgr.) 

J.  S.  Huston,  {Asst.  Mgr.) 


CoutenW 

Evening R.  G.  3 

Vignette 3 

Editorial  Comment 4 

Doubt Robert  Gibson  5 

Score  One  for  Hoskins H.  W.  Brecht  6 

Moods Jacques  Le  Clercq  15 

The  New  Nobel  Prize  Winner: 

Werner  Von  Heidenstam C.  W.  Stork  16 

Bittersweet Jacques  Le  Clercq  21 

Dulce  et  Decorum W.  H.  C.  22 

Book  Review 23 

Peace  or  Righteousness L  K.  Keay  26 

Cave  Man 30 

Alumni 32 


Price,  per  year $1.00  Single  copies $0.15 

The  Haverfordian  is  published  on  the  twentieth  of  each  month  durin.e;  college 
and  year.  Its  purpose  is  to  foster  the  literary  spirit  among  the  undergraduates 
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  twenty-fifth  of  the  month  preceding  the  date  of  issue. 

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


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Officer! 

ROWLAND  COMLY,  President. 
HUGH  McILVAIN,  1st  Vice-President. 
WILLIAM  BRADWAY,  2nd  Vice-President. 
JOHN  H.  WOOD,  Secretary. 
ALFRED  G.  WHITE,  Assistant  Trust  Officer. 
S.  HARVEY  THOMAS,  JR.,  Assistant  Treasurer. 
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C.  Walter  Borton,  Secretary. 

Matthew  Walker,  Manager  Insurance  Dept. 

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VOU  can't  go  out  in  the  market 
and  buy  printing  as  you  can 
8ome  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. 
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The  Haverfordian 


Vol.  XXXIX  HAVERFORD,  PA.,  MARCH,  1917.  No.  1 


Cbening 

By  R.  G. 

O  the  sigh  of  the  wind  in  the  pine  tree, 
And  the  scrape  of  the  boat  on  the  sand, 
And  the  ripple  of  gold  from  beside  the  canoe 
As  it  glides  to  its  place  on  the  strand : 
The  twinkle  of  lights  in  the  harbor, 
And  the  swish  of  the  yawl  through  the  eea, 
Is  the  call  that  is  dearest  and  nearest  my  heart 
If  mine  were  to  choose  and  be  free. 


Vignette 

The  sea  is  as  a  silver-spangled  cloak, 

And  the  argent  waves  plash 

Softly,  soothingly,  caressingly, 

With  the  rhythm  and  cadence  of  feet  in  a  dance, 

As  though  the  wearer  of  this  cloak 

Were  a  weird  and  beauteous,  crazed  Salom6, 

Dancing  for  Herod,  King  of  Judea. 


Cbitortal  Comment 

AN  ANNOUNCEMENT 

MR.  Robert  Gibson,  who  as  Editor-in-Chief  has  been  responsible 
for  the  issuing  of  two  volumes  of  the  Haverfordian,  retired 
shortly  after  the  publication  of  our  March  number.  The  loss 
of  so  capable  an  editor  as  Mr.  Gibson  and  of  authors  of  the  calibre  of  the 
retiring  board  must  be  regarded  with  regret ;  but  we  hope  that  they  do 
not  view  their  withdrawal  as  a  complete  severance  from  the  magazine, 
and  look  forward  with  pleasure  to  their  future  contributions.  The 
retiring  members  are  Messrs.  Robert  Gibson,  W.  H.  Chamberlin,  and 
C.  D.  Van  Dam. 

THE  NEW  BOARD 

It  is  usual  for  a  new  Editor  to  thank  the  College  body  in  general 
for  its  kind  support.  Rather  than  give  such  thanks  grudgingly  we 
prefer  to  withhold  them.  We  cannot  refrain,  however,  from  thanking 
the  many  individuals  who  have  helped  the  Haverfordian  with  their 
pens  and  their  purses.  The  trouble  with  the  Haverfordian  is  that  it 
does  not  represent  the  College  body.  A  handful  of  men  contribute  to 
it  generously;  with  the  exception  of  these,  the  number  of  undergraduates 
who  read  the  magazine  may  be  counted  on  the  fingers  of  one's  hands. 
The  purpose  of  the  Haverfordian  has  been  to  foster  the  literary  spirit 
among  the  undergraduates  and  it  is  to  be  regretted  that  only  too  few 
have  even  allowed  us  to  try  to  do  this.  We  appeal  to  the  undergraduates 
to  support  us  more  whole-heartedly,  and  to  contribute  a  little  more  than 
they  have  heretofore. 

The  future  of  the  Haverfordian  is  none  too  bright.  With  the 
birth  of  the  Alumni  Quarterly  the  day  may  be  foreseen  when  the  Haver- 
fordian will  be  obliged  to  give  over  the  Alumni  Notes  to  this  enterprising 
contemporary ;  without  the  Alumni  Notes  the  Haverfordian  is  almost 
negligible — we  have  no  illusions  about  that.  But  if  more  contributions 
are  received,  we  may  be  able  to  raise  the  literary  standard  of  our  maga- 
zine until  it  may  actually  come  to  be  considered  for  its  intrinsic  literary 
interest  and  value.  It  is  a  matter  that  regards  the  College  body  as  a 
whole;  without  their  help  we  have  a  mass  of  literary  work  whose  only 
raison  d'etre  is  the  cover  that  links  it  to  the  Alumni  Notes;  with  their 
assistance  our  future  has  boundless  possibilities. 


Doubt  5 

THE  PRESENT  NUMBER 

In  the  present  number  we  have  shown  what  are  our  standards  of 
judgment.  We  accept  any  MSS.  that  are  interesting  and  well-written. 
These  are  the  only  attributes,  but  are  both  vitally  necessary. 

Publication  of  an  article  does  not  necessarily  imply  adoption  of  the 
views  expressed  therein.  Many  of  our  readers  may  object  to  the  senti- 
ments of  two  articles  in  this  issue;  we  shall  be  pleased  to  publish  any 
answer  we  receive  provided  it  be  worthy  of  our  consideration. 

Dr.  C.  Wharton  Stork's  article  on  Von  Heidenstam  is  reprinted  by 
kind  permission  of  the  Bookman.  Dr.  Stork  is  at  present  an  Editor  of 
"Contemporary  Verse,"  a  magazine  of  poetry  published  in  Philadelphia. 
He  is  the  author  of  several  books  of  poems  and  numerous  critical  studies 
in  contemporary  periodicals. 

OUR  APRIL  NUMBER 

Among  other  contributions  to  the  April  number  are  an  article  on 
"Haverford  Poets"  dealing  with  C.  Wharton  Stork,  Donald  Evans,  E. 
A.  V.  Valentine  and  others;  an  article  entitled  "A  Greater  Haverford," 
and  poems,  stories  and  sketches  by  various  authors.  MSS.  intended 
for  insertion  should  be  submitted  before  March  20th. 

IDoubt 

•  By  Robert  Gibson 

Why  must  you  doubt? 

A  lover's  only  hope  is  faith. 

We've  vowed  our  mutual  passion,  you  and  I, 

A  thousand  times  or  more  since  first  we  met. 

My  telltale  eyes  while  fastened  on  you  shout 

The  secret.     Why,  then,  does  this  wraith 

Of  past  experience  cloud  our  azure  sky? 

You  press  me  fondly  to  your  breast,  and  yet 

Your  parting  word  is,  "Do  you  love  me  still?" 

How  can  you  doubt? 

If  ache  of  heart  or  pain  could  prove 

What  I  have  told  you  often,  you  would  weep 

And  bid  me  kiss  away  your  groundless  fear. 

Has  love  down  through  the  ages  been  without 

A  comfort  to  the  bosom  it  doth  move? 

This  much  I  know:  While  through  the  air  we  sweep, 

Twin  love-souls  bound  for  Paradise, — a  tear 

Will  linger  in  your — "Do  you  love  me  still?" 


^core  0nt  for  ^oikin& 

By  Harold  W.  Brechi 

DAMON  Gildersleeve  was  a  great  man.  Damon  Gildersleeve 
owned  seven  mammoth  department  stores.  Damon  Gilder- 
sleeve was  a  very  great  man.  He  was  twice  and  a  fraction  as 
great  as  Matthew  Christian,  for  instance,  who  owned  only  three.  For 
that  reason  Damon  Gildersleeve's  statue  in  the  City  Square  devoted  to 
the  modem  great,  and  to  the  English  sparrows,  was  twice  and  a  fraction 
larger  than  Matthew  Christian's.  And  as,  to  the  best  of  my  knowledge, 
no  other  person  ever  owned  seven  mammoth  department  stores,  Damon 
Gildersleeve  was,  clearly,  the  greatest  man  ever  produced.  This  was 
well  for  every  one  concerned,  and  especially  well  for  Damon  Gildersleeve. 

Also,  Mrs.  Damon  Gildersleeve  was  a  great  woman.  She  collected 
tapestries  and  pictures  and  sculptures  of  slightly  immodest — to  the 
vulgar — young  women.  This  was  saving  Art,  which  is,  obviously,  great. 
Mrs.  Damon  Gildersleeve  and  her  friends  soared  above  the  common 
herd.  In  Mrs.  Damon  Gildersleeve's  gatherings,  soul  met  soul.  This 
was  reviving  Intellectuality,  which  is  plainly  great.  Mrs.  Damon 
Gildersleeve,  and  Mrs.  Damon  Gildersleeve's  feminine  friends  were  not 
prudes.  This  was  great.  It  was  especially  great  for  Mrs.  Damon 
Gildersleeve's  non-feminine  friends. 

But  this  poor  chronicle  cannot  treat  of  the  greatness  that  lies  in  the 
Gildersleeves.  It  begs  every  one's  pardon  for  concerning  itself,  on  the 
contrary,  with  low  matters,  and  breathing,  as  it  were,  a  low  atmosphere. 
Both  chronicle  and  chronicler  have  a  sincere  detestation  of  anything 
low,  such  as  ordinary  people.  Both  chronicle  and  chronicler  would 
prefer  to  busy  themselves  with  something  great,  like  the  Gildersleeves. 
The  chronicler  especially  would  like  to  meet  and  be  met  with  soul  to 
soul,  above  the  common  herd.  But,  unfortunately,  neither  the  chronicle 
nor  the  chronicler  is  great.     This  is  bad,  especially  for  the  chronicler. 

John  Engard  was  not  a  great  man.  Furthermore,  he  did  not  appear 
to  grieve  in  the  slightest  over  his  lack  of  greatness  ,which  was  even  worse 
than  his  delinquency.  According  to  his  friends,  he  was  talented  in 
certain  lines,  a  perfect  mine  of  latent  abilities.  They  undertook  to 
awaken  his  aspirations  by  expounding  to  him  the  glory  of  life,  as  he  did 
not  live  it.  They  showed  him  that,  as  a  reward  for  greatness,  he  would 
be  permitted  to  account  himself  a  friend  of  Mrs.  Gildersleeve's,  and  to  be 
a  guest  at  her  banquets,  where  soul  met  soul,  with  very  little  covering 
between.    At  this  John,  with  sacrilegious  heresy,  would  laugh. 


Score  One  for  Hoskins  7 

He  was  employed  in  one  of  Gildersleeve's  department  stores.  Gil- 
dersleeve's  department  stores  were  just  like  homes,  said  Gildersleeve,  a 
most  modest  gentleman.  In  them  were  long  rows  of  counters,  between 
which  passed  always  hurrying  people,  by  whom  one  might  be  jostled 
and  stepped  upon.  In  fact  they  were  very  like  homes,  they  even  sur- 
passed homes  in  being  like  unto  homes.  In  one  of  these  homes,  then, 
John  was  engaged  in  the  menial  and  excessively  low  occupation  of 
seUing  shoes.  But  as  John  was  a  professed  scoffer,  he  did  not  sell  many 
shoes;  hardly  any  shoes  at  all,  which  was  bad  for  the  success  of  homes. 
In  homes  it  is  necessary  for  one  to  sell  myriads  of  shoes.  In  fact  the 
prime  object  of  a  home,  according  to  Gildersleeve,  is  to  sell  shoes.  John 
received  eight  dollars  a  week. 

Grace  Barmore  was  also  employed  in  a  Gildersleeve  home,  where  she 
sold  ribbons,  as  is  the  customary  occupation  in  homes.  For  this  she 
received  six  dollars  a  week,  the  two  dollars  of  difference  between  her 
salary  and  John's  being,  as  he  told  her,  because  of  their  difference  in  sex. 
It,  presumably,  brings  merit  to  pay  a  woman  less  than  a  man,  so  that 
she  may  learn  how  to  live  for  less,  and  gain  merit  herself.  John  remon- 
strated strongly  with  Grace,  and  showed  her  earnestly  and  logically  that 
she  could  not  afford  to  be  feminine.  For  the  rest  she  was  rather  pretty, 
almost  beautiful,  and  very  young,  being  but  seventeen,  even  two  yeara 
younger  than  John.  She  had,  also,  an  inordinate  desire  for  silk  stockings 
and  silk  shirtwaists  that  displayed  the  silk  ribbons  in  her  underclothes. 
This  desire  she  could,  of  course,  easily  gratify  with  her  afore-mentioned 
munificent  salary. 

If  anyone  were  bo  low  as  to  have  a  desire  for  low  arithmetic,  he 
might  possibly  wish  to  calculate  the  amount  left  for  subsistence  when 
four  dollars  and  four  dollars  and  a  half  were  deducted  from  Grace's 
and  John's  incomes  every  week,  for  the  privilege  of  occupying  rooms, 
and  eating  breakfast  and  dinner,  at  Slimkinses.  The  fifty  cents  addition- 
al paid  by  John  was  for  a  window,  Grace's  room  lacking  that  enlighten- 
ing example  of  modem  luxury.  John  professed  to  admire  his  window 
deeply,  he  referred  to  it  In  terms  of  the  deepest  respect  as  his  most  valu- 
able property,  and  he  even  talked  of  insuring  it. 

On  very  hot  nights  John  would  tiptoe  into  Grace's  adjoining  room, 
with  no  regard  at  all  for  propriety,  and  gently  awaken  her.  Whereon  she 
would  arise,  while  John  discreetly  turned  his  back,  and  thrusting  her 
tiny  white  feet  into  slippers  she  would  exchange  beds  with  him.  At 
first  she  was  wont  to  demur  slightly  at  this  arrangement,  for  she  seemed 
to  think  the  advantage  lay  all  on  her  side.  But  John  stifled  her  objec- 
tions by  laughing  at  them ;  she  would  go  and  lie  where  he  had  lain  and  be 


8  The  Haverfordian 

eminently  happy.  As  for  him— he  would  sneer,  in  accordance  with  his 
creed,  though  it  was  hard  to  sneer  successfully  in  Grace's  stifling  attic. 

On  nights  so  hot  that  it  was  impossible  to  sleep,  the  two  would  sit 
with  each  other,  or  one  of  the  boarders  on  the  same  floor  would  give  a 
"Bathing  Suit"  party,  which  to  the  uninitiated  was  remarkably  like 
Mrs.  Gildersleeve's  revivals  of  Grecian  Art.  The  partakers  of  the  in- 
tellectual refinement  and  unexcelled  victuals  at  Slimkinses  were  dis- 
covered, however,  in  one  of  these  nocturnal  entertainments  (being  but 
children,  they  knew  no  better),  and  thereafter  the  festivals  ceased  for 
fear  of  injuring  the  reputation  of  Slimkinses. 

John  had  never  patronized  these  gatherings  anyhow,  not  because  of 
his  prudery,  but  because  he  preferred  rather  to  stay  in  his  room  and 
batter  his  old  typewriter,  thereby  producing  endless  reams  of  stories, 
and  again,  increasing  an  already  extended  collection  of  rejection  slips. 
He  was  an  odd  young  man.  He  was  a  very  odd  young  man.  He  was  a 
superlatively  odd  young  man.  Consider  what  you  would  have  done, 
on  being  invited  to  a  Bathing  Suit  party. 

Every  week  he  gave  one-tenth  of  his  salary  for  charity ;  this  he  called 
his  weekly  installment  on  his  heavenly  home.  He  simulated  grave 
anxiety  over  his  ignorance  concerning  the  price  of  real  estate  in  Paradise, 
and  was  deeply  concerned  over  the  interesting  question  whether  he  had, 
as  yet,  paid  for  the  whole  lower  story  of  his  home,  or  only  a  kitchenette. 
These  remarks  Grace  would  consider  sacrilegious,  for  she  possessed  a 
moral  code  that  belonged  to  those  of  her  class  who  were  not  yet  engaged 
in  an  ancient  but  slightly  dishonorable  profession,  and  she  would  reprove 
him  sharply.  In  answer  he  would  scoff,  and  present  her  with  half  his 
weekly  contribution,  on  condition  that  she  would  give  it  away,  and 
thereby  eschew  the  lamentable  future  homelessness  of  divers  wealthy 
and  very  virtuous — in  their  old  age,  at  least — gentlemen,  whom  he  named. 

He  wrote  off  bulletins  on  his  battered  typewriter  about  real  estate 
in  the  Holy  City.  "The  West  End,  Grace,"  he  would  say.  "There's 
the  coming  part  of  the  New  Jerusalem;  all  modern  conveniences.  That 
land's  bound  to  advance."  Then  he  would  launch  himself  into  a  ribald 
imitation  of  a  real  estate  agent's  most  grandiose  language,  too  blas- 
phemous to  be  repeated  by  one  even  so  conscienceless  as  the  chronicler. 
"Gildersleeve's  got  property  there;  he  knows  a  good  thing,"  he  would 
add. 

Then  he  would  continue:  "Gildersleeve's  prepared.  I  hear  he's 
bought  all  the  cool  standing-room  in  Hell,  cornered  it,  you  know.  That'll 
make  it  hot  for  me." 

I  give  you  these  facts,  not  because  I  consider  them  especially  face- 


Score  One  for  Hoskins  9 

tious  or  edifying,  but  because  they  show  John's  attitude,  real  or  pre- 
tended, toward  all  things. 

Perhaps  not  really  sensing  the  bitterness  that  lay  behind  his  words, 
Grace  would  take  him  to  task,  and,  sometimes,  take  offence.  One 
night,  however,  even  tliough  it  was  extremely  hot,  and  he  was  unusually 
wicked,  she  changed  her  attitude. 

"Don't,  John!"  she  said,  rather  wearily.  "Please!  Isn't  it  bad 
enough  for  us  to  live  as  we  have  to  live,  without  your  laughing  at  the 
only  One  Who'll  help,  or  even  care  about  us?"  Very  good  training  had 
Grace  received.  Then  turning  her  head  away,  so  that  he  might  not  see 
how  scarlet  was  her  blush,  she  went  on:  "John,  if  you  were  a  girl  perhaps 
you'd  understand  how  hard  it  is  for  her  to  keep — straight.  Hoskins 
Gildersleeve — spoke  to  me  again  to-day.     He — he — "  she  halted. 

"The  devil!  May  Satan  curse  him,  as  I  do!"  John  showed  his  even 
teeth  in  an  ugly,  snarling  gleam,  a  smile  that  did  not  spring  from  mirth. 

She  went  on.  "I  have  no  money  to  buy  what  I  want,  or  even  what 
I  need.  I  feel  something  inside  me  that  urges  me  on;  I  don't  want  to 
stay  at  home  nights,  with  my  bed,  I  want  to  go  out.  What's  the  matter 
with  me,  John?"  But  she  did  not  pause  for  an  answer.  "I  get  six  a 
week,  and  I'll  get  six  a  week  forever!"  She  began  to  sob  convulsively. 
"Why  did  God  ever  make  this  world?" 

John  said  nothing,  choking  back  the  bitter  words  at  his. lips.  He 
was  striding  up  and  down  with  his  hands  clenched,  and  as  Grace  looked 
at  him  she  saw  that  he  seemed  to  be  restraining  himself,  and  she  almost 
fancied  it  was  from  her. 

"Hoskins'll  get  me — they  always  do — though  I  hate  him.  But  after 
he's  through  with  me,  what  will  happen?  I'll  be  like — O  God,  if  You  can 
hear  me,  have  a  heart!" 

"Small — "  John  did  not  finish  the  sentence,  which  was  perhaps  well, 
for  I  fear  it  would  have  shocked  you  even  more — if  possible — than  you 
are  already  shocked  by  the  lowness  of  this  narrative.  Grace  left  him 
to  hide  her  burning  cheeks  in  her  pillow.     Very  modest  was  Grace. 

Mr.  Gildersleeve,  getting  old,  had  begun  to  branch  out.  He  owned 
a  church  now,  a  magnificent  church,  which  obviously  added  much  to 
his  greatness.  Of  course  he  did  not  own  it  openly,  he  had  leased  it  to 
St.  Paul,  or  to  Jesus  Christ,  I  do  not  remember  which.  It  may  even 
have  been  to  the  Virgin  Mary.  The  Gildersleeve  Memorial  Church 
had  a  very  high  steeple.  The  low — among  them  John — whispered  that 
from  the  top  of  this  steeple  Damon  Gildersleeve  intended  to  step  to 
Heaven.     Matthew  Christian  owned  no  church,  being  only  a  Christian, 


10  The  Haverfordian 

and  only  one-half  and  a  fraction  as    great    as  Damon  Gildersleeve. 
Damon  Gildersleeve  was  a  very  great  man. 

No  doubt  the  War  had  something  to  do  with  it,  and  the  building  of 
a  pathway  to  Paradise  was  presumably  costly,  for  Damon  Gildersleeve 
determined  to  economize.  The  method  of  economy  was  marvelously 
ingenious,  and  at  the  same  time  refreshingly  simple.  It  consisted  in 
the  discharge  of  one-half  the  employees,  and,  therefore,  in  the  perform- 
ance of  double  duty  by  the  other  half.  This  method  was  also  cunningly 
intended  to  impress  Someone  with  a  correct  knowledge  of  Gildersleeve, 
and  to  give  that  Someone  an  opportunity  to  prepare  for  Gildersleeve  a 
more  fitting  reception  than  perhaps  the  great  man  himself  expected  or 
even  dreamed  of. 

Of  course  our  two  low  characters  were  discharged,  neither  of  them 
materially  aiding  the  inflowing  of  the  wherewithal  to  build  the  new 
church,  and  to  support  the  minister  there.  John  received  his  notice  that 
Gildersleeve  could  manage  to  get  along  without  his  services  with  rather 
more  joy  than  otherwise,  for  now,  he  reasoned,  he  would  have  more  time 
to  spend  in  writing  his  aforementioned  stories.  This  writing  had  here- 
tofore done  no  one  any  real  harm,  John  of  course  excepted,  though  it 
rather  inconvenienced  the  manuscript  editors  and  the  postmen. 

When  John  came  home  that  same  day  he  heard  sounds  of  muffled 
eobbing  from  the  next  room.  Softly  he  opened  the  door  and  looked  in. 
Through  the  dingy  skylight  in  the  roof  the  sun  had  sent  a  shaft  of  gold, 
a  beam  like  a  brilliant  sword  in  which  the  little  motes  danced  and  spar- 
kled and  swayed  like  tiny  stars.  The  light  edged  the  little  white  bed  with 
gold;  it  made  a  shining  golden  glory  of  the  kneeling  girl's  hair;  it  gilded 
faintly  the  pallid  white  of  her  upturned,  tear-stained  face.  John  almost 
fancied  that  in  its  light  the  falling  tears  sparkled  in  amber  and  emerald 
and  carmine,  while  ever  the  little  stars  glided  to  and  fro,  or  vanished  into 
the  brooding  shadows  that  hovered  darkly  in  the  rest  of  the  room. 

A  great  longing  came  upon  John  to  seize  the  kneeling  girl  to  hJa 
breast,  to  kiss  the  soft,  tear-wet  cheek,  to  bury  himself  in  her  embrace. 
Instead  he  smiled  his  bitter  smile,  his  teeth  glittering  in  the  same  sun- 
beam.    Grace  turned  toward  him. 

"What  can  we  do?"  she  cried  hopelessly.     "I  have  no  money." 

"We  will  write  stories,  you  and  I,"  he  comforted,  but  not  moving 
nearer  her.     ' '  Such  stories ! ' ' 

Perhaps  Grace  was  not  over-confident  as  to  the  tangible  results  of 
their  writing — these  low  people  writing  not  for  Art's  sake  alone — but 
the  much-plaudited  optimism  of  youth  came  to  her  aid,  and  soon  she  was 
smiling,  her  slim  fingers  grasping  a  pencil. 


Score  for  One  Hoskins  11 

John  took  two  cents  from  his  lunch  allowance,  and  wrote  the  follow- 
ing letter  to  Mr.  Gildersleeve : 
"  My  Most  Esteemed  Sir : 
"  Permit  me  to  suggest  that  you  purchase  still  more  of  the  cooler 
part  of  Hell;   I  hear  you  are  a  large  man." 

This  letter  would,  no  doubt,  have  impressed  Mr.  Gildersleeve  might- 
ily if  it  had  ever  reached  him,  but  it  was  intercepted  by  his  tall,  passive- 
faced  secretary,  who  wrote  "Agreed"  across  the  bottom  of  the  page  and 
put  the  letter  in  his  inside  coat-pocket.  About  this  secretary  hangs  a 
tale,  but  I  fear  it  must  hang  there  till  it  strangle,  for  I  have  no  time  to 
take  it  off. 

John  and  Grace  wrote  with  such  rapidity  that  it  was  their  privilege 
to  receive,  by  nearly  every  mail,  a  returned  manuscript,  the  Editor's 
regrets,  and  the  Editor's  deep  obligation  for  the  opportunity  to  examine 
the  enclosed.  These  words  would,  no  doubt,  have  been  much  more 
comforting  if  they  had  not  been  printed  on  the  rejection  slip.  Instead 
of  being  made  famous  by  their  writings — as  Grace  was  fondly  hoping 
— the  mere  payment  of  the  postage  caused  a  serious  drain  on  their  finances. 
Once,  indeed,  they  received  a  letter  praising  their  "good  ideas,"  and  giv- 
ing them  large  encouragement  of  future  publication  at  undreamed-of 
prices.  Only  first,  matters  must  be  facilitated  slightly  by  the  remittance 
of  a  small  sum,  consisting  of  what  was  about  a  week's  pay  for  both  of 
them  in  the  old  days  of  their  employment. 

Grace  waa  greatly  delighted  by  this  letter,  foreseeing  a  dreamy 
vista  of  enough  to  eat  and  wear;  John  was  pleased  almost  as  much,  for 
he  foresaw  the  dawning  of  his  innermost  and  most  burning  ambition, 
that  he  never  breathed  aloud :  himself  a  leader  in  the  world  of  authors, 
surrounded  by  a  group  of  talented  yet  admiring  men.  To  meet  this 
first  demand,  and  several  smaller  ones  that  followed,  Grace  and  John 
abandoned  for  once  and  all  the  intellectually  refined  atmosphere  of 
Slimkinses,  moving  further  down-town.  I  may  add  that  this  primal 
pleasure  was  all  they  ever  received  for  this  manuscript  of  "good  ideas." 

Again  I  must  beg  my  readers'  pardon  and  salve  my  conscience  for 
treating  of  people  so  low  as  Grace  and  John,  and  of  their  actions,  which 
continually  became  lower.  I  would,  as  is  mentioned  before,  rather  soar 
with  Mrs.  Gildersleeve,  unimpeded  by  lowness  or  a  superfluity  of  rai- 
ment, where  soul  met  soul.  Great  was  Mr.  Gildersleeve;  great  was 
his  wife!  I  respect  them,  admire  them,  love  them,  revere  them.  No 
evil  was  done  by  them;  no  hypocrisy  about  them;  no  obsequiousness 
toward  them;  the  world  honored  them,  as  I  did.  School-children  were 
to  use  them  as  examples,  even  as  do  you  and  I.     The  school-children 


12  The  Havertoiujian 

were  commanded  to  respect  and  admire  them,  to  love  them,  as  I  did. 
Great,  ah,  great  were  they! 

As  I  greatly  respect  the  feelings  against  anything  low  partaken  of 
by  my  readers,  who  thereby  approach  in  greatness  the  Gildersleeves,  I 
will  not  give  in  detail  the  struggles  of  Grace  and  John  to  find  means  for 
the  subsistence  of  their  low  lives.  Let  it  suffice  that  they  were  in  all  vain. 
It  is  true  that  Grace  received  a  tentative  offer  as  a  chorus-girl,  but,  with 
a  sort  of  low  modesty,  she  drew  back  at  once  when  she  saw  the  proposed 
attire.  Time  passed  on  until  their  stock  of  money,  a  pitifully  small 
stock,  was  exhausted,  not  precisely  the  most  pleasant  state  of  affairs. 

One  night  John  had  returned  from  a  fruitless  search  for  work,  and 
he  was  sitting  rather  hopelessly,  his  head  resting  in  his  hands,  when 
Grace's  door  was  opened  and  Grace  herself  appeared.  Perhaps  it  is 
well  to  say  at  this  place  that  John  had  received  one  or  two  offers  of 
employment,  but  as  they  meant  leaving  Grace,  he,  with  a  sort  of  low 
attachment,  as  it  were,  had  declined  them. 

Grace  had  become  thinner  and  paler,  but  she  was  as  beautiful  as 
before.  Though  her  head  was  turned  away,  he  could  see  that  her  cheeks 
were  flushed,  and  her  eyes  were  burning,  while  she  kept  her  arms  crossed 
over  her  breast.  She  was  superbly  gowned  in  a  robe  of  cloth-of-gold, 
though  it  was  cut  so  low  that  she  might  well  be  glad  of  a  huge  bunch  of 
orchids  at  her  breast.  John  started.  Grace,  so  modest  and  retired, 
clad  as  a  walker  of  the  streets,  or  as  a  female  follower  of  Gildersleeve! 

"Grace!"   he  said  in  surprise. 

"Do  I  look  the  part?"  she  answered,  her  words  grating  hoarsely. 
"Look!" 

She  handed  him  a  little  wrinkled  note,  which  had  plainly  been 
pressed  and  re-pressed  between  her  hands.     It  read : 

"Dearest  Grace: — I  have  waited  long  for  you,  must  I 

wait  forever?  I  love  you,  I  can  not  stay  away  from  you,  I  would 

die  foi  a  kiss  from  yoa.     I  am  having  an  early  supper  to-night; 

my  car  will  call  for  you.    Since  I  want  my  darling  to  be  dressed 

better  than  anyone  else,  I  send  you  this  dress,  also  a  few  flowers. 

Think  of 

"Your  own  Hoskins." 

To  those  of  you  who  have  had  experience  with  such  notes,  that  is, 
who  have  either  received  or  sent  them,  and  who  may  wonder  at  the  style 
of  this  one,  it  may  be  well  to  explain  that  the  impassive  secretary  had 
written  the  note — as  he  had  written  many  similar  ones — Hoskins  Gil- 
dersleeve not  being  famed  for  his  intellectual  ability. 

"I  wish  you  a  pleasant  evening,"  said  John,  with  a  mocking  bow. 


Score  One  for  Hoskins  13 

Then  the  feelings  fostered  by  some  months  of  nearness  to  her  breaking 
through  his  mask,  he  cried,  "Grace,  why?" 

"What  else  can  we  do?  We  have  nothing  to  eat,  or  nothing  to  buy 
it  with.  All  I  have  is  a  pretty  face;  I  must  capitalize  my  only  property. 
Perhaps  both  of  us  can  live  on  the  proceeds."  He  muffled  an  interjec- 
tion. "John,"  she  cried,  suddenly  changing  her  tone,  and  advancing 
toward  him  with  outstretched  hands,  "you  must  forgive  me." 

"I  have  thought  for  a  long  while  that  I  had  better  give  personal 
attention  to  my  heavenly  mansion,"  said  John  dreamily. 

"You  laugh?" 

"Grace,"  he  went  on,  unheeding,  "instead  of  going  to-night  with 
Hoskins,  take  a  longer  journey  with  me." 

"What  do  you  mean?" 

"Pardon  me!"  He  stripped  off  his  shirt  and  stood,  bare-armed, 
before  her.     In  his  hand,  near  his  arm,  he  held  a  black-handled  razor. 

"Oh!"  She  understood.  She  hesitated  a  moment,  then  advanced 
nearer  him,  holding  out  her  bare  arm. 

Tenderly  John  took  it.     She  shuddered  and  closed  her  eyes... 

"Grace,"  John  said  suddenly,  "after  a  few  moments  I  don't  know 
whether  we'll  ever  see  each  other  again.  So  before  I — kill  you,  I  want 
to  tell  you  that  I  love  you." 

"John,"  she  smiled  at  him,  "I've  waited  so  long!" 

As  he  held  her,  a  shining  golden  vision  with  starry  eyes,  to  his  heart, 
she  spoke  again.     "Why  didn't  you — tell  me  before?" 

He  kissed  the  upturned  lips  before  he  answered.  "I  was  afraid — 
for  your  reply.  And  then,  we  would  have  married,  and  there  would 
have  been  a  baby.  A  child  without  money — ,"  he  did  not  finish  the 
sentence.  Then,  with  his  old  cynicism,  he  added:  "Besides,  we  would 
have  committed  the  crime  of  bringing  a  helpless  child  into  the  world. 
He  would  have  lived,  no  doubt,  till  he  was  seventy.  Think  of  it — seventy 
years  here!  That  was  the  one  crime  I  could  never  forgive  my  parents, 
the  crime  of  bringing  me  into  the  world.  But,  Grace,  don't  blame  me 
for  not  speaking  before;  it's  been  hard,  God  knows  it's  been  hard.  A 
thousand  times  I  could  have  kissed  you,  little  girl." 

She  embraced  him,  while  in  his  life,  with  the  touch  of  her  soft  cheek, 
a  joy  was  dawning.  His  hands  touching  her  shoulders  were  thrilled 
with  a  shock  strange,  yet  marvelously  pleasant.  With  a  sigh  he  picked 
up  again  the  shining  blade.  Suddenly  an  auto-horn  was  heard;  as 
suddenly  she  drew  away. 

"I — I  can't,  John!"  she  cried  hopelessly.     "I'm  a  coward — " 

"Perhaps  you're  braver  than  I,"  he  put  in. 


14  The  Haverfordian 

"You'll  believe  me  that  I  don't— want— ?" 

The  horn,  a  sinister  interruption,  broke  into  her  words.  "It's  so 
hard  to  die!  Yet  I  don't  live  alone,  John,  for  God  is  with  me.  Please, 
John,  forgive  me?" 

"Why,  little  girl,  dear  little  girl,  there's  nothing  to  forgive,"  he 
said  tenderly,  bending  over  her.  Then,  with  his  old  bitterness,  he  added, 
"If  I  were  a  minister,  Grace,  I'd  tell  you  I'd  prepare  a  home  there  for 
you.     Good-bye." 

He  embraced  her  again,  while  she  hid  her  tears  on  his  shoulder. 
He  kissed  passionately  her  slim  fingers  and  her  arms,  and  last  her  lips. 
It  was  the  time  in  the  afternoon  when  the  sun  was  accustomed  to  shine 
into  the  dingy  little  room ;  it  was  shining  now.  Its  rays  seemed  red,  a  red 
that  crimsoned  the  gold  on  Grace's  gown,  and  crimsoned,  too,  a  white 
plaster  Christ  that  the  zealous  landlady  had  hung  on  the  wall. 

An  automobile  stopped  noisily  in  front  of  the  house;  Grace,  with  a 
last  look,  left  the  room.  John  waited  until  the  car  had  left  the  street 
before  he  picked  up  the  razor  again.  As  he  did  bo,  by  some  strange 
irony,  the  shining  blade  was  caught  in  the  sun,  and  its  shadow  was  cast 
full  in  the  face  of  Christ  that  reclined  wearily  on  one  shoulder.... 

The  next  morning,  after  John  had  been  discovered  dead,  a  letter 
came  addressed  to  him.  The  landlady  opened  it ;  it  was  from  the  literary 
broker,  who  had  so  far  aided  Grace  and  John  by  taking  their  money, 
that  he  had  shortened  their  lives  some  weeks.  Out  fluttered  a  check, 
which  the  landlady  appropriated  as  rather  ample  payment  for  the  rent. 
She  gave  some  to  the  priest  to  repay  God — presumably — for  her  sin  in 
taking  it,  she  being  religious.  The  letter  was  long,  and  full  of  profuse 
apologies.  Its  gist  was :  by  an  unforeseen  circumstance  the  manuscript 
was  sold;  any  future  manuscripts  would  be  gratefully  accepted.  This 
was,  of  course,  an  opening  for  young  Patrick,  the  landlady's  son,  who 
was — in  his  own  opinion,  at  least — an  author  of  no  mean  ability. 


iHoobs; 

By  Jacques  LeClefcq 

I.  QUIA  MULTUM  AMAVI 

Like  as  the  awaited,  storm-beleaguered  ships, 

Reaching  the  end  of  their  most  perilous  quest, 

Into  the  haven  sail  with  many  a  chest 

Teeming  with  gold  doubloons ;  as  the  moon  dips 

Her  crescent  whilst  coquettishly  she  slips 

Into  the  clouds'  embrace  to  sleep  in  rest ; 

So  too  have  I  found  peace  upon  your  breast, 

Tasting  oblivion  from  your  soothing  lips.  •  . 

Lest  Earth  be  plunged  into  darkness  profound, 

A  thousand  stars  shine  in  the  heaven  above, 

Since  your  bright  eyes  were  dimmed  by  poppied  sleep. 

A  brooding  quietness  is  all  around ; 

O  Mona,  let  me  weep  the  tears  of  love. 

For  I  am  young  and  it  is  good  to  weep. 


II.  SOLACE 

No  night  was  e'er  as  sweet  as  is  this  night ; 

The  hovering  shadow  in  its  vast  womb  brings 

An  old-time  fragrance  of  forgotten  things. 

The  wan  moon  sheds  an  evanescent  light 

Over  the  sea-rim ;  as  an  acolyte 

Bearing  tall  candles,  jewelled  censers,  rings. 

To  a  god's  sepulchre.     What  whisperings 

Are  these!  Caressingly  the  wavelets  white 

Woo  the  obdurate  sands  with  amorous 

And  gentle  song,  chanted  with  cadenced  breath. 

At  length  I  have  found  peace;  I  am  content 

To  rest  awhile.  .  .  Life  is  ungenerous ; 

But  that  I  kiss  the  honeyed  mouth  of  Death, 

Nor  God  nor  Life  is  able  to  prevent. 


16  The  Haverfordian 

III.  THE  LAST  SONNET 
My  friends,  when  I  am  dead  and  gone  from  here, 
That  ye  observe  my  last  desires  I  crave : 
I  pray  you  make  no  show  of  splendor  brave, 
Nor  build  o'er  me  a  monument  austere. 
Nor  place  ye  wreathed  flowers,  year  by  year, 
Upon  my  simple  and  secluded  grave; 
But  only  these  few  words  of  mine  engrave 
Written  when  welcome  death  was  drawing  near: 
''Here  lieth  one  who  knew  both  joy  and  sorrow; 
Who  hated  many  men,  but  loved  more. 
Into  the  regions  of  the  vast  To-morrow, 
A  curse  or  two,  mayhap  a  tear,  he  bore. 
Pile  not  your  hill  upon  his  grave,  0  Mole; 
Lord  Jesu  Christ  have  mercy  on  his  soul! 


®i)e  ^etu  Motile  ^ri^e  Winntv:  Werner  bon 

By  Charles  Wharton  Stork 

THE  conscientious  person  who  tries  to  be  "up  in  literature"  is 
truly  to  be  pitied  in  these  cosmopolitan  days.  From  a  stren- 
uous pursuit  of  the  latest  French  and  German  masters  he  is 
called  upon  first  to  cross  the  dreary  steppes  of  the  Russian  novel.  Then 
come  excursions  into  widely  diverging  districts  to  get  at  such  authors  as 
Ibsen,  Fogazzaro,  Tchekov,  Verhaeren  and  Strindberg.  Finally,  after 
being  lured  to  the  far  east  by  the  charm  of  Tagore,  he  is  compelled  by  the 
last  Nobel  award  to  return  to  the  north  and  contemplate  the  genius  of 
Verner  von  Heidenstam. 

But  perhaps,  after  all,  our  sympathy  with  the  "keep-posted"  crank 
is  misapplied.  Has  he  not  confused  himself  by  mistaking  opportunities 
for  obligations?  He  is  in  fact  no  wiser  than  a  man  at  a  table  d'hote 
dinner  who  insists  on  eating  everything,  regardless  of  whether  he  really 
wants  it  or  can  digest  it.  Now  that  fashions  in  literature  begin  to  be  as 
imperative  as  fashions  in  dress,  we  may  ask  ourselves  whether  the  com- 
mon-sense advice  of  Mr.  A.  C.  Benson  should  not  be  more  heeded.  It  is 
inspiring  to  find  so  scholarly  an  author  as  Mr.  Benson  saying  in  sub- 
stance: Don't  read  what  you  think  you  ought  to  read,  read  what  you 
want  to  read. 


The  New  Nobel  Prize  Winner:   Verner  Von  Heidenstam  17 

Let  us  then  regard  Heidenstam  in  the  light  of  an  opportunity.  I 
remember  two  years  ago  in  London,  just  before  the  War  broke  out, 
talking  with  Mr.  William  Heineman,  the  well-known  publisher,  on  the 
subject  of  continental  literature.  He  remarked  that,  as  most  people 
who  cared  for  French  or  German  works  could  read  them  in  the  original, 
the  future  of  translations  would  lie  in  Russian,  and — he  added — in 
Scandinavian.  How  true  the  prediction  was  for  Russian  I  need  not  say ; 
it  was  of  course  much  hastened  by  the  War..  Scandinavian  has  come 
more  slowly,  but  Strindberg  in  the  drama  and  Selma  Lagerlof  in  the  novel 
have  assuredly  won  their  way  to  general  recognition.  We  may  then 
safely  assume  that  it  will  not  be  long  before  other  Swedish  writers  of 
eminence  are  given  a  favorable  hearing. 

There  are  many  reasons  why  Swedish  literature  should  be  congenial 
to  American  readers.  It  is  Teutonic,  it  is  virile  and  close  to  the  soil,  it 
is  markedly  individual  in  form  and  yet  often  exquisite  in  artistic  finish, 
it  is  full  of  geniality  and  keen  humor,  and  it  is  modern  in  the  progressive, 
not  in  the  decadent  sense.  Selma  Lagerlof's  novels  illustrate  many 
of  these  qualities  and  their  popularity  is  likely  to  increase  indefinitely. 
Strindberg  is  better  known  for  the  cosmopolitan — the  unpleasant — side 
of  his  genius  than  for  his  vigorous  and  thoroughly  healthy  plays  of 
Swedish  history.  It  is,  however,  in  poetry  that  the  spirit  of  Sweden 
has  found  its  fullest  expression,  and  of  Swedish  poetry  we  in  America 
know  as  yet  practically  nothing.  The  names  even  of  such  great  modern 
masters  of  metre  as  Rydberg,  FrOding,  and  Karlfeldt  have  been  heard 
in  America  only  by  their  compatriots. 

The  Nobel  Prize  for  Literature  has  most  certainly  had  a  stimulating 
effect  on  the  international  spirit.  Spanish  drama,  Italian  poetry,  the 
Provencal  revival,  Indian  mysticism — how  much  attention  should  we 
have  paid  them  had  it  not  been  for  the  recognized  ability  and  impartiality 
of  the  Nobel  Jury?  We  may  be  sure  therefore  that  Swedish  poetry 
has  something  of  value  to  offer  us  when  its  principal  living  exponent  is 
selected  to  receive  the  distinguished  award. 

Born  in  1859,Vemer  von  Heidenstam  first  came  into  literary  promise 
in  1888  with  a  volume  of  lyrical  poems  entitled  "Pilgrimage  and  Wander- 
years."  This  volume  was  the  result  of  a  long  period  spent  in  travel, 
principally  in  Italy  and  the  Orient.  The  marked  success  of  these  poems 
was  due  not  only  to  the  sincere  and  individual  personality  of  the  author, 
but  to  the  fact  that  they  came  as  a  relief  in  a  period  of  exaggerated 
realism.  Their  remote  setting  and  the  romantic  treatment  of  the  ma- 
terial at  once  caught  the  Swedish  imagination.  People  were  glad  to 
forget  social  questions  and  problem-plays  of  sex  either  by  losing  them- 


18  The  Haverfordian 

selves  in  the  colorful  representation  of  the  East,  or  by  entering  into  the 
intimate  recesses  of  the  poet's  own  consciousness.  For  Heidenstam  has 
almost  equally  the  gifts  of  clear-cut  objectivity  and  of  deep  self-analysis. 

But  it  is  not  only  as  a  poet  that  Heidenstam  has  won  his  high  reputa- 
tion. Shortly  after  the  lyrical  volume  already  mentioned  he  brought 
out  a  novel,  "Hans  Alienus,"  much  in  the  same  idealistic  vein,  describ- 
ing a  pilgrimage  through  many  lands  in  search  of  beauty.  In  his  prose 
style  as  in  the  poetry  there  is  an  earnestness,  a  depth  of  vision  that  holds 
the  reader  even  though  he  be  out  of  sympathy  with  the  immediate 
subject  in  hand.  Heidenstam  has  a  fascination  for  us  like  that  of  the 
student  or  the  collector  who  is  so  powerfully  engrossed  by  his  specialty 
that  he  impresses  even  the  most  casual  acquaintance  with  whom  he 
happens  to  talk. 

At  first  Heidenstam's  appeal  was  chiefly  to  the  clique  of  dilettanti. 
He  was  admitted  to  be  a  new  phenomenon  in  literature,  but  his  point 
of  view  was  felt  to  be  somewhat  morbid  and  self-absorbed,  and  his  style 
was  characterized  as  "exotic."  This  impression  was  largely  modified 
by  the  appearance  of  a  second  volume  of  verse,  "Poems,"  and  of  a  second 
novel,  founded  on  Swedish  history,  "The  Carolines."  In  both  of  these 
works,  written  after  he  had  settled  definitely  in  his  native  land,  Heiden- 
stam showed  the  growing  love  and  understanding  for  Sweden  which 
have  since  made  him  a  popular  idol.  There  is  also  a  strong  infusion  of 
realism  into  his  style;  not  the  realism  of  the  social  statistician,  but  the 
realism  of  the  fine-spirited  artist  who,  as  he  develops,  becomes  more 
and  more  conscious  of  the  need  for  observed  fact  as  a  basis  for  imagina- 
tion. Always  self-analytical,  Heidenstam  evidently  began  to  appreciate 
the  responsibility  of  his  high  calling.  Consequently,  striking  his  roots 
deeply  into  his  native  soil,  he  soon  began  to  exhibit  a  forceful  sturdiness 
which  could  never  have  been  developed  in  a  southern  climate. 

It  is  this  national  element  in  his  work  that  Heidenstam  has  culti- 
vated up  to  the  present  time.  It  appears  in  three  later  novels,  in  various 
historical  studies,  and  in  the  volume  entitled  "New  Poems,"  which, 
though  it  was  only  published  in  1915,  contained  many  pieces  already 
famous  through  magazines.  Thus  Heidenstam  has  come  to  represent 
to  the  Swedish  people  the  principle  of  their  new  nationalism,  of  their  new 
striving  to  be  a  great  and  united  people.  He  means  to  them  much  what 
Mistral  meant  to  the  south  of  France,  or  Carducci  to  Italy.  The  near- 
est thing  we  have  to  it  in  English  is  the  spirit  found  in  Henley's  "Eng- 
land, My  England"  and  in  some  of  the  well-known  pieces  of  Kipling. 
It  would  be  hard,  I  fear,  to  discover  anything  approaching  it  in  Ameri- 
can literature  to-day. 


,1 


The  New  Nobel  Prize  Winner:   Verner  Von  Heidenstam    19 

If  we  were  asked  to  state  in  a  few  words  the  reason  why  the  Nobel 
Prize  for  Literature  in  1916  was  given  to  Heidenstam,  we  should  probably 
be  right  in  saying  that  it  was  because  he  has  become  the  recognized 
spokesman  of  Sweden.  His  vividness  in  the  portrayal  of  beauty,  his 
psychological  insight,  and  his  stylistic  ability  per  se  count  for  cpmpara- 
tively  little  in  this  connection.  A  glance  at  the  previous  prize-winners 
will  convince  us  of  this.  Bjornsen,  Mistral,  Echegaray,  Sienkiewicz  in 
his  later  work,  Carducci,  Kipling,  Heyse,  Lagerlof  and  Tagore  are  all 
figures  of  national  importance,  their  names  awaken  a  thrill  in  the  hearts 
of  their  fellow-countrymen.  Prudhomme,  Mommsen,  Eucken,  Maeter- 
linck and  Hauptmann  compose  a  more  scholarly  and  aesthetic  group, 
a  group  that  appeals  much  less  to  the  imagination,  but  they  stand  for 
ideas  that  are  potent  in  the  development  of  their  respective  lands. 
Rolland,  the  last  choice  previous  to  Heidenstam,  was  doubtless  selected 
for  his  fine  international  spirit  as  shown  both  in  "Jean  Christophe"  and 
in  his  attitude  on  the  war.  The  writers  who  are  unthinkable  as  Nobel 
prize-winners  despite  their  artistic  achievements  are  such  men  as  D'An- 
nunzio,  Hugo  von  Hofmannsthal,  Andreyev  and  George  Moore.  As 
for  us  in  America,  we  might  have  advanced  the  claims  of  Whitman,  of 
Mark  Twain,  even  of  Riley.     Now  whom  have  we? 

But  a  knowledge  of  why  Verner  von  Heidenstam  has  received  the 
Nobel  Prize  does  not  by  any  means  convey  a  full  knowledge  of  his  genius. 
There  are,  as  we  have  noted,  two  distinct  phases  of  his  work:  the  first, 
personal  and  introspective;  the  second,  national  and  self-dedicatory. 
His  style  in  the  former  field  is  extremely  difficult; being  involved,  com- 
pressed, and  very  rapid  in  its  changes  from  idea  to  idea  or  figure  to 
figure.  In  marked  contrast  is  the  clear,  direct  style  of  the  poet  when  he 
loses  himself  in  thinking  of  his  country.  It  is  impossible  to  recognize  two 
poems  in  these  conflicting  manners  as  being  by  the  same  author,  unless 
perhaps  we  notice  a  certain  tendency  to  over-compactness  and  an  abrupt 
shifting  of  thought  as  common  to  both.  Intensity  is  a  constant  quantity 
in  Heidenstam's  writing,  but  the  intensity  of,  for  instance,  "Thoughts  in 
Solitude"   would   never  suggest   that   of   "Invocation  and    Promise." 

But  to  convey  any  understanding  of  Heidenstam's  peculiar  essence 
we  must  resort  to  illustration.  The  following  poem  is  like  a  glimmer  in 
the  twilight.  Others  of  a  similar  kind  make  us  fancy  ourselves  on  the 
brink  of  a  deep  and  narrow  crater,  gazing  at  its  lurid  gleams  that  pierce 
the  darkness  below.  Gloom,  hyper-sensitiveness,  spiritual  isolation — 
these  are  the  moods  induced  by  such  of  Heidenstam's  poems  as  that 
which  we  are  about  to  examine. 


20  The  Haverfordian 

"THE  DOVE  OF  THOUGHT 
"Lone  the  dove  of  thought  goes  lagging 
Through  the  storm,  with  pinions  dragging 
O'er  an  autumn  lake  the  while. 
Earth's  aflame,  the  heart's  a-fever. 
Seek,  my  dove, — alas !  thou  never 
Comest  to  Oblivion's  isle. 

"Hapless  dove,  shall  one  brief  minute, 
Flaming,  fright  thee  to  a  swoon? 
Sleep  thou  on  my  hand.     Full  soon, 
Hushed  and  hurt,  thou'lt  lie  within  it." 

This  is  a  rather  morbid  and  complex,  but  in  its  way  very  affecting, 
poem.  The  difficulty  of  it  lies  in  the  entangling  of  the  physical  with  the 
metaphysical  world.  The  flaming  of  the  earth  in  autumn  colors  is  ap- 
parently identified  with  the  feverishness  of  the  restless  human  heart, 
a  not  very  apt  metaphor.  But  the  picture  of  the  dove  conveys  with  deli- 
cate skill  the  feeling  of  spiritual  uncertainty  to  which  all  of  us  can  bear 
witness.  It  is  to  this  class  of  interest  that  most  of  Heidenstam's  poems 
and  much  of  his  prose  belong. 

But  the  other  class,  though  smaller,  is  of  far  wider  significance. 
In  it  we  are  inspired  not  only  by  the  author's  love  of  Sweden  but  by  his 
thorough  democratic  spirit.  It  is  very  remarkable  that  a  man  of 
aristocratic  background  and  idealistic  training  should  so  fully  sympa- 
thize with  the  common  people.  For  instance,  Heidenstam  has  said 
that  no  man  did  so  much  harm  to  Sweden  as  did  Charles  XII,  one  of 
the  great  national  idols.  With  the  truly  modem  historic  sense  he  per- 
ceives that  a  world-conquering  hero,  a  Hannibal  or  a  Napoleon,  is  worse 
than  nothing  compared  with  the  steady  development  of  a  people  in  their 
natural  sphere,  however  small.  Charles  wasted  men  and  money,  and 
his  victories  only  brought  upon  him  the  hostility  of  the  neighbors  whose 
rights  he  had   invaded. 

But  we  can  not  better  display  the  spirit  which  has  given  Heiden- 
stam his  literary  eminence,  and  incidentally  the  Nobel  award,  than  by 
quoting  the  ringing  summons  to  his  people  in  the  lines  of 

"INVOCATION  AND  PROMISE 
"If  three  of  my  neighbors  should  cry:  'Forget 
Our  greatness  of  bygone  ages!' 
I'd  answer,  'Arise,  O  North,  who  yet 


Bittersweet 


21 


Mayst  be  what  my  dream  presages!' 
The  vision  of  greatness  may  bring  again 
New  deeds  like  those  of  our  betters. 
Come  open  the  graves — nay,  give  us  men 
For  Science  and  Art  and  Letters. 

Then  on,  fair  daughter,  in  hardship  bred, 

Let  shyness  and  sloth  forsake  thee. 

We  love  thee  so  that,  if  thou  wert  dead, 

Our  love  to  life  could  awake  thee. 

Though  the  bed  be  hard,  though  the  midnight  lowers, 

We'll  be  true  while  the  tempest  rages. 

Thou  people,  thou  land,  thou  speech  that  is  ours, 

Thou  voice  of  our  souls  to  the  ages!" 


JBitttvsi\3)ttt 

By  Jacques  LeClercq 

Slowly  to  seaward  the  stately  ships. 
White  sails  agleam  against  the  spars — 
Exquisite  torture  of  your  lips — 
Dust  of  the  stars.  .  .  . 


The  perfumed  head  of  the  Wind  of  the  South 
In  the  lap  of  the  Earth  reposes ; 
Tears  in  your  eyes — and  in  my  mouth 
Ashes  of  roses. 


29ulce  €t  IBecorum  ^ro  Hihtxtatt  iWori 

By  W.  H.  C. 

IT  is  estimated  that  fifty  thousand  Americans  are  now  fighting  with 
the  Allied  armies  in  France  and  Flanders.  Many,  like  the  aviator, 
Victor  Chapman,  and  the  poet,  Alan  Seegar,  have  already  laid 
down  their  lives  on  the  bloodstained  battlefields  of  the  western  front. 
Of  course  their  presence  has  had  little  effect  upon  the  military  situation. 
The  entire  number  of  Americans  engaged  in  the  War  would  scarcely 
supply  the  loss  of  a  week's  carnage  at  Verdun  or  the  Somme.  But,  though 
their  material  service  to  the  Allies  may  have  been  slight,  their  moral 
service  to  America  can  hardly  be  overrated.  They  have  shown  to  the 
world  that  the  better  feeling  of  their  country  is  not  neutral  and  indifferent, 
but  passionately  concerned  with  the  great  principles  of  humanity  and 
justice  which  were  so  wantonly  attacked  in  August,  1914.  They  have 
proved  that  some  Americans,  at  least,  feel  that  the  deliberate  murder  of 
two  hundred  of  their  countrymen  upon  the  high  seas  calls  for  something 
more  than  a  polite  exchange  of  diplomatic  correspondence.  The  Prescott 
or  Motley  of  the  future  will  be  inclined  to  hasten  over  the  history  of 
America  during  the  Great  War.  The  shufifling  delays  and  ignoble 
evasions  of  the  "Lusitania"  case,  the  cowardly  debates  in  Congress 
about  the  advisability  of  warning  Americans  off  armed  ships,  the  pitiful 
efforts  to  hide  complete  failure  to  maintain  the  safety  of  our  own  citizens 
under  the  guise  of  a  chimerical  dream  of  future  world  peace,  these  things, 
and  many  others,  will  not  make  very  agreeable  reading  for  the  American 
of  fifty  years  from  now.  But  the  heroic  volunteers  who  have  perished 
under  the  flags  of  foreign  nations  for  the  great  international  cause  of 
human  freedom  will  remain  a  bright  and  imperishable  inspiration  to  the 
future.  They  will  be  remembered  with  gratitude  and  admiration  when 
the  whole  crowd  of  temporizing  politicians  and  commercial  pacifists  is 
forgotten,  or  only  recollected  with  contempt  and  disgust.  In  an  age 
that  was  almost  choked  by  a  combination  of  callous  materialism  and 
vapid,  " peace-at-any-price "  sentimentality,  they  have  kept  alive  the 
spirit  of  chivalrous  idealism  in  the  soul  of  the  American  people. 


Three  Sons  and  a  Mother,  by  Gilbert  Cannan.  George  H.  Doran  Co., 
$1.50,  net. 

Here  is  the  novel  which  absolutely  and  undeniably  gives  Mr.  Gilbert 
Cannan  his  position  as  one  of  the  best  novelists  England  has  at  the  present 
time.  The  war  has  made  most  of  the  English  novelists  absolutely  un- 
readable, so  that  it  is  indeed  a  pleasure  to  find  one  whose  work  seems 
unimpaired  by  the  troubles  around  him.  Mr.  Gilbert  Cannan  is,  I 
believe,  an  artist  who  has  an  altar  in  a  sanctuary  far  removed  from 
the  din  and  bustle  of  the  market-place,  where  he  worships  his  art 
undisturbed. 

Three  Sons  and  a  Af other  is  a  splendid  work:  it  has  the  "dignity" 
which  Henry  James  claimed  for  the  novel  when  he  pleaded  for  its  right- 
ful place  in  art.  Professor  Phelps  has  described  the  novel  as  "a  good 
story  well  told,"  and  adds  that  "by  the  word  novel  we  should  denote  a 
story  where  the  principal  stress  falls,  not  on  the  succession  of  incidents, 
but  on  the  development  of  the  character.  Occasionally  a  man  of  getiius  has 
made  a  splendidly  successful  fusion  of  the  two."  I  believe  that  Mr. 
Gilbert  Cannan  has  achieved  this.  His  book  is  the  story  of  a  mother — 
the  old-fashioned,  strict,  prim,  proper,  hard-working,  courageous,  proud, 
lovable  woman  of  yesterday  and  of  her  three  sons.  Margaret  Lawrie, 
having  married  a  Scotch  minister  and  been  frowned  upon  by  her  English 
relatives  for  this,  does  not  appeal  to  them  at  the  death  of  her  husband, 
but  rears  the  children  on  the  scanty  pension  she  receives,  with  heroic 
fortitude  and  splendid  pride.  Her  three  sons,  James,  Thomas  and 
John,  are  beautifully  drawn  characters:  the  first  having  the  courage 
of  his  convictions  and    the  soul  of  a  poet  though  not  the  power  of 

expression;    Thomas  and  John,   two  out-and-out  materialists 

Thomas,  to  the  great  pride  of  his  mother,  follows  in  the  footsteps  of 
her  brother,  Andrew  Keith,  and  becomes  one  of  the  leading  business 
men  of  the  north  of  England.  John,  equally  successful,  refuses  to  follow 
the  tradition  of  the  family  by  entering  the  Keith  business  and  gains 
success  on  his  own  hook;  James,  the  eldest  son,  follows  the  example  of 
John  in  a  measure  and,  though  a  banker  by  profession,  becomes  a  dram- 
atic critic,  a  silent  partner  in  a  theatrical  enterprise,  all  but  ruins  him- 
self, and  then  goes  to  America.  The  author  tells  the  stories  of  these  four 
people  and  paints  their  portraits  with  a  deft  and  sober  touch.  James 
is  reckoned  a  failure  by  his  mother,  by  his  brothers,  by  his  wife,  by  ail 
save  Tibby,  a  Scotch  servant — yet  he  is  really  a  success;  it  is  well  for 
a  man  to  do  as  he  wishes,  independent  of  all ;  to  follow  his  plan  in  spite 


24  The  Haverfordian 

of  opposition;  to  pursue  his  ideals,  though  he  be  disillusioned  at  every 
step.  The  sordid  commercialism,  the  snug  complacency,  and  the  self- 
satisfied  righteousness  of  Thomas;  the  development  of  John  into  a 
second  Thomas;  his  mother's  pain  and  sorrow  in  what  she  believes  James' 
faults;  the  marriage  of  a  woman  whom  he  has  idealized,  nay,  deified,  to 
his  brother  Thomas;  his  own  marriage  to  one  whom  he  loves,  yet  who 
understands  him  not,  and  his  unshaken  faith — there  is  James'  life. 
And  as  each  of  these  things  takes  place  in  his  life  we  can  see  his  character, 
in  its  formation,  its  modification.  Howloveablehe  is!  How  we  admire 
him  and  feel  for  him,  with  him,  like  him!  because  in  his  life  there  is 
much  that  is  in  ours,  he  thinks  as  we  think  and  acts  as  we  do  or  as  we 
wish  we  did. 

And  the  minor  personages  are  all  excellently  done:  there  is  a  Mr. 
Wilcox,  a  clerk  and  a  would-be  actor,  a  Dickensian  character  as  Thack- 
eray might  have  drawn  him ;  there  is  a  family  with  a.  daughter  who  goes 
on  the  stage  and  whose  father,  showing  neither  his  grief  nor  his  rage, 
disowns  her ;  there  is  a  Scotch  slavey  surrounded  with  a  halo  of  mysteri- 
ous knowledge  and  insight  into  human  character,  who  is  as  sweet  and 
self-sacrificing  a  soul  as  ever  was  on  earth;  a  J.  M.  Barrie  character, 
but  better  than  any  of  his;  there  is  a  melancholy  and  talented  youth 
who  becomes  a  great  actor  through  sheer  genius;  there  is  a  very  charm- 
ing man  of  the  world  who  has  caused  much  sorrow  through  loving  not 
wisely  but  too  well ;  there  is  an  actress  with  all  the  coquetry  and  allure- 
ment of  her  profession.  Other  characters  there  are:  James'  sisters; 
his  wife;  Thomas'  wife  Agnes,  whom  James  loved  but  whom  Thomas 
won.  That  is  the  fate  of  men  like  James:  they  might  have  had  genius 
with  a  different  environment,  but  they  only  have  individualism  and  it 
brings  them  sorrow  and  disillusion;  like  so  many  Byrons,  they  sigh  in 
the  shadows,  they  are  worms  who  worship  what  they  think  a  star; 
they  would  have  love  and  the  loved  one  who  loveth  not  gives  them 
but  sympathy;  they  ask  a  woman  for  her  hand  and  they  find  that  she 
has  accepted  another,  a  firm,  mediocre,  plodding  fellow  with  both  his 
feet  firmly  planted  to  the  soil  and  blind  to  everything  but  present 
realities.     And  for  her  to  accept  such  a  one,  cheapens  her  in  their  eyez. 

Poor  James !  — Hubert,  the  man  of  the  world  who  had  loved  Andrew 
Keith's  wife  and  run  off  with  her,  soon  tells  him  he  has  no  genius.  Hu- 
bert is  "amazingly  nice,  so  human,  so  quick  to  respond." 

Hubert  said:  "  Have  you  no  nice  vulgar  friends  to  go  with?  Religion 
is  really  very  bad  for  a  young  man.  God  is  for  people  who  are  fit  for  Him, 
like  Spinoza." — "  Who?"  asked  Jamie. — "An  old  Dutch  Jew  who  polished 
lenses  and  really  did  understand  the  God  of  his  tribe.     But  then  he  took. 


Book  Reviews  25 

tome  trouble  about  it.  I  should  try  human  beings  even  if  you  are  Scotch.  .  .  , 
They  all  think  a  successful  man  must  be  a  genius.  That's  young,  of  course, 
A  young  man  mistakes  the  conceit  with  which  he  is  bursting  for  genius 
or  at  any  rate,  overpowering  talent.  It  takes  an  honest  man  to  acknowledge 
the  mistake." 

Mr.  Gilbert  Cannan  has  achieved  a  very  lucid  and  eloquent  style: 
he  is  not  declamatory,  his  self-consciousness  saves  him  from  that.  In 
hi6  dedication  to  his  brother  he  writes  that  there  is  something  autobio- 
graphical about  the  book;  indeed,  the  title-page  bears  the  following: 
"/  saw  a  dead  man  in  a  fight  and  I  think  that  man  was  I." 

The  character  of  James  haunts  the  reader ;  this  tragic,  melancholy, 
sympathetic  man  of  vast  compassion  is,  I  think,  at  the  bottom  of  all 
things  a  child  and  a  child  that  lives  the  life  of  a  man;  he  expects  good- 
ness because  he  is  so  good;  he  looks  everywhere  for  Beauty  because 
he  is,  after  all,  rather  particularly  beautiful,  if  not  a  genius.  He  achieves 
nothing  in  the  eyes  of  the  world  and  yet  his  shadow  hovers  over 
everything.  When  he  learnt  that  Agnes  is  to  be  Tom's:  "Tom's  the 
boy,"  said  Jamie,  "to  play  with  diamonds  as  though  they  were  marbles 
and  may  the  Lord  have  mercy  on  mel  0  dear,  if  J  could  but  have  the  rages 
that  were  on  me  when  I  was  a  boy.     When  life  becomes  a  joke  it  is  hardly 

bearable I  use  my  brains  on  dear,  good  foolish  living  men  and 

women  and  that's  stupid.  .  .  .  The  English  don't  want  dear,  kind  men 
any  more.  Poor  Shelley's  dead  and  they  have  forgotten  Toby  Shandy. 
Somebody  says:  "/  wouldn't  waste  you  on  the  dirty  English.  Fd  have 
all  Edinburgh  running  after  you  like  the  children  after  the  Pied  Piper 
of  Hamelin." — "Then,"  replied  Jamie,  "you  don't  know  me,  for  if  they 
did,  then  Td  turn  and  spit  in  their  faces.     I  hate  a  crowd." 

Dear  Don  Quixote!  With  hair  turned  grey  he  keeps  the  fervor, 
the  kindness,  the  mad  but  lovely  youthful  extravagance  of  the  Spanish 
knight;  true,  he  has  not  the  bluster,  but  he  has  the  soul.  Not  since 
Mr.  Compton  Mackenzie  wrote  a  novel  called  "Sinister  Street,"  and 
drew  the  portrait  of  Michael  Fane,  have  I  met  with  such  a  character 
in  contemporary  fiction. 

James  ends  by  leaving  England  for  the  new  country :  we  do  not  know 
if  he,  with  his  whimsical  personality  and  rueful  countenance,  will  be  a 
success  there — that  is,  a  success  in  the  narrow  meaning  of  the  word. 
As  the  ship  sailed  out,  "the  land  fell  away  and  was  lost.  The  moon  came 
up  in  the  west,  a  comical  red  moon  with  a  merry  face  and  a  wisp  of  cloud 
across  it  for  a  moustache.  He  stood  on  deck  with  the  wind  blowing  cold 
through  his  hair  and  beard  and  gazed  up  at  the  moon,  which  set  him  tingling 
with  such  a  vague,  hungry  longing  as  he  had  not  known  since  he  was  a  boy 


26  The  Haverfordian 

and  in  love.  The  face  in  the  moon  reminded  him  of  Mr.  Wilcox  as  Dog- 
berry. The  longing  in  him  grew  into  passionate  hope  and  he  told  himself 
that  he  was  going  towards  the  New  World  where  there  had  been  wars  of 
liberty." 

A  success — perhaps!  But  he  could  not  make  a  more  brilliant 
success  than  by  retaining  that  splendid,  lovely  ideal  of  his;  that  beauti- 
ful, eternal  spirit  of  youth. 


^eace  or  ^tsf)teous;nejef£i 

By  L.  K.  Keay 

"You  with  your  'Art  for  its  own  sake,'  posing  and  prinking; 
You  with  your  '  Live  and  be  merry,'  eating  and  drinking ; 
You  with  your  '  Peace  at  all  hazard,'  from  bright  blood  shrinking. 

"Fools!    I  will  tell  you — 

There's  a  glory  gold  never  can  buy  to  yearn  and  to  cry  for; 
There's  a  hope  that's  as  old  as  the  skies  to  suffer  and  sigh  for; 
There's  a  faith  that  out-dazzles  the  sun  to  martyr  and  die  for." 

WE  are  living  in  a  peculiar  age.  We  are  witnessing  the  occur- 
rence of  events  of  a  magnitude  and  importance  unprecedented 
in  history.  Tremendous  issues  are  being  settled.  We  ourselves 
are  constantly  being  confronted  by  problems  involving  fundamental 
principles  of  right  and  wrong  concerning  which  no  right-thinking  man 
can  be  neutral.  In  a  nation  claiming  so  great  a  share  of  honor  in  pro- 
moting liberty,  once  the  mind  is  made  up,  its  decision  should  be  ad- 
vanced with  indefatigable  zeal  and  straightforward  fearlessness. 

In  the  present  European  conflict — a  clash  of  opposing  ideals — a 
war  between  democracy  and  despotism,  the  so-called  pacifists  and  their 
fellow-believers  the  conscientious  objectors,  although  perhaps  far  from 
a  vital  factor  in  the  War's  progress,  have  been  a  thorn  in  the  side  of 
nations  fighting  to  obliterate  a  militarism  that  is  an  affront  to  modern 
civilization.  Especially  as  the  United  States  nears  the  edge  of  the 
precipice,  and  indeed  any  day  may  see  her  topple  over,  a  consideration 
of  that  strange  type  of  mind  which  professes  to  hold  ideals — but  which 
refuses  to  defend  them — seems  to  be,  at  least,  opportune. 

Were  it  not  for  the  fact  that  there  are  numerous  well-meaning 


Peace  or  Righteousness  27 

people  utterly  incapable  of  learning  any  lesson  taught  by  history,  even 
utterly  incapable  of  interpreting  aright  what  has  occurred  before  their 
very  eyes  in  the  last  three  years,  there  would  be  no  pacifists.  And  the 
members  of  that  cult  who  refuse  to  bear  arms  are  not  at  fault,  because 
they  are  doing  what  they  think  right;  but  their  error  lies  in  having 
so  perverted  an  idea  of  what  is  right.  Therefore,  though  numbers  of 
such  people  are  doubtless  actuated  by  motives  of  sheer  cowardice, 
those  who  are  not  are  none  the  less  open  to  attack.  Many  anarchists 
have  been  known  to  be  absolutely  sincere  in  their  beliefs,  yet  the  whole 
established  system  of  jurisprudence  would  have  to  be  reconstructed 
before  mere  sincerity  would  be  accepted  as  excuse  for  wrong-doing. 
Let  it  be  understood  at  the  outset,  then,  that  we  do  not  impugn  the  con- 
scientious objectors  for  practising  their  beliefs,  but  attack  the  beliefs 
themselves. 

Any  cursory  study  of  history  will  show  that  the  great  principles 
of  democracy,  including  all  the  countless  changes  which  mark  the  progress 
of  civilization,  and  which  we  enjoy  as  a  matter  of  course,  have  been 
gained  only  with  enormous  bloodshed.  An  attempt  to  enumerate 
instances  where  questions  vital  to  the  progress  of  mankind  have  been 
settled  by  war  would  seem  unnecessary  to  convince  an  intelligent  person. 
We  are  an  independent  democracy  today  because  some  of  our  ancestors 
were  willing  to  sacrifice  their  lives  for  a  cause.  We  are  united  today 
for  the  same  reason.  Most  of  what  we  have  and  of  what  we  are  is  due 
to  our  forebears  not  being  too  proud  to  fight.  Indeed,  stepping  back 
across  the  threshold  of  a  few  centuries,  we  find  that  if  certain  of  the 
European  peoples  had  been  impelled  by  the  motives  of  the  conscien- 
tious objector,  the  very  religion  on  which  he  bases  his  objection  would 
have  ceased  to  exist,  and  it  is  not  beyond  the  realm  of  possibility  that 
our  religion  today  would  be  Mohammedanism. 

We  are  prone  to  wonder  at  the  backwardness  of  Russia.  Yet  her 
condition  is  explained  fully  by  the  significant  fact  that  in  the  thirteenth 
century  she  was  trodden  under  foot  by  an  alien  civilization  because 
she  had  not  developed  a  military  efficiency  capable  of  withstanding  the 
onrush  of  the  Mongol  invasion.  And  today  the  scars  remaining  from 
two  centuries  of  brutal  subjugation  constitute  the  chief  difficulties  with 
which  Russia  must  contend  in  her  effort  to  climb  upward. 

So  through  the  ages  we  see  clearly  demonstrated  the  harsh  but 
immutable  law  that  nothing  worth  while  can  be  obtained  without 
great  sacrifice.  The  trend  of  progress  has  been  toward  that  state  where 
the  privileges  that  have  been  handed  down  from  generation  to  genera- 
tion shall  be  enjoyed  by  all  men  alike.   Notwithstanding  that  there  have 


28  The  Haverfordian 

been  countless  unjust  wars,  the  fruits  of  the  righteous  ones  are  enjoyed 
by  the  pacifists  as  well  as  his  fellowmen.  Yet  as  he  brands  all  war 
as  criminal,  how  can  he  conscientiously  enjoy  the  privileges  that  are  the 
fruits  of  a  criminal  code?  And  after  all  such  a  person,  because  the 
number  of  his  fellow-thinkers  is  small,  may  never  learn  from  bitter  ex- 
perience that  the  lofty  ideals  which  he  vociferously  advocates  would  by 
bis  attitude  be  blotted  from  the  earth,  because  his  fellowmen  sacrifice 
themselves  to  realize  his  dreams. 

The  ideal  mental  state  of  the  pacifists  seems  to  be  one  of  absolute 
adiaphory.  They  conveniently  jump  to  the  conclusion  that  because 
there  have  been  futile  wars — wars  that  perhaps  even  the  militarist  will 
declare  better  never  to  have  been  fought — all  war  is  wrong.  Of  course 
the  mere  theory  in  itself  is  harmless,  but  when  its  practice  leads  to  a 
refusal  to  meet  duty  it  becomes  odious.  The  fallacy  of  such  a  theory 
lies  in  the  consideration  of  war  as  a  thing  in  itself  detached  from  its 
causes.  War  is  a  terrible  thing.  Only  colossal  ends  can  justify  use  of 
such  a  means,  yet  to  any  red-blooded  man  there  are  things  infinitely 
worse  than  war.  The  war  Belgium  wages  today  can  no  more  be  compared 
with  the  war  Villa  wages  against  Carranza  than  electricity  operating  a 
motor  can  be  compared  with  lightning.  It  is  true  that  in  both  cases  the 
force  is  electricity,  but  the  difference  of  its  effect  is  incalculable.  Pre- 
cisely does  the  same  argument  apply  to  war.  War  is  simply  a  force 
and  it  is  merely  to  utter  a  truism  to  say  that  any  force  capable  of  good 
is  capable  of  evil  as  well.  Fire  destroys,  water  drowns,  steam  explodes, 
electricity  kills,  and  if  the  same  mental  process  prevailed  in  science  as  in 
conscientious  objection,  these  forces  would  be  considered  better  abolished. 

As  we  remarked  before,  these  people  profess  to  hold  ideals.  These 
ideals  are  for  the  most  part  admirable.  The  dream  of  a  permanent 
peace  as  being  the  only  normal  world  condition  is  common  to  all  clear- 
thinking  men;  but  instead  of  accomplishing  anything  by  his  methods 
of  attaining  that  ideal,  in  refusing  to  fight  for  it  when  the  opportunity 
arrives,  the  pacifist  actually  jeopardizes  it  by  helping  the  military  power 
of  an  opponent  which  certainly  will  not  enhance  its  progress.  If  he 
refuses  to  bear  arms  for  a  country  in  the  right  he  is  a  force  for  evil. 
If  he  refuses  to  fight  for  a  country  in  the  wrong  he  is  a  force  for  good. 
In  either  case  the  progress  of  good  or  evil  does  not  appear  to  concern 
him.  He  is  a  mere  creature  of  circumstance — fate  alone  determining 
the  channels  of  his  influence. 

In  the  present  War  every  conscientious  objector  that  deserts  Great 
Britain  in  her  time  of  need  constitutes  a  step  toward  an  ultimate  German 
victory.     In  the  event  of  such  a  catastrophe  theirs  would  be  a  portion 


Peace  or  Righteousness  29 

of  the  guilt.  In  general  terms  any  propaganda  of  non-resistance  exerting 
influence  in  an  enlightened  country  goes  hand  in  hand  with  the  militarism 
of  an  aggressive  foreign  country. 

The  fallacies  of  the  creed  of  pacifism  are  so  numerous  and  so  self- 
evident  that  consideration  of  them  all  would  be  a  wearisome  task.  To 
begin  with,  few  terms  are  so  egregiously  misapplied  as  the  term  pacifism. 
It  conveys  an  entirely  false  impression  as  to  the  end  it  promotes.  As 
this  country  is  beginning  to  find  out  only  too  well,  the  idealistic  pacifism 
in  the  policy  of  our  government — the  hyphenated  pacifism  in  some  of  our 
adopted  citizens — the  infatuated  pacifism,  bordering  on  treason,  in 
certain  of  our  ex-ofificials,  automobile  manufacturers  and  others — far 
from  conducing  to  immunity  from  armed  conflict,  has  actually  plunged 
the  nation  to  the  brink  of  war.  The  unbalanced  type  of  mind  that  can 
pursue  so  fatuous  a  policy  as  will  invariably  bring  on  the  result  it  most 
fears  is  indeed  hard  to  understand.  Such  are  the  pacifists.  They 
fail  to  realize  that  the  ideal  for  the  nation  as  well  as  for  the  individual 
is  toward  the  attainment  of  a  combination  of  qualities  rather  than  the 
over-development  of  any  one  quality.  The  mere  fact  that  certain  men 
possess  physical  courage  to  the  exclusion  sometimes  of  other  qualities 
does  not  render  the  one  virtue  they  have  a  vice.  Similarly  the  enlighten- 
ment of  America,  if  she  prove  unwilling  to  defend  it  and  to  fight  for  it, 
is  no  better  a  quality  than  the  military  efficiency  of  Germany,  which 
seems  to  lack  such  enlightment.  The  perfect  state  would  be  a  junction 
of  both.  Because  lofty  ideals  and  the  brute  force  necessary  to  put  them 
into  practice  are  a  rare  combination,  the  worth  of  one  need  not  obscure 
that  of  the  other ;  for  as  a  matter  of  fact  each  one  is  absolutely  worthless 
without  the  other.  The  idealistic  pacifist  without  the  will  to  put  his 
ideals  into  practice  is  not  one  iota  more  valuable  to  society  than  the 
violent  militarist  without  any  ideals  to  put  into  practice. 

And  even  this  equality  is  conjectural.  The  pacifists  or  the  con- 
scientious objectors  by  their  pernicious  advocacy  of  a  false  doctrine 
containing  the  immoral  and  fallacious  theory  that  strife  is  best  avoided 
by  acquiescence  in  wrong  and  submission  to  aggression,  not  only  do 
precisely  nothing  to  advance  the  cause  of  peace,  but  actually  accom- 
plish by  their  infatuated  senselessness  the  evil  result  they  profess  to 
combat.  They  not  only  fail  to  reduce  the  likelihood  of  war,  but  even 
were  they  successful,  the  peace  they  contemplate  would  be  intolerable 
to  men  because  justice  is  ignored  in  their  calculations. 

Failing  to  realize  that  neither  war  nor  peace  are  ends  in  them- 
selves, but  that  righteousness  is  the  only  end, — that  peace  is  a  means 
to  that  end,  but  unfortunately  not  the  only  one, — they  refuse  to  admit 


30  The  Haverfordian 

that  there  are  times  when  the  only  means  to  attain  the  end  of  righteous- 
ness is  war,  and  peace  without  righteousness  is  intolerable. 

Herein  lies  the  crime  of  pacifism.  It  preaches  a  neutrality  between 
right  and  wrong.  It  places  peace  above  justice,  safety  above  per- 
formance of  duty;  no  degree  of  sincerity  can  remove  the  ignominy 
of  such  a  course. 

Let  us  then,  as  units  of  a  great  nation,  learn  to  esteem  honor  and 
duty  above  safety.  Let  us  be  willing  to  wage  war  rather  than  accept 
the  peace  that  spells  destruction.  Let  us  hold  ourselves  in  readiness  to 
sacrifice  our  lives  with  stem  joy,  if  necessary,  rather  than  endure  a 
peace  that  would  throw  righteousness  to  the  winds  and  consecrate 
triumphant  wrong.  Let  us,  each  one  of  us,  show  that  we  care  for  the 
things  of  the  body  but  place  infinitely  more  value  on  things  of  the  soul. 
Let  us  realize  that  where  a  principle  is  at  stake,  human  life  counts  for 
nothing.  For,  after  all,  we  receive  life  from  an  unknown  source  and 
if,  in  laying  it  down,  we  perform  some  service  that  will  make  the  world 
a  better  place  for  future  generations  to  live  in,  even  as  our  fathers  have 
done  for  us,  then  our  life  has  not  been  in  vain. 

Cabe  M^n:  ^  ^feetcfi 

Wills t  a  wife'^ — 

Ay. — 

/'  Jaith,  beat  not  thy  wench. — Old  play. 

It  was  all  over,  all  irretrievably  over.  For  ten  years  he  had  fought 
against  it  and  just  when  he  had  thought  himself  immune  he  had  been 
struck  down  by  it. 

It  surely  was  not  love — that  were  too  ignominious  after  such  a 
long  struggle.  All  through  his  life  he  had  insisted  that  there  was  no 
such  thing  as  love  in  its  purest  and  least  adulterated  form;  all  through 
his  life  he  had  sought  the  society  of  women  and  enjoyed  the  thrills 
that  beauty  in  the  abstract  can  give;  for  him  a  lovely  woman  had 
been  an  object  of  art  ahd  as  such  he  had  admired  her;  there  had  never 
been  the  least  personal  sentiment.  That  is  why  he  had  been  courted 
by  women  so  much,  I  suppose. 
No — it  was  not  love. 

And  yet,  why  had  he  bent  over  her  hand  and  begged  her  to  marry 
him.  He  was  not  a  saint;  he  had  had  affairs  with  women  just  as  every 
red-blooded  young  man  of  his  set  but  they  had  never  been  affairs  of 
the  heart;  he  flattered  himself  that  he  knew  them — and  yet — 

He  did  not  love  her  now;  he  did  not  love  her  a  half  an  hour  ago 
when  he  let  himself  in  for  marriage.  She  was  not  so  very  beautiful 
either;  just  a  saucy  little  girl  still  in  her  teens.  Oh,  Lord!  Oh,  Lord! 
what  a  mess  he  had  made  of  his  life  by  that  one  instant  of  idiotic  and 


Cave  Man:   A  Sketch  31 

incomprehensible  aberration!  For  one  moment  he  had  forgotten  all; 
that  ideal  of  beauty  which  he  had  worshipped  with  the  supreme  vo- 
luptuousness of  an  artist  had  been  cast  aside;  he  had  given  up  the  quest 
of  beauty  forever  by  one  instant  of  madness — he,  he  who  from  earliest 
youth  had  wedded  art  to  the  exclusion  of  all  other  things  on  earth, 
had  divorced  himself  from  it.  Why,  why,  why?  For  a  twopenny- 
halfpenny  schoolgirl  who  looked  a  trifle  fresh  in  a  pink  sweater.  As 
he  thought  of  her  conv"entional  and  cool  acceptance  of  his  hand  in 
marriage,  given  with  a  touch  of  condescension  just  as  though  it  were 
what  she  had  expected  all  the  time  and  as  though — this  was  no  doubt 
the  case — she  had  received  many  proposals  before;  when  he  thought 
of  her  confoundedly  imperturbable  serenity,  he  could  not  prevent  a 
shudder  of  extreme  disgust. 

The  long  years  in  which  he  had  fled  from  anything  ordinary  and 
commonplace  and  had  vowed  an  eternal  indifference  to  the  bourgeois 
were  all  in  vain;  he  had  given  up  everything  in  order  to  keep  his  soul 
as  a  sanctuary  for  beauty — and  this  chit  of  a  girl  had  nonchalantly 
thrust  herself  in  the  holy  of  holies. 

Bah!  he  would  give  it  all  up.  To  the  devil  with  art!  They  would 
eat  sausages  and  live  in  Pittsburg;  he  would  enter  local  politics  and 
she  a  ladies'  sewing  society.  And  then  he  saw  himself  as  an  artist — 
painting  a  Madonna  from  his  lady  of  dreams  than  whom  no  living 
woman  was  more  beautiful!  Long  time  he  thought  and  at  the  end 
was  struck  by  a  brilliant  idea — they  would  not  marry;  he  would  dis- 
gust her  with  him 

A  week  had  passed  and  he  had  done  everything  in  his  power  to  get 
rid  of  her.  One  more  insult  and  his  trials  would  be  at  an  end.  He 
entered  her  house,  was  shown  into  the  drawing-room  but  refused  to 
give  his  hat  and  coat  to  the  maid  who  showed  him  in.  His  fiancde 
entered  and  they  spoke  for  a  while,  he  taking  every  opportunity  to 
annoy  her.  Finally  she  spoke:  "I  think  perhaps  we  had  better.  .  .  . 
our  engagement.  .  .  .  incompatibility  of  temperament.  .  .  .  so  changed" 
was  all  he  heard  but  he  noticed  that  the  words  were  not  absolutely 
sincerely  spoken.  Then  he  decided  on  a  master-stroke;  he  would 
clinch  it  once  and  for  all  and  prevent  her  changing  her  mind. 

Stepping  across  the  room  end  feigning  a  look  of  indignation  which 
would  have  done  credit  to  the  greatest  mime  of  the  century,  he  reached 
over,  picked  up  his  cane  and  brought  it  down  upon  her  shoulders  with 
a  resounding  thwack.  Outrage  and  hatred  were  depicted  upon  her 
countenance;    heedless  of  this  he  continued  to  beat  her. 

The  beating  over  he  glanced  up  hopefully;  she  made  no  sign.  He 
turned  his  back  to  put  on  his  coat  when  he  heard  a  step  and  before 
he  could  turn  back  again,  two  plump  arms  were  about  his  neck  and  a 
cold  sweat  broke  over  him  as  he  heard  a  voice,  choked  with  sobs  but 
ecstatic  whispering  again  and  again :  "My  caveman.  .  .  .  My  husband!" 


JLUMNI 


NEW     ENGLAND      ASSOCIA- 
TION  HOLDS   ANNUAL 
MEETING 

Exactly  thirty  members  of  the 
New  England  Association  of  Hav- 
erford  Alumni  attended  the  annual 
dinner  of  the  Association,  which 
was  held  Saturday,  February  24th, 
at  the  City  Club,  Boston.  Presi- 
dent Sharpless  and  Professor  W. 
A.  Neilson,  of  Harvard  University, 
were  the  guests  of  the  evening, 
while  Walter  S.  Hinchman,  '00, 
acted  as  toastmaster  of  the  even- 
ing. 

President  Sharpless,  in  his  ad- 
dress, opened  with  a  report  of  his 
experiences  in  England  quite  sim- 
ilar to  that  which  he  had  given  at 
the  Alumni  Banquet  in  Philadel- 
phia. He  described  his  efforts  to 
secure  suitable  men  to  occupy  the 
new  chair  of  English  Constitutional 
History,  and  for  graduate  work  in 
Sociology  and  kindred  subjects, 
and  stated  that,  while  he  was  not 
now  in  a  position  to  make  any 
definite  statement,  an  announce- 
ment might  be  given  out  in  the 
near  future. 

A  pleasant  surprise  was  given  by 
the  president  when  he  stated  that 
he  had  been  appointed  to  and  had 
gladly  accepted  the  position  of 
Dean  of  the  Graduate  School  in 
Sociology,     which     school    would 


probably  be  located  in  one  of  the 
houses  on  College  Lane. 

President  Sharpless  went  on  to 
say  that  he  looked  forward  to  the 
future  of  Haverford  with  entire 
confidence,  and  he  again  said  that 
he  felt  certain  that  Dr.  Comfort 
would  carry  on  the  impending  new 
era  for  Haverford  with  strong  in- 
dividuality and  yet  always  in  line 
with  Haverford  tradition.  In  con- 
sidering his  resignation  he  said 
that  many  letters  of  appreciation 
and  regret  had  come  to  him,  and 
that  many  of  them  had  expressed 
the  opinion  that  he  had  "earned  "  a 
rest.  While  in  no  way  criticizing 
the  friendly  spirit  which  had 
prompted  such  messages,  Presi- 
dent Sharpless  declared  that  all  his 
efforts  for  Haverford  had  already 
been  fully  rewarded  in  the  pleas- 
ure he  had  taken  from  seeing  the 
college  grow  in  strength  and  stand- 
ing. 

After  President  Sharpless,  Toast- 
master  Hinchman  introduced  Pro- 
fessor W.  A.  Neilson,  of  the  Eng- 
lish Department  of  Harvard  Uni- 
versity, who  delivered  a  most  keen 
and  stimulating  address  in  which 
he  seemed  to  catch  the  very  es- 
sence of  Haverford  spirit.  He  said 
he  had  often  wondered  why  it  was 
that  Haverford  men  had  a  certain 
stamp    of      individuality      which 


Alumni 


33 


marked  them  as  Ha\"erford  men 
unmistakably  \vlicre\er  he  met 
them,  "and  the  reason  is,"  he  de- 
clared, "that  on  the  whole,  Haver- 
ford  draws  from  a  homogeneous 
constituencN';  the  undergraduates 
come  from  families  with  a  back- 
ground of  a  strongly  individual  re- 
ligious creed,  together  with  its 
own  well-established  traditions  in 
standards  of  scholarship  and  sport, 
such  as  their  Rhoades  Scholars 
and  their  playing  of  cricket.  The 
whole  tendency  of  the  College  is 
to  turn  out  men  of  as  definite  a 
Haverford  type  as  are  the  men  who 
bear  the  Oxford  mark  in  England. 

"As  for  the  size  of  Haverford," 
he  continued,  "the  College  should 
by  all  means  aim  at  keeping  small 
and  at  maintaining  as  high  or 
higher  stanilards  of  scholarship  and 
incoming  material.  By  adhering 
firmly  to  that  principle  Haverford 
can  continue  to  be  in  a  class  by 
itself  as  THE  small  college  of 
America." 

Professor  Neilson  expressed  his 
great  love  for  Haverford,  with 
which  he  had  become  acquainted 
a  number  of  years  ago,  when  he 
was  an  instructor  at  Bryn  Mawr 
College,  during  which  years  he  said 
he  was  accustomed  to  come  to 
Haverford  for  "consolation  and 
companionship."  In  this  connec- 
tion he  paid  a  deep  personal  tribute 
to  Dr.  Francis  Gummere. 

Professor  Neilson  emphasized 
the  recognized  truth  that  the  col- 
lege which  gets  results   must   ha\-e 


a  well-trained  facull\',  a  \\  ise  pres- 
ident, and  a  diligent  and  intelli- 
gent student  body.  He  said  that 
the  faculty  at  Haverford  was,  in 
its  a\erage,  as  high  as  that  of  any 
other  college  or  university  in  the 
United  States,  and  that  it  was  emi- 
nently fitted  for  working  under  the 
direction  of  the  only  president  he 
e\'er  knew  whose  word  was  "abso- 
lute truth  and  law."  "  It  is  partly 
the  pleasant  surroundings  and  the 
congenial  atmosphere  of  li\ing  that 
keeps  men  of  the  teaching  profes- 
sion at  Haverford ;  but  the  power 
to  hold  men  of  the  first  rank  more 
than  fiv-e  years  is  found  in  the 
sense  of  security  they  have  in  Pres- 
ident   Sharpless's    word." 

Professor  Neilson  said  he  had 
great  respect  for  Dr.  Comfort,  and 
said:  "I  sat  next  to  W.  W.  Com- 
fort twenty  years  ago  in  the  Har- 
vard graduate  school,  and  I  know 
of  no  man  that  the  teaching  pro- 
fession would  rather  see  as  suc- 
cessor to  President  Sharpless.  Al- 
though you  of  Haverford  are  going 
to  lose  the  invaluable  solidity  of 
President  Sharpless's  trustworthi- 
ness, in  the  new  president.  Dr. 
Comfort,  you  are  getting  a  man  of 
the  same  high  quality." 

Besides  the  regular  business  of 
the  evening,  a  telegram  was  de- 
spatched on  behalf  of  the  Associa- 
tion to  President  Wilson,  assuring 
him  of  the  moral  support  of  New 
England  Haverfordians  in  the  pres- 
ent crisis.  Those  present,  in 
addition  to  the  guests,  were:    Reu- 


34 


The  Haverfordian 


ben  Colton,  '76;  Prof.  Francis 
G.  Allinson,  '76;  Prof.  Seth  K. 
Gifford,  '76;  Wilmot  R.  Jones, 
Charles  T.  Cottrell,  '90;  Frank  M. 
Eshleman,  '00;  Samuel  W.  Mifflin, 
'00;  Walter  S.  Hinchman,  '00; 
Prof.  H.  S.  Langfeld,  '01;  Carlos 
N.  Sheldon,  '04;  Benjamin  Eshle- 
man, '05;  Benjamin  H.  Gates,  '05; 
Paul  Jones,  '05;  David  L.  Phil- 
lips, '09;  David  S.  Hinshaw,  '11; 
Eben  H.  Spencer,  '11;  Wilmer 
J.  Young,  '11;  PhilHp  C.  Gif- 
ford,  '13;  Norris  F.  Hall,  '13; 
Joseph  M.  Beatty,  Jr.,  '13;  R. 
G.  Rogers,  '14;  Douglas  Waples, 
'14;  Donald  B.  Van  Hollen,  '15; 
W.  Elwood  Vail,  '15;  F.  W.  Cary, 
'16;  Hubert  A.  Howson,  '15; 
James  Carey,  '16;  D.  C.  Wen- 
dell, '16;  U.  G.  Mengert,  '16, 
and  George  B.  Sheldon,  Ex-'16. 

The  following  officers  were  elect- 
ed for  the  coming  year:  President, 
Reuben  Colton,  '76;  Vice  Presi- 
dents, Henry  Baily,  '78,  and 
Charles  G.  Cottrell,  '90;  Secretary, 
Benjamin  Eshleman,  '05;  E.xecu- 
tive  Committee,  Dr.  Seth  K.  Gif- 
ford,  '76;  Frank  M.  Eshleman,  '00; 
Walter  S.  Hinchman,  '00;  David 
L.  Phillips,  '09;  Eben  H.Spencer, 
'11,  and  Donald  B.  Van  Hollen, 
'15. 

On  the  evening  of  Thursday, 
February  1st,  Dr.  William  R.  Dun- 
ton,  Jr.,  President  of  the  Haverford 
Society  of  Maryland,  gave  an 
oyster  roast  in  honor  of  the  mem- 
bers of  the  Local  Alumni  Organiza- 


tion, the  party  developing  into  a 
very  interesting  and  enjoyable  re- 
union. Plans  for  the  annual  din- 
ner and  for  the  completion  of  the 
scholarship  fund  were  discussed  by 
the  members  present,  with  the 
result  that  considerable  enthusiasm 
was  developed  for  that  occasion 
and  that  fund.  It  was  determined 
to  hold  the  annual  dinner  on  the 
24th  of  March  and  to  make  it  the 
largest  and  best  which  the  society 
has  held.  Among  those  present 
were  Dr.  Randolph  Winslow,  Miles 
White,  Jr.,  Francis  A.  White,. 
Wilmar  M.  Allen,  A.  Morris  Carey, 
G.  Cheston  Carey,  J.  H.  Parker, 
Hans  Froelicher,  Jr.,  and  Dr.  Wil- 
liam R.  Dalton,  Jr. 

Plans  are  well  under  way  for  the 
annual  dinner  of  the  society,  which,, 
as  above  suggested,  will  be  held 
on  the  evening  of  March  24th. 
President  Sharpless,  President 
Goodnow,  of  Johns  Hopkins  Uni- 
versity, and  Dr.  Wilbur  E.  Smith, 
Principal  of  the  Baltimore  City 
College,  have  accepted  invitations- 
to  attend  the  dinner  of  the  society 
and  to  address  the  gathering. 

The  Alumni  Quarterly  has  just 
been  issued.  It  contains  a  full 
account  of  the  Alumni  Dinner,  re- 
views of  books  and  articles  by  about 
twenty  Alumni  and  an  account  by 
Hugh  E.  Mckinstry,  '17,  of  events 
at  College  since  the  publication  of 
the  October  Quarterly.  There  is 
also  an  appreciation  of  President 
Sharpless'  work  and  a  number  of 
announcements  concerning  the  en- 


Alumni 


35 


trance  of  Dr.  Comfort  upon  his  new 
duties. 

A  committee  of  Ha\erford 
Alumni  has  begun  to  collect  money 
for  the  annual  sum  raised  by  Hav- 
erfordians  to  help  Robert  L.  Sim- 
kin,  '03,  in  his  work  in  West  China, 
under  the  Friends'  Foreign  Mis- 
sion Association  of  England.  Last 
year  the  total  of  S4, 000  was  raised, 
and  the  committee  desires  to  ob- 
tain at  least  551,000  for  Mr.Simkin's 
expenses  during  the  current  year. 
It  is  expected  that  their  work  will 
be  e.xceptionally  difficult  this  win- 
ter in  view  of  the  fact  that  so  many 
funds  are  being  sent  to  Belgium  and 
that  most  of  the  English  Friends 
are  not  in  a  position  to  aid. 

The  Alumni  committee  in  charge 
of  this  fund  consists  of  Asa  S. 
Wing,  Charles  J.  Rhoads,  Parker 
S.  Williams,  Alfred  G.  Scattergood, 
William  A.  Battey,  James  P.  Ma- 
gill,  William  E.  Cadbury,  secretary, 
and  William  T.  Kirk,  3d,  treasurer. 

'71 
William  D.  Hartshome,  President 
of  the  Texet  Corporation  of  Law- 
rence, Mass.,  contributed  an  ac- 
count of  a  new  method  of  spinning 
and  its  products  in  the  Textile 
World  Journal  of  January  13th, 
1917.  The  combinations  obtained 
are  acknowledged  to  be  absolutely 
new  in  form  and  not  only  of  marked 
interest  to  the  designer  of  fabrics, 
whether  knitted  or  woven,  but  to 
the  ultimate  consumer  as  well. 


'72 
Dr.  F.  B.  Gummere  has  con- 
tributed to  the  Publications  of  the 
Society  for  the  Advancement  of 
Scandinavian  Study  a  review  of  S. 
B.  Hustredt's  "Ballad  Criticism 
in  Scandinavia  and  Great  Britain 
During  the  Eighteenth  Century." 
The  review  discusses  the  present 
state  of  the  ballad  question,  praises 
the  book  under  review,  with  a  few 
corrections  and  suggestions,  and 
calls  for  a  complementary  treatise 
on  ballad  criticism  in  Scandinavia 
and  Germany  during  the  19th 
century. 

'85 
Macmillans  will  shortly  publish 
a  new  book  for  children  by  Rufus 
M.  Jones.  "As  in  his  earlier 
'Hebrew  Heroes,'  the  author  of 
St.  Paul,  the  Hero  has  succeeded  in 
telling  familiar  stories  with  a  fresh- 
ness that  will  interest  children  and 
even  adults." 

'88 

Howell  S.  England  is  a  member 
of  the  Detroit  Military  Training 
Organization,  which  is  carrying 
out  with  great  energy  a  course  of 
instruction  in  military  training  at 
the  Light  Guard  Armory  in  that 
city. 

J.  E.  Johnson,  Jr.,  is  at  present 
at  Shanghai  with  his  wife  and 
young  son.  He  is  a  consulting  en- 
gineer on  metallurgical  subjects  and 
was  called  over  to  China  for  six 
months  to  consult  with    regard   to 


36 


The    HAVERFOkDIAN 


certain  problems  in  this  line.  Rob- 
ert E.  Miller  met  him  crossing  the 
Pacific  and  again  at  Shanghai. 

'89 

Professor  Warner  Kites'  recent 
contributions  include  an  article  on 
Birth  Control  and  Biological  Ethics 
in  the  International  Journal  of 
Ethics  for  October,  1916,  and  an 
article  on  Moral  Valuations  and 
Economic  Laws  in  the  Journal  of 
Philosophy,  Psychology  and  Scien- 
tific Methods  for  January  4,   1917. 

"The  Duration  of  Paresis  Fol- 
lowing Treatment,"  by  William 
Rush  Dunton,  Jr  ,  has  been  re- 
printed in  the  American  Journal  of 
Insanity,  vol.  LXXII,  No.  2,  Octo- 
ber, 1916. 

'92 
An  edition  of  English  Popular 
Ballads  edited  with  introduction, 
notes  and  glossary  has  recently 
been  published  by  Walter  Hart, 
who  is  professor  of  English  at  the 
University  of  California. 

'97 
In  the  gymnasium  of  Bryn  Mawr 
College,  on  February  9th,  Alfred 
M.  Collins  gave  a  lecture  entitled 
"Across  South  America."  The 
subject  matter  was  admirably  illus- 
trated by  moving  pictures. 

'99 
In  the  Nation  for  February  Ist 
is  an  article  by  Royal  J.  Davis  on 


"The  Vote  on  Measures  in  the 
Election  of  1916." 

Rev.  C.  P.  Morris  has  been  en- 
gaged in  Y.  M.  C.  A.  work  near 
London  for  the  last  few  months. 
At  present,  however,  is  at  Clipstone 
Camp,  near  Nottingham,  England. 

"America's  View  of  the  Sequel," 
by  Royal  J.  Davis,  of  the  New 
York  Evening  Post,  was  published 
during  1916  by  Headly  Bros., 
London. 

'99 
Frank  K.  Walter,  vice-director 
of  the  New  York  State  Library,  has 
recently  published  two  articles 
in  issues  of  New  York  Libraries  on 
"The  Coming  High  School  Li- 
brary" and  "A  Vision  of  a  Setting 
Sun." 

'00 

W.  S.  Hinchman  contributed  an 
article  on  "Reading  Clubs  Instead 
of  Literature  Classes"  to  the  Feb- 
ruary issue  of  The  English  Journal. 
He  has  been  appointed  to  the 
position  of  "Head  of  Depart- 
ments" at  Groton  School,  Groton, 
Mass. 

Samuel  W.  Mifflin  for  the  past 
year  has  been  district  manager  of 
the  Air  Reduction  Company,  lo- 
cated at  365  Dorchester  Street, 
Boston,  Mass. 

Frank  W.  Eshleman  became  a 
member  of  the  firm  of  Jeremiah 
Williams  &  Company,  wool  mer- 
chants, of  Boston,  Mass. 


Alumm 


37 


'02 

Alexander  C.  Wood,  Jr.,  has 
announced  that  in  March  he  will 
become  associated  with  Charles 
Fearon  &  Co.,  bankers  and  brokers, 
333  Chestnut  Street,  Philadelphia. 

C.  Wharton  Stork  has  been  a 
contributor  to  The  America}:  Scan- 
dinavian Rei'ieu<.  In  thejanuar%- 
February  number  he  was  respon- 
sible for  the  translation  of  Carl 
Snoilsky's  "Black  Swans,"  and  of 
a  poem  by  Per  Daniel  A.  Herbom 
called  the  "Tho.'iis  of  the  Winds." 
Snoilsky's  "China,"  translated  by 
Mr.  Stork,  was  in  the  March-April 
number  of  this  publication.  The 
Scandinavian- American  Federation 
is  to  bring  out  a  book  of  his  trans- 
lations soon.  Mr.  Stork  also  con- 
tributed to  The  Xalioi!  for  Decem- 
ber 22nd,  publishing  a  sonnet  en- 
titled "Patriot  Shame."  An  ar- 
ticle in  next  month's  Haverford- 
lAN  deals  with  the  work  of  C.  W. 
Stork,  E.  A.  U.  Valentine,  Donald 
Evans  and  Christopher  Morley. 

"A.  G.  H.  S."  is  announced  as  a 
contributor  to  future  numbers  of 
"Contemporary   Verse." 

Dr.  Spiers  lectured  at  Haverford 
College  under  the  auspices  of  the 
Y.  M.  C.  A.  on  the  subject  of 
Pacifism. 

•04 

The  following  contains  extracts 
from  a  letter  just  received  from 
William  Tatum  Hilles,  now  living 
in  Manila.  He  accepted  a  position 
in  the  University  of  the  Philippines 


nearly  sc\en  years  ago,  and  has 
since  been  engaged  in  work  there. 
Mr.  Hilles  went  to  Harvard  after 
leaving  Haverford,  and  later  en- 
gaged in  business  with  his  father 
in  Cincinnati  and  in  \ew  York 
City.  He  then  spent  a  summer  in 
the  Grenfell  work  n  Newfound- 
land, and  went  from  there  to 
Manila.  During  his  leave  of 
absence  from  University  work  there 
he  went  to  Madrid,  spending  a 
winter  in  the  University  of  Madrid. 

"One  of  the  compensations  of 
life  out  here  is  that  we  are  seeing 
history  in  the  making.  It  is  being 
made  e\ery  day,  though  we  do  not 
always  realize  it,  any  more  than 
one  realizes  the  growth  of  a  child 
whom  one  sees  every  day.  Occa- 
sionally, however,  something  more 
dramatic  occurs,  and  the  con- 
sciousness of  the  changes  that  are 
going  on  is  held  up  before  our  eyes, 
so  that  we  can  not  fail  to  see. 

"Such  incidents,  before  our  ar- 
rival, were  the  capture  of  Manila 
from  the  Spaniards  on  August  13, 
1898,  in  which  several  of  our 
friends  took  part;  the  establish- 
ment of  ci\il  go\ernment  in  1901, 
when  the  army  turned  over  the 
control  of  the  government  to  Taft 
and  his  fellow  commissioners;  and 
the  opening  of  the  first  Philippine 
Assembly  in  1907. 

"A  few  days  after  m\'  arri\al  I 
came  across  an  eye-opener,  when 
I  heard  thousands  of  school  chil- 
dren, arranged  to  form  an  Ameri- 
can flag,  singing  patriotic  songs  in 


38 


The  Haverfordian 


English.  But  that  was  in  Manila, 
and  an  American  woman  led  the 
singing. 

"So  I  was  again  thrilled,  a  few 
months  later,  on  a  trip  through  the 
provinces,  with  Mr.  Groves,  when 
I  walked  into  the  to\\Ti  of  Arayat 
at  9  o'clock  at  night.  It  was  three 
days  before  school  was  to  open. 

"As  we  entered  the  town,  we 
came  to  a  torch-light  scene  I  shall 
never  forget.  A  group  of  boys 
from  eight  to  twelve  were  formed  in 
a  hollow  square,  playing  "My 
Old  Kentucky  Home,"  or  some 
such  tune,  with  variations.  Their 
instruments  were  all  home-made 
bamboo  instruments  of  various 
sorts.  Around  the  inside  of  the 
square  strutted  the  leader  with  an 
American  flag  over  his  shoulder. 

"When  we  asked  the  reason  for 
the  celebration,  one  of  the  by- 
standers informed  us  it  was  to 
celebrate  the  opening  of  school  the 
following  Monday.  It  was  entirely 
spontaneous,  as  the  only  Americans 
in  town  were  two  engineers — whom 
we  finally  succeeded  in  finding. 

"Again,  at  a  meeting  of  the  Har- 
vard alumni  in  February,  1912,  one 
of  those  present  had  just  returned 
from  Peking.  He  told  us  that  on 
a  certain  day  of  the  next  week  the 
Manchu  emperor  would  abdicate 
and  a  republic  would  be  declared. 
And  lo!  it  came  to  pass,  even  as  he 
had  said. 

"The  following  year  we  wit- 
nessed the  first  Far-Eastern  Olym- 
piad,   with    teams    entered    from 


China,  Japan  and  the  Philippines. 

"To  see  these  Orientals  entering 
into  our  Western  sports,  such  as 
baseball,  tennis  and  the  usual  track 
and  field  events,  to  hear  the  musing 
English  as  the  only  common  me- 
dium for  communication,  and  to 
realize  what  it  means  to  get  this 
healthy,  athletic  rivalry  started 
between  the  nations  of  the  Orient 
was  to  be  glad  that  one  had  strayed 
to  this  far  comer  of  the  world  at 
such  a  time. 

"The  second  meet  was  held  at 
Shanghai  in  1915,  and  Elwood 
Brown,  'the  man  behind  the  gun,' 
the  head  physical  director  of  the 
Y.  M.  C.  A.,  is  now  in  Japan  ar- 
ranging for  the  third  meet,  to  be 
held  there  next  year.  The  next 
World-Olympiad  will  probably  in- 
clude some  contestants  from  the 
Orient. 

"Then  in  April,  1913,  on  our  way 
home,  we  again  visited  Canton, 
that  teeming  hive  of  industry,  so 
utterly  different  from  our  Western 
cities,  where,  a  few  days  after  our 
visit  in  1911,  had  occurred  a  pre- 
mature outbreak  of  the  revolution 
which  so  soon  became  an  accom- 
plished fact. 

"At  that  time  all  but  a  few  of  the 
more  progressive  Chinese  wore  pig- 
tails. In  April,  1913,  we  saw  not 
one  pigtail  in  the  two  days  we  were 
there.  The  badge  of  submission 
to  the  Manchu  had  been  done  away 
with. 

"Then,  two  days  ago,  we  were 
present  at  the  first  wholly  elective 


Alumni 


39 


Philippine  Legislature.  The  com- 
mission appointed  by  the  President, 
formerly  the  Upper  House,  auto- 
matically ceased  to  exist  at  mid- 
night, October  15.  The  recently- 
elected  Senate  of  twenty-four  mem- 
bers, elected  by  direct  vote  of  the 
people,  met  in  joint  session  with 
the  House  of  Representatives  (for- 
merly called  the  Assembly)  to  hear 
the  message  of  the  governor-gen- 
eral. 

"A  platform  for  them  was 
erected  in  front  of  the  ayunta- 
miento  (city  hall)  and  the  people 
were  gathered  in  the  open  square 
in  front  of  the  building. 

"For  better  or  for  worse,  the 
new  system  has  been  inaugurated, 
and  it  was  interesting  to  be  present, 
even  though  it  was  necessary  to 
stand  on  a  chair  and  swelter. 

"For  the  first  time,  moreover, 
the  Legislature  includes  repre- 
sentativ'es  of  the  wild  tribes — 
these  latter  being  appointed  by  the 
governor-general.  In  the  Senate, 
a  Moro  datu  in  full  regalia    repre- 


sented his  people,  and  took  the 
oath  of  the  Koran.  The  senator 
representing  the  mountain  prov- 
ince is  a  Filipino.  But  in  the 
House,  besides  two  Moros,  there 
will  be  two  natives  from  the  moun- 
tains to  represent  their  people — 
one  Igorot  from  Benguet  and 
one  Ifugao — the  latter  being  the 
finest  tribe  in  the  Islands,  though 
still  in  a  wild  state." 

— W.    T.    HiLLES. 

'06 
C.  C.  Morris  has  been  coaching 
the  Soccer  men  in  the  gymnasium 
in  shooting  practice  once   a  week. 
Forty  men  have  been  out. 

E.K-'06 

Donald  E\ans  has  written  a 
book  of  poems,  "Two  Deaths  in 
the  Bronx,"  recently  published  by 
Nicholas  L.   Brown,    Philadelphia. 

The  same  firm  published  his 
"Nine  Poems  from  a  Valetudinar- 
ian." This  work  was  discussed  in 
a   recent  number    of    the   Nation, 


We  will  rent  you  a  late  model 

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the  machine. 

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40 


The  Haverfordian 


whilst  Mr.  H.  L.  Mencken  of  the 
Smart  Set  finds  him  one  of  the  two 
best  poets  of  the  Imagiste  School, 
judging  by  its  product  this  year. 

'08 

At  a  meeting  of  the  directors  of 
The  Provident  Life  and  Trust 
Company  of  Philadelphia  on  No- 
vember 27th,  1916,  M.  Albert 
Linton  was  elected  one  of  the  vice- 
presidents.  The  following  is  re- 
printed from  the  fifty-second  annu- 
al  report: 

"Mr.  Linton  has  been  Associate 
Actuary  of  the  Company.  He  is  a 
Fellow  of  the  Actuarial  Society  of 
America,  also  a  Fellow  of  the  Insti- 
tute of  Actuaries  of  Great  Britain, 
the  latter  distinction  having  been 
obtained  by  but  comparatively 
few  Americans.  In  addition  to 
his  actuarial  attainments,  he  has 
shown  a  practical  executive  ability 
and  a  knowledge  of  the  life  insur- 
ance, that  fit  him  especially  for 
service  in  that  department  of  the 
company.  By  the  election  of 
additional  vice-presidents,  the  ex- 
ecutive force  of  the  company  has 
been    greatly    strengthened." 

'10 
John  D.  Kenderdine  is  business 
manager  of  National  Service,  a  new 
periodical  published  by  Double- 
day,  Page  &  Co.,  dealing  with 
national  military  training. 

'11 

Wilmer  J.  Young  has  recently 
announced  his  engagement  to  Miss 
Mabel  Holloway,  of  Barnesville, 
Ohio.  Mr.  Young  is  an  instructor 
at  the  Moses  Brown  School  at 
Providence,    Rhode    Island. 

Charles    Wadsworth,    3rd.    Mr. 


The  Asso«„iaLluii  ul  Centtnai  >■  Kii  ins  and  Curporations 
in  their  receht  book  place  J.  E.  Rhoads  &  Sons  second  in 
antiquity  among  the  business  houses  of  the  United  States. 
Fouhded  in  1 702 .  the  business  has  come  donn  from  father 
to  son  through  si.x  generations.  This  means  an  inherit- 
ance of  old-fashioned,  honest  ideals,  and  because  such 
ideals  have  gone  into  Rhoads'  Belts  the  belt  here  pic- 
tured is  still  rounding  out  its  long  life  of  usefulness. 

With  better  science,  better  methods,  better  machinery, 
we  are  today  making  even  better  belting. 

J.  E.  RHOADS  &  SONS. 


PHILADELPHIA, 
12  North  Third  Street 


NEW  YORK. 
102  Beekman  Street 


CHICAGO. 
322    W.    Randolph  Street 

FACTORY  AND  TANNERY,     WILMINGTON,  DEL. 


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CANDY  PERFUMES 

STATIONERY 

CIGARS     CUT  GLASS      KODAKS 

C.  G.  WARNER,  P.  D. 

Pharmacist  HAVERFORD,  PA. 

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BARCLAY  HALI-  AZPELL,  Proprietor 

Musical    Supplies 

SHEET  MUSIC  PLAYER-ROLLS 

TALKING  MACHINES 
and  RECORDS 

Weyman  &  Gibson   Instruments 

32  EAST  LANCASTER  AVENUE 

ARDMORE,  PA. 

Open  Evenings  Phone  1303-W 


Alumni 


41 


Mr.  and  Mrs.  Clay  HoUister, 
of  Grand  Rapids,  Mich.,  have 
a,nnounced  the  engagement  of 
their  daughter,  Miss  Martha  Hol- 
listcr,  to  Charles  Wadsworth, 
3rd,  of  New  York  City.  Miss 
HoUister  is  a  graduate  of  Vassar, 
class  of  '14.  Mr.  Wadsworth  re- 
ceived his  Ph.  D.  in  Chemistry 
from  Har\ard  University  last 
year  and  is  now  head  of  a  new 
research  laboratory  of  Merck  & 
Company  of  New  York. 

The  wedding  of  Dr.  J.  Alexander 
Clarke,  Jr.,  and  Mrs.  Sophia  L. 
Helmbold  is  announced  for  Friday, 
F"ebruary  16th.  Dr.  Clarke  is  now 
engaged  in  professional  work  at  the 
Roosevelt  Hospital,   New  York. 

A  daughter,  Anna  Naomi  Rus- 
sell, was  born  to  Mr.  and  Mrs.  E. 
A.  Russell,  of  Richmond,  Virginia. 

Mr.  and  Mrs.  Howard  G.  Tay- 
lor, Jr.,  of  Riverton,  New  Jersey, 
are  receiving  congratulations  on  the 
birth  of  a  daughter,  Rebecca. 

The  engagement  is  announced 
of  Mr.  Alan  S.  Young  and  Miss 
Mary  Lessey,  of  Cynwyd. 

Mr.  Joshua  L.  Baily,  Jr.,  of 
Haverford,  and  Miss  Ruth  I. 
Robinson,  of  San  Diego,  California, 
were  married  on  February  19th. 

'12 

James  MacFadden  Carpenter, 
who  has  been  assisting  in  the 
Romance  Languages  Department 
at  Cornell,  where  he  is  a  candidate 
for  the  Ph.  D.  degree  this  spring, 
has  been  appointed  instructor  of 
French  in  the  undergraduate  de- 
partment of  Haverford  College. 
Mr.  Carpenter  was  recently  mar- 
ried to  Miss  Paulette  Hageman, 
daughter  of  the  Belgian  Consul- 
General  in  Philadelphia. 

Mr.  and  Mrs.  Llovd   Smith   are 


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dents' personal  effects  while  at  college 
or  elsewhere. 

Tourists'  Floating  Insurance  on  per- 
sonal effects  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  prop- 
erty or  for  injuries  to  persons. 

LONGACRE  &  EWING 
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PHIL.\DELPHI.\ 


42 


The  Haverfordian 


.at  Navo,  Japan,  where,  according 
to  Robert  E.  Miller  they  constitute 
66%  of  the  foreign  population  of 
the  city.  Their  work  in  the  mis- 
sion is  very  valuable,  as  they  have 
acquired  an  excellent  knowledge 
of  the  language  and  a  splendid  un- 
derstanding of  Japanese  customs. 
Robert  E.  Miller  has  just  re- 
turned from  a  three  months'  trip 
to  the  orient,  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Miller 
having  visited  Japan,  Korea,  Man- 
churia and  China.  Among  the 
Haverfordians  he  saw  there  were 
J.  F.  Johnson,  '88;  Hebert  Nichol- 
son, '13;  Lloyd  Smith,  '12,  and 
Yoshio  Nitobe,  '14,  through  whose 
father,  Dr.  Nitobe,  Mr.  and  Mr?. 
Miller  were  enabled  to  get  a 
splendid  insight  into  Japanese 
affairs.  Mr.  Miller  is  now  at  his 
home  at  Lancaster,  Pa. 

'13 

Herbert  Nicholson  is  at  Tokio, 
where  he  is  working  in  connection 
with  a  Japanese-American  peace 
movement;  he  reports  that  he 
finds  the  work  interesting  and 
enjoys  it. 

The  class  of  1913  held  a  class 
supper  at  the  Arcadia,  Philadel- 
phia, on  March  9th.  The  follow- 
ing members  were  present :  William 
S.  Crowder,  Francis  H.  Diament, 
William  Yarnall  Hare,  Charles  El- 
mer Hires,  Edmund  R.  Maule  and 
Joseph  Tatnall. 

'14 

Yoshio  Nitobe  is  engaged  in 
journalism  at  Tokio,  being  as- 
sociated with  the  Herald  of  Asia, 
a  weekly  publication  written  in 
English. 

S.  P.  Clarke  has  left  the  Girard 
Trust  Co.  and  is  with  the  Good- 


Pictures  Framed 

to  order,  and  in  an  artistic 
manner,  and  at  reasonable 
prices. 

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Bryn  Mawr  Motor  Co.,  Inc. 

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For  that 

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Alumni 


43 


rich     Rubber    Compan\-     in     the 
credit  department. 

Edward  Rice,  Jr.,  is  at  present 
working  with  the  Punch  Elye  Co., 
Bridge  St.,  New  York. 

'15 
Elmer  Shaffer  has  recently  pub- 
lished an  article  upon  the  "Gym- 
notus." 

'16 
Douglas  C.  Wendell  has  joined 
The  Reserve  Officers  Training  Corp 
at  Harvard  University.  Nine 
hours  a  week  are  de\-oted  to  drills 
and  lectures  and  the  summer  will  be 
spent  in  some  training  camp. 

Ex-' 16 
G.  B.  Sheldon  has  had  a  position 
for  the  past  year  with  the  Swanton 
Savings    Bank    of    Swanton,    Ver- 
mont. 

Ex-' 18 
John  C.  Taber  has  announced 
his  engagement  to  Miss  Helen 
Lathem,  of  Chester,  Pa.  Mr. 
Taber  is  at  present  studying  Theol- 
ogy at  the  College  of  Wooster, 
Wooster,  Ohio. 


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r 


5|ai3erforbian 


Contents; 


Editorial  Comment 45 

The  National  Emergency. L.  K.  Keay  47 

Woman,  War  and  Home  Life "Philippos"  49 

The  Misfit:  A  Story  J-  H.  Smith  50 

America's  Summons Richard  W.  Wood  52 

America  Enters  the  War William  H.  Chamberlin  53 

A  Rotten  Story Harold  W.  Brecht  58 

Two  Books  on  the  War 61 

In  the  Heart  of  Vienna Christopher  Roberts  63 

At  the  Play:  A  Dramatic  Review Jacques  Le  Clercq  64 

Xo  E Russell  N.  Miller  70 

To  Elaine 71 

Two  Portraits  of  Life 73 

Alumni 74 


1917 


M 


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tVe  Intlle  Carrmpendtnce  »r  an  lniertltt»  RaldiM 
f*  Offtning  Accatmtt. 

Offfoan 

ROWLAND  COMLY,  President. 
HUGH  McILVAIN.  1st  Vice-President. 
WILLIAM  BRADWAY,  2ad  Vice-President. 
JOHN  H.  WOOD,  Secretary. 
ALFRED  G.  WHITE.  Assistant  Trust  Officer. 
S.  HARVEY  THOMAS.  JR.,  Assistant  Treasurer. 
GEORGE  W.  BROWN,  JR.,  Asst.  Treas. 
H.  B.  V,  MECKE,  Asst.  Secretary. 


SAILOR  SUITS 
a  Specialty 

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Children 


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THE   HAVERFORDIAN 

WEWPORT  SALES-OrnCCS 
2ZQ     Bci.t,(vvC    AvsM 


When  Patronizing  Advsrtisers  Kindly  Mention  The  Haverfordian 


THE    HAVERFORDIAN 


Jacques  LeClercq,  Editor-in-Chief 

ASSOCIATE  EDITORS 

H.  P.  Schenck  W.  S.  Nevin 

Charles  Hartshorne  R.  N.  Miller 

J.  W.  Alexander  H.  W.  Brecht 

William  H.  Chamberlin 

BUSINESS  MANAGER  ASS'T  BUSSINESS  MANAGER 

Arthur  E.  Spellissy  H.  Beale  Brodhead 

SUBSCRIPTION  MANAGER 
J.  S.  Huston 

Price,  per  year $1.00  Single  copies $0.15 

The  Haverfordian  is  published  on  the  twentieth  of  each  month  during  college  year. 
Its  purpose  is  to  foster  the  literary  spirit  among  the  undergraduates  to  provide  an  or- 
gan 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  in- 
tended for  insertion  should  reach  the  Editor  not  later  than  the  twenty-fifth  of  the  month 
preceding  the  date  of  issue. 

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

Vol.  XXXIX  HAVERFORD,  PA.,  APRIL,  1917  No.  2 


(Ebitorial  Comment 

AMERICA  ENTERS  THE  WAR 

FROM  a  material  point  of  view,  the  entrance  of  the  United  States 
into  the  European  War  cannot  be  considered  as  a  great  issue 
in  its  history.  For  the  last  two  years  we  have  been  supplying 
the  Allies  with  the  munitions  we  have  manufactured  and  the  loans  we 
have  floated ;  nor  can  an  American  army  fighting  in  France — the  training 
of  which  would  require  at  least  twelve  months  if  not  more — be  of  very 
great  service  to  the  French  and  British  forces.  On  the  other  hand  from 
a  moral  point  of  view,  the  dramatic  events  which  led  up  to  our  drastic 
decision  are  without  a  doubt  among  the  most  notable  features  of  the 
history  of  the  present  war  and  of  our  country. 

Not  for  many  years  has  there  been  an  instance  of  a  peace-loving 
nation  with  absolutely  nothing  to  gain  commercially  or  territorially, 


46  The  Haverfordian 

going  into  one  of  the  most  relentless  struggles  of  the  world's  history  in 
order  to  defend  the  lives  and  uphold  the  rights  of  its  citizens.  That 
England  entered  into  the  conflict  because  of  the  violation  of  Belgian 
neutrality  is  not  true;  that  France  and  Belgium  are  fighting  for  their 
very  life  is  equally  obvious;  nor  is  the  policy  of  Japan,  Russia,  Roumania, 
Italy,  Montenegro  and  Portugal  activated  by  any  but  the  most  mercen- 
ary and  reprehensible  motives.  With  the  United  States,  however,  the 
case  is  different. 

We  have  no  homes  to  defend  before  the  invader;  we  have  no  lands 
to  recompense  us  for  our  participation  in  the  war;  we  have  no  advan- 
tages of  any  sort  to  gain;  we  are  fighting  because  our  citizens  are  not 
allowed  the  freedom  of  the  seas,  because  we  have  patiently  tried  many 
alternatives  all  of  which  have  failed,  because  we  must  defend  our  fellow- 
countrymen  from  an  encroachment  on  their  natural  and  indisputable 
rights.  What  has  been  termed  shifting  delays  and  ignoble  evasion  of 
responsibility  on  the  part  of  our  President  has  in  reality  been  an  ad- 
mirable and  noble  attempt  to  keep  us  out  of  war  at  any  price  save  that 
of  our  honor  and  liberty.  The  final  decision  has  been  too  vital  a  one 
not  to  require  a  long  and  careful  preparation  and  an  exhaustive  study 
of  other  methods ;  with  the  inability  of  any  of  these  to  turn  out  success- 
fully, the  only  remaining  course  was  war. 

There  are  two  courses  open  to  us :  active  collaboration  with  the 
Allied  forces,  to  the  extent  of  training  an  army  to  aid  them  in  the  field, 
entailing  the  loss  of  countless  lives — exactly  how  this  will  make  our 
citizens  on  the  high  seas  any  safer  we  do  not  know — or  an  active  patrol 
on  the  part  of  our  navy  in  co-operation  with  the  British,  to  assure  the 
lives  of  any  neutrals  who  may  be  crossing,  and  a  greater  output  of  sup- 
plies for  the  Allies.  Whatever  plan  we  undertake,  we  should  be  able 
to  profit  from  the  lessons  which  recent  history  teaches  us:  on  the  one 
hand  we  have  the  costly  blunders  of  Great  Britain,  on  the  other  hand  the 
ignoble  attitude  of  Japan. 

THE  HAVERFORDIAN  AND  ITS  FUNCTION 

When  the  various  athletics  were  suspended  and  the  Haver  ford  News 
curtailed  its  publication  to  some  extent,  it  was  suggested  to  the  Board 
of  this  magazine  to  abandon  its  work. 

The  Board  after  due  consideration  has  deemed  it  advisable  to 
continue  its  work  as  in  the  past. 

While  no  sacrifice  is  too  great  for  the  common  good  of  the  College 


The  National  Emergency  47 

and  its  training,  the  Haverfordian  can  achieve  more  good — or  at  least 
be  of  more  service — by  continuing  pubhcation. 

The  present  crisis  has  brought  one  important  thing  to  our  minds: 
that  we  have  been  neglecting  our  mission  as  the  organ  of  Haverford 
opinion  and  expression  in  our  over-zealousness  to  foster  the  literary 
spirit  among  the  undergraduates.  The  former  aim  was  the  reason  for 
which  we  were  founded;  the  latter  a  development  due  to  our  growth. 
In  the  future  we  shall  try  to  combine  the  two  elements,  publishing  not 
only  purely  literary  articles  but  also  articles  relating  to  College  policy. 
We  hope  to  continue  giving  as  many  Alumni  notes  as  we  have  done  in 
the  past;  last  month  we  published  ten  and  a  half  pages,  a  greater  number 
than  has  appeared  in  the  magazine  since  it  was  founded. 

AN  ANNOUNCEMENT  OF  IMPORTANCE 

As  we  go  to  press  we  take  pleasure  in  announcing  the  election  to 
the  Editorial  Board  of  Mr.  Charles  Hartshome,  Mr  Russell  N.  Miller, 
Mr.  John  W.  Alexander  and  Mr.  Harold  W.  Brecht. 


tlTfje  iOtational  Cmergencp 

By  L.  K.  Keay 

"Though  love  repine  and  reason  chafe, 

There  came  a  voice  without  reply, 
'Tis  man's  perdition  to  be  safe 

When  for  the  truth  he  ought  to  die." 

IN  the  the  present  national  emergency  every  man,  unless  he  be  an 
utter  coward  or  of  a  type  with  whom  thinking  is  an  extremely  dis- 
tasteful form  of  mental  exercise,  feels  himself  duty-bound  to  fit 
himself  in  some  way  for  the  better  performance  of  service  to  his  country. 
That  the  men  of  Haverford  are  far  from  impervious  to  a  keen  sense  of 
that  duty  is  attested  to  by  the  large  enlistment  and  the  signs  of  whole- 
hearted participation  in  the  admirable  plan  for  training  in  that  respect 
that  the  college  has  so  fortunately  adopted.  While  the  plan  constitutes 
a  compromise  between  the  two  elements  who  entertain  conflicting 
opinions  regarding  their  obligations  in  the  present  exigency,  nevertheless 
its  wisdom  lies  in  its  ability  to  meet  the  requirements  of  both  the  fac- 
tions and  thus  maintain  in  the  college  a  unity  of  action  that  is  remarkable 
under   the   circumstances.      The   formulaters   of   the   plan   are   indeed 


48  The  Haverfordian 

worthy  of  praise.  While  it  can  in  no  way  compromise  the  conscience  of  these 
rehgiously  opposed  to  war,  it  offers  superb  training  for  those  whoseulti- 
mate  intention  it  is  to  fight  actually  the  battle  of  democracy  and  liberty 
side  by  side  with  their  fellow  men  along  the  frontier  line  of  civilization 
in  Europe,  if  fortune  so  favors  them. 

For  it  is  truly  a  privilege  to  die  for  the  truth.  And  we  deem  it  safe 
to  say  that  never  before  in  the  annals  of  time  has  a  war  been  more  justly 
undertaken  than  the  one  on  which  America  felt  herself  compelled  to 
embark  the  fourth  of  April  1917.  Pessimists  see  in  the  world  cataclasm 
the  decline  of  civilization  and  the  degradation  of  humanity,  but  it  is 
inconceivable  that  civilization  will  not  advance  when  well-nigh  the 
whole  world  takes  up  arms  in  its  defense.  Civilization  uttered  the  cry 
of  distress  and  every  enlightened  people  on  the  globe  has  rallied  to  the 
standard.  And  though  America,  in  the  minds  of  some  had  delayed 
her  entrance  into  the  arena  too  long  she  at  last  took  up  arms  at  a  time 
when  no  doubt  could  possibly  exist  as  to  her  motives.  No  desire  to 
impose  her  institutions  upon  other  peoples,  no  wanton  lust  for  world 
power  induced  her  to  take  the  step,  but  it  was  in  defense  of  her  most 
sacred  rights,  in  service  to  justice,  in  the  championship  of  man's  freedom, 
that  she  decided  to  join  the  concert  of  nations  arrayed  against  German 
Autocracy. 

A  beneficent  outcome  of  the  struggle  is  inevitable,  and  when  the 
history  of  these  dark  days  comes  to  be  written  by  men  of  clearer  under- 
standing than  ours  can  be,  we  hope  they  can  say,  as  Victor  Hugo  said 
of  the  French  Revolution,  "  The  war  had  its  reasons ;  and  its  wrath  will 
be  absolved  by  the  future;  a  caress  for  the  human  race  issues  from  its 
most  terrible  blows."  Righteous  wars  are  the  brutalities  of  progress, 
but  when  they  are  ended  this  fact  is  recognized,  the  human  race  has  been 
chastised  but  it  has  moved  onward. 


^ftcrmatf) 

I  cannot  find  it  in  my  heart  to  sing. 

My  songs  are  vain — and  lifeless  as  the  fire 

That  in  my  heart  has  burned  to  ashes — Spring 
Brings  with  it  but  dead  dreams  and  dead  desire. 


^oman,  ^ar  anb  ^ome  %iit 

By  "Philippos" 

THE  evolution  of  the  European  woman  has  been  one  of  the  inter- 
esting features  of  the  war.  Her  transformation  from  a  frivo- 
lous society  being,  clamoring  for  the  ballot — but  more  fit  for 
the  ballet — to  be  a  really  potent  force  in  the  national  power  is  one  of 
those  transformations — like  the  Russian  revolution — that  is  accom- 
plished before  we  can  appreciate  its  significance.  We  have  every  reason 
to  hope — if  the  present  war  is  serious  enough — that  the  American  woman 
may  undergo  the  same  metamorphosis  as  her  European  sister. 

To  a  serious-minded  person,  whose  chief  interest  is  to  see  the  future 
home  life  of  the  world  improved,  the  tendency  of  the  average  American 
girl  presents  a  problem.  Her  interest  in  life  seems  to  be  focussed  on 
moving  pictures,  dancing,  and  her  ability  to  capture  a  man.  The 
question  does  not  seem  to  enter  her  mind  as  to  whether  or  not  she  will 
make  a  fitting  helpmate — the  ability  of  her  husband  to  possess  her  is 
supposed  to  be  adequate  compensation.  When  the  unhappy  victim 
recovers  from  his  infatuation  and  finds  that  his  wife  has  nothing  to 
commend  her  but  ephemeral  physical  attractiveness,  another  unhappy 
marriage  must  be  registered.  The  economic  independence  of  woman 
will  help  this  difficulty.  The  seriousness  of  the  labor  shortage  forcing 
the  woman  into  the  economic  world  is  bringing  about  her  economic 
independence.  With  her  advent  into  the  industrial  field  must  come  her 
admission  into  politics.  Her  equality  as  a  citizen  established  a  bettering 
of  home  life  must  be  given  attention. 

The  poet  who  pictures  the  congenial  family  circle  paints  the  singular 
not  the  ordinary  family.  The  average  couple  are  disappointed  over 
their  choice.  The  rigid  marriage  laws — which  because  of  their  rigidity 
allow  quarrels,  which  with  laxer  laws  would  become  rarer — and  the 
economic  dependence  of  woman — which  would  make  separation  ruinous 
for  her — do  not  conduce  to  domestic  felicity.  The  children — the  great 
argument  against  easy  divorce — can  be  provided  for  by  either  the 
parents  or  the  state.  Almost  any  care  and  influence  is  better  than  the 
quarrelsome  family  life  that  the  children  of  estranged  parents  experience. 

We  cannot  make  this  step  until  the  economic  independence  of 
woman  has  been  realized.  Then  men  and  women  will  be  more  tempered 
and  less  susceptible  to  the  deluding  infatuations  because  of  their  contact 
with  the  world,  and  those  poor  souls  who  still  follow  the  blind  paths  of 
love  may  have  the  pleasant  assurance — that  the  awakening  from  their 


50  The  Haverfordian 

infatuation  will  not  present  only  a  black  future  but  that,  firstly,  if  the 
marriage  is  absolutely  uncongenial,  divorce,  which  is  the  sure  specific  for 
unhappy  husbands  and  wives,  can  be  secured  with  comparative  ease  and, 
secondly,  that  in  all  likelihood  the  woman  of  the  future  will  have  some- 
thing to  her  besides  flounces  and  chemises.  This  is  one  of  the  changes 
which  it  is  to  be  hoped  will  come  from  the  present  war. 


(E^fje  Misfit:  ^  ^torp 

By  J.  H.  Smith 

JOHN  WEST  was  a  miserable  failure.  He  scarcely  earned  enough 
money  to  support  himself  in  a  wretched  fiat.  This,  however, 
is  pardonable  in  any  man  if  he  is  respected.  John  West  was 
despised  by  his  fellow-workers  in  the  mill.  They  always  referred  to  him 
as  "Miss  Johnny"  and  he  was  never  addressed  except  in  a  ridiculing, 
scornful  tone.  They  loathed  him,  because  he,  a  weakling  in  stature, 
dared  to  fight  in  their  battlefield  and  measure  himself  by  their  standards. 
Yes,  John  was  a  miserable  failure.     Why?   Because  he  was  a  misfit. 

It  often  happens  that  a  man  lives  and  works  in  an  environment  that 
is  not  suited  to  his  nature.  Such  was  the  case  with  John.  He  was  made 
of  a  finer  clay  than  his  sordid  neighbors.  His  sensibilities  were  more  re- 
fined, and  his  God  was  more  Christ-like  than  theirs.  Above  all,  he  was 
an  artist,  where  the  most  ardent  optimist  could  not  discover  the  beautiful. 
He  did  his  living  in  the  evening,  when,  worn  out  with  labor  and  raillery, 
he  painted  his  masterpiece;  for  every  artist  has  his  masterpiece.  He 
often  painted  until  faint  streaks  of  morning  light  sifted  through  the 
window  and  cast  indistinct  bars  of  gold  on  his  canvas.  Mary,  who 
lived  next  door,  often  posed  for  him.  She  was  the  only  friend  John 
could  claim  in  the  world.  She  was  all  sympathy,  gentleness,  and  en- 
couragement. 

"John,"  she  said  one  evening,  "I  love  your  painting  most  because 
it  is  so  peaceful.  Peace  is  the  most  splendid  thing  in  Heaven  or  Earth." 
Next  to  his  art,  John  lived  for  Mary. 

Things  went  on  just  the  same,  after  the  war  started,  until  one  day  an 
enlistment  officer  came  to  the  mill.  One  after  another  the  mill-workers 
enrolled,  some  of  them  leaving  their  families.  It  came  John's  turn  to 
sign  his  name.  He  refused.  A  howl  of  rage  arose.  "We'll  git  you," 
someone  shouted,   "you  damned  low-down  coward." 

That  night  John  did  not  see  Mary  as  usual,  nor  did  he  work  on  his 


The  Misfit:   A  Story  51 

painting.  The  load  of  opposition  seemed  too  heavy  to  bear.  He  went 
to  bed  sobbing,  and  his  rest  was  troubled  and  he  had  dreams.  He 
dreamed  that  he  had  gone  to  the  front,  a  bomb  had  rolled  to  his  feet 
and  shattered  him  to  atoms.  He  awoke  with  a  cry  to  hear  hurried  foot- 
steps go  down  the  stairs.  At  once  he  became  aware  of  a  burning  pain 
in  his  chest.  He  turned  on  the  light  and  looked  in  the  mirror.  There, 
indelibly  branded  in  his  flesh,  was  the  word  "Coward."  The  scared 
wound  was  still  dripping  blood.  A  horrible  sight — burnt  on  his  very 
soul.  With  excruciating  pain  John  washed  off  the  bleeding  skin,  only 
to  have  the  word  "Coward"  stare  at  him  the  more  plainly.  He  threw 
himself  on  his  bed  to  wait  for  morning.  His  one  consolation  was  the 
fact  that  Mary  would  understand.     She  always  understood. 

Early  next  morning  he  went  to  see  her.  He  told  her  the  whole 
story,  adding,  "and  see  what  they  did  to  me  last  night."  He  opened 
his  shirt  and  showed  the  curse  written  on  his  heart.  She  did  not  speak 
for  some  moments  then  she  murmured,  very  softly,  "John,  I  could  never 
like  you  again  with — that." 

"But,"  he  pleaded.     "You—" 

"I  did  think  peace  was  everything — but  there  is  no  peace.      I 

shall  be  a  nurse,  if  they  let  me.     Good-bye." 

******** 

It  was  in  the  spring  drive  of  1915  that  the  division  under  which  John 
had  enlisted  was  so  severely  menaced.  He  fought  these  real  battles 
still  as  the  misfit.  In  one  particularly  strenuous  attack,  a  piece  of 
shrapnel  hit  John  in  the  leg.  It  made  a  nasty  wound,  and  the  doctors 
said  he  might  be  excused  from  further  service.  He  could  continue,  how- 
ever, if  he  wanted  to.  He  wrote  Mary  about  it  with  ecstatic  delight. 
But  she  settled  the  question  in  this  simple  letter: 
Dear  John: 

You  are  now  at  the  point  where  others  started.  Go  back  and  win  an 
Englishman's   record. 

Mary. 

Back  to  that  torture  of  body  and  soul,  and  with  an  honorable  dis- 
missal! "Mary  always  understands,"  he  mused.  "There  is  no  peace 
now." 

He  went  back  more  of  a  misfit  than  ever. 

One  day  during  an  attack,  a  bomb  rolled  to  the  edge  of  the  trench 
just  out  of  reach.  Thirty  other  Englishmen  saw  it  too,  and,  petrified, 
stared  at  the  sputtering  fuse.  John  sprang  forward  up  over  the  trench. 
For  the  first  time  he  displayed  the  curse  written  on  his  heart.  "For 
England,"  he  shouted,  and  hurled  back  the  bomb.     A  bullet  hit  him  a 


52  The  Haverfordian 

glancing  blow  on  the  chest  and  ripped  off  the  flesh,  carrying  the  word 
"Coward"  with  it.  It  left  a  great,  red  dripping  gash.  "Now  I  can  die," 
another  bullet  hit  him  squarely,  "like  an  Englishman." 

The  military  report  was  very  brief.     It  said:  John  West — died  on 
the  field   of  honor. 


America's  ^ummonsi 

By  Richard  W.  Wood 

My  country!   What  art  thou  doing  to-day? 

What  is  this  rush  to  arms? 
Couldst  thou  not,  for  the  greater  good, 
Stand  where  the  Christian  martyrs  stood? 
Or  must  thou  stoop  to  blood-shed 

At  the  sound  of  war's  alarms? 

My  country,  which  we  hoped  to  see 

Stand  above  fire  and  sword. 
And  bare  her  breast  to  the  dagger-stroke, 
Trusting,  amid  the  battle-smoke. 
To  the  power  of  reason,  the  force  of  right, 

And  the  strength  of  a  loving  word ; 

Why  hast  thou  turned  from  the  path  of  love. 

To  mark  which  Jesus  died? 
Why  art  thou  turning,  arms  in  hand, 
To  the  ai'bitrament  of  the  dripping  brand. 
Turning  from  the  way  for  which 

The  Christ  was  crucified? 

America,  our  country,  we  beg  thee  rise  agaia, 

Turn  to  the  conquering  way. 
Throw  away  cumbersome  gun  and  sword. 
Arm  thyself  with  the  flaming  Word, 
Stand  shoulder  to  shoulder  with  thy  Lord, 
And  in  this  Armageddon 

Uphold  Him  in  the  fray! 


Smerica  €nter£i  tijc  ^ar 

By  William  Henry  Chamberlin 

THE  declaration  of  war  upon  Germany  by  the  United  States,  was, 
in  many  respects,  a  unique  historical  event.  It  came  not  in 
a  moment  of  popular  frenzy,  not  as  a  measure  devised  and 
put  into  effect  to  serve  the  selfish  interests  of  a  few  men,  but  as  the 
deliberate  and  carefully  considered  act  of  the  American  people,  ex- 
pressed through  their  highest  representative  bodies.  The  vote  on 
the  war  resolution  in  both  houses  of  congress  was  tremendously  im- 
pressive for  a  country  which  has  always  encouraged  the  freest  expression 
of  individual  opinion,  especially  in  view  of  the  pro-German  and  pacifist 
influences,  open  and  secret,  which  were  constantly  working  to  keep  the 
nation  out  of  the  conflict  at  any  cost.  And  not  only  was  the  war  emi- 
nently popular  and  democratic;  it  was  also,  in  the  highest  sense,  unselfish 
and  disinterested.  One  would  think  that  even  statesmen  of  the  some- 
what distorted  vision  of  Senator  La  FoUette  and  Mr.  William  Jennings 
Bryan  could  recognize  the  self-evident  fact  that  the  munition  manu- 
facturers of  the  country  could  gain  infinitely  more  by  selling  their  goods 
to  the  Allies  at  unlimited  prices  than  by  selling  them  to  their  own  country 
at  greatly  curtailed  estimates,  with  high  taxes  into  the  bargain.  No, 
all  the  glib  oratory  of  the  pacifist,  socialist  and  pro-German  agitators 
will  never  convince  any  fairminded  man  that  the  act  of  April  6th  was 
anything  but  the  spontaneous  expression  of  the  desire  of  a  united  people, 
outraged  beyond  endurance  by  an  unprecedented  series  of  insults  and 
injuries,  culminating  in  the  proposal  of  the  German  government  to 
the  governments  of  Mexico  and  Japan  for  the  occupation  and  partition 
of  United  States  territory.  The  solidarity  of  the  nation  is  a  vindication 
of  the  President's  much  criticised  foreign  policy.  Better  to  go  to  war 
with  a  united  nation  in  April,  1917,  than  to  have  entered  the  conflict 
in  May,  1915,  with  the  country  beyond  the  Alleghenies  lukewarm  and 
doubtful. 

Not  even  an  excess  of  patriotic  feeling  can  well  overrate  the  sig- 
nificance of  our  entry  into  the  ranks  of  the  active  belligerents.  The 
historians  of  the  Great  War  will  almost  certainly  pick  out  the  Russian 
Revolution  and  the  American  declaration  of  hostilities  as  the  two  most 
significant  events  in  the  course  of  the  struggle.  It  is  only  another  proof 
of  the  war-mad  folly  of  the  Reventlows  and  Von  Tirpitzes  that  they 
ignore,  or  afTect  to  ignore  the  portentous  consequences  of  American 
intervention.     It  is  not  an  exaggeration  to  say  that,  on  the  day  when  the 


54  The  Haverfordian 

President  delivered  his  epochal  speech,  the  doom  of  the  German  imperial 
ambitions  was  definitely  sealed.  The  enormous  material  resources  of 
our  country  are  alone  enough  to  turn  the  scale  in  a  contest  which  depends 
largely  upon  endurance.  But  we  have  far  more  to  give  than  money 
and  munitions.  We  have  an  inexhaustible  supply  of  fighting  force, 
which,  although  not  immediately  available,  may  well  prove  a  decisive 
factor  in  the  later  stages  of  the  War. 

But  the  question  of  ultimate  victory  is  relatively  unimportant 
compared  with  the  question  what  that  ultimate  victory  will  mean  for 
the  future  peace  and  liberty  of  the  world.  The  Great  War  would  have 
been  a  sorry  waste  of  blood  and  treasure,  indeed,  if  it  had  merely  set 
up  a  Romanoff  tyrant  in  place  of  a  Hohenzollern.  In  fact,  during  the 
early  stages  of  the  conflict,  many  liberals  echoed  the  illogical,  but  natural 
hope  of  George  Brandes,  that  France  and  England  might  win  and  that 
Russia  might  lose.  But  the  overthrow  of  the  treacherous,  pro-German, 
reactionary  bureaucracy  at  Petrograd  has  completely  altered  the  situa- 
tion. The  issue  at  stake  is  now  impressive  through  its  very  clarity. 
On  one  side  are  four  nations,  very  different  in  temperament,  traditions 
and  civilization,  united  by  the  one  bond  of  a  common  autocratic  form 
of  government.  On  the  other  side  are  practically  all  the  great  democra- 
cies of  the  world.  The  line  of  demarcation  between  the  forces  of  free- 
dom and  the  forces  of  despotism  could  not  be  more  distinctly  drawn. 
On  one  hand  an  iniquitous  cabal  of  king,  kaiser  and  sultan,  bent  on  war 
and  conquest.  On  the  other  hand  a  holy  alliance  of  free  peoples,  de- 
sirous of  peace,  but  resolute  to  fight  to  the  utmost  for  their  national 
honor    and    integrity. 

The  condition  is  unique  because  it  has  never  been  even  remotely 
duplicated  in  history.  Immediately  after  the  French  Revolution  the 
new  republic  proclaimed  its  intention  of  carrying  liberty,  by  the  sword 
if  necessary,  to  all  parts  of  the  earth.  But  the  French  democracy, 
founded  too  much  on  the  mere  license  of  the  Parisian  mob,  fell  an  easy 
prey  to  the  aspiring  ambition  of  Napoleon;  and  the  wars  for  the  over- 
throw of  foreign  tyrants  were  transformed  into  wars  for  the  glory  and 
power  of  the  man  who  hypnotized  and  turned  to  his  own  advantage 
the  glowing  enthusiasm  of  revolutionary  France.  But  it  would  be  im- 
possible to  compare  the  spirit  and  motives  of  the  coalitions  against 
Napoleon  with  those  of  the  Allies  to-day.  For  Russia,  Austria  and  Prus- 
sia, the  chief  continental  powers  opposed  to  the  French  Emperor,  were 
at  that  time  governed  by  despotisms  equally  tyrannous  and  far  less 
enlightened  than  that  of  Napoleon  himself,  while  England's  policy  was 
largely  guided  by  a  small  group  of  wealthy  capitalists.     Consequently 


America  Enters  the  War  55 

the  final  victory  of  the  Allies  in  1815  cannot  be  considered  a  real  triumph 
for  the  cause  of  human  liberty.  In  fact  it  was  followed  by  a  period  of 
repression  and  wholesale  exploitation  of  the  working  classes  by  their 
employers.  But  the  conditions  in  Europe  now  are  quite  different. 
Of  the  powers  who  are  now  lined  up  against  Germany  there  is  not  one 
that  is  not  thoroughly  democratic  and  controlled  by  the  will  of  its  citi- 
zens. Victory  for  the  Allies  means  far  more  than  the  restoration  of 
Belgium,  the  autonomy  of  Poland  and  the  rehabilitation  and  racial 
unification  of  the  Balkan  States.  These  conditions  are  all  important; 
but  they  are  mere  incidents  compared  with  the  larger  aspect  of  the 
victorious  peace  that  is  to  follow  the  War.  The  real  historical  sig- 
nificance in  the  triumph  of  the  Entente  arms  will  lie  in  the  fact  that  it 
will  mark  the  greatest  advance  in  the  cause  of  human  freedom  in  the 
history  of  the  world.  It  will  mean  just  as  much  for  the  future  liberty 
of  Germany  as  for  that  of  any  other  nation.  That  is  why  Reventlow, 
Von  Tirpitz  and  the  rest  of  the  monarchical  fanatics  in  the  German 
Empire  are  growing  more  and  more  desperate  as  the  War  drags  on  and 
the  chances  for  an  ultimate  Teutonic  victory  grow  dimmer  and  dimmer. 
They  know,  as  Reventlow  frankly  admitted  in  a  recent  interview,  that 
the  power  of  the  Hapsburg  and  Hohenzollern  houses  cannot  survive  an 
unsuccessful  war.  And  with  the  passing  of  these  irresponsible  autoc- 
racies there  is  every  probability  that  wars  in  the  future  will  be  few  in 
number,  local  in  character  and  short  in  duration.  As  President  Wilson 
said  in  one  of  the  most  significant  passages  of  his  speech: 

"A  steadfast  concert  for  peace  can  never  be  maintained 
except  by  a  partnership  of  democratic  nations.  No  autocratic 
government  could  be  trusted  to  keep  faith  within  it  or  observe 
its  covenants.  It  must  be  a  league  of  honor,  a  partnership  of 
opinion.  Intrigue  would  eat  its  vitals  away,  the  plotting  of 
inner  circles  who  could  plan  what  they  would  and  render  ac- 
count to  no  one  would  be  a  corruption  seated  at  its  very  heart. 
Only  free  peoples  can  hold  their  purpose  and  their  honor  steady 
to  a  common  end  and  prefer  the  interests  of  mankind  to  any 
narrow  interest  of  their  own." 

And  so,  while  we  may  not  feel  the  physical  pressure  of  the  War 
as  do  our  Allies,  the  French  and  English,  yet  our  moral  concern  for 
the  successful  termination  of  a  conflict  which  is  so  clearly  a  battle  for 
the  sacred  rights  of  humanity,  should  be  equally  keen.  Our  material 
boundary  may  be  the  Atlantic  Ocean,  but  our  spiritual  frontier  is  that 
long  line,  '"somewhere  in  France,"  where  the  future  destiny  of  the  world 
is  now  being  wrought  out.     There  are  two  means  by  which  we  can  prove 


56  The  Haverfordian 

the  sincerity  and  earnestness  of  our  attitude  in  regard  to  the  crisis  with 
which   we  are  confronted. 

In  the  first  place,  we  should,  if  possible,  persuade  our  Allies  to  refuse 
to  enter  into  any  negotiations  with  the  present,  non-representative 
German  and  Austrian  governments.  The  offer  of  a  fair  and  reasonable 
peace  to  the  peoples  of  Germany  and  Austria,  together  with  an  uncom- 
promising stand  against  entering  into  any  relations  with  the  rulers  who 
are  in  no  sense  representative  of  those  peoples  should  do  much  to 
strengthen  the  hands  of  the  liberals  in  the  teutonic  Empires  who  must 
be  relied  on  to  bring  to  pass  a  revolution  similar  to  the  late  happy  event 
in  Russia.  It  should  convince  the  most  skeptical  of  our  enemies  that 
the  President  was  using  no  empty  rhetoric  when  he  said : 

"We  have  no  selfish  ends  to  serve.     We  desire  no  con- 
quest, no  dominion.     We  seek  no  indemnities  for  ourselves,  no 
material  compensation  for  the  sacrifices  we  shall  freely  make. 
We  are  but  one  of  the  champions  of  the  rights  of  mankind.     We 
shall  be  satisfied  when  those  rights  have  been  as  secure  as  the 
faith  and  the  freedom  of  the  nations  can  make  them." 
If  we  are  to  have  any  weight  in  the  councils  of  our  Allies  we  must 
give  them  something  more  than  words.     It  is  not  even  enough  to  supply 
them  liberally  with  money  and  munitions,  although  both  these  commod- 
ities   are   very  valuable.     Whether  considered  from  the  moral  or  ma- 
terial standpoint,  it  is  in  the  highest  degree  expedient  that  we  should 
send  as  many  troops  to  France  as  we  can  raise  and  equip.     The  fact 
that  it  would  require  a  year  for  a  large  expeditionary  army  to  be  fitted 
out  and  despatched  ought  not  to  hinder  our  preparations  in  the  least. 
There  is  every  indication  that  the  War  will  last  for  at  least  two  more 
years,  possibly  longer.     The  prompt  arrival  of  American  reinforcements 
on  the  western  front  would  have  an  incalculably  inspiriting  effect  upon 
our  Allies  and  a  correspondingly  depressing  effect  upon  our  enemies. 
No  considerations  of  selfish  cowardice  masquerading  as  prudence  should 
prevent  us  from  sending  the  largest  possible  army  that  can  be  raised 
from  our  young  men  to  fight  the  battles  of  freedom  in  the  trenches  of 
France  and  Flanders.      Where  our  forefathers  fought  for  a  local  and 
national  liberty  we  shall  be  fighting  for  a  liberty  that  is  universal  and 
international.     Surely  no  American  who  has  caught  the  spirit  of  Sara- 
toga and  Gettysburg,  who  has  felt  the  inspiration  of  Washington  and 
Lincoln,  will  hold  back  from  offering  his  life  in  the  present  Armageddon 
for  the  sake  of  permanent  peace  and  enduring  righteousness. 

Senator  Norris,  one  of  the  "little  group  of  willful  men"  who  did 
their  tiny  best  to  jeopardize  the  nation's  honor  and  safety  in  the  course 


America  Enters  the  War  57 

of  the  recent  crisis,  hysterically  cried  out  during  a  debate  that  we  "were 
putting  the  dollar  mark  in  the  American  flag."  Just  where  the  Herr 
Senator  got  his  idea  of  the  dollar  mark  is  not  very  clear.  Perhaps 
he  was  thinking  of  the  dollars  which  the  German  government  magnani- 
mously proposed  to  pay  us  for  the  dead  of  the  Lusilania.  Perhaps 
he  was  thinking  of  the  large  number  of  dollars  that  the  accredited  diplo- 
matic agents  of  Germany  have  spent  in  a  country  with  which  they  were 
supposed  to  be  at  peace,  for  the  amicable  purposes  of  blowing  up  fac- 
tories, destroying  public  works  and  stirring  up  treasonable  internal 
sedition,  under  the  guise  of  pacifism.  But  the  vast  majority  of  the 
American  people,  who  do  not  agree  with  Herr  Norris  and  his  fellow- 
conspirators  that  peace  is  more  precious  than  right  and  that  death  is 
worse  than  any  dishonor,  have  a  different  feeling  about  the  entrance 
of  their  country  into  the  War.  With  no  feeling  of  jingoism  or  chauvinism 
they  are  determined  to  take  out  of  the  flag  the  last  vestiges  of  the  dollar 
mark,  which  is  an  appropriate  symbol  of  selfish  pacifism  and  cowardly 
shirking  from  duty,  and  to  put  in  its  place  the  stars  and  stripes  that  stand 
for  freedom,  justice  and  humanity.  With  a  full  consciousness  of  the 
heavy  burdens  and  tremendous  responsibilities  that  lie  before  them, 
the  true  expression  of  their  inmost  feeling  is  perfectly  expressed  in  the 
immortal  conclusion  of  the  President's  address: 

"The  right  is  more  precious  than  peace,  and  we  shall  fight 
for  the  things  which  we  have  always  carried  nearest  our  hearts — 
for  democracy,  for  the  right  of  those  who  submit  to  authority 
to  have  a  voice  in  their  own  government,  for  the  rights  and 
liberties  of  small  nations,  for  a  universal  dominion  of  right 
by  such  a  concert  of  free  peoples  as  shall  bring  peace  and  safety 
to  all  nations  and  make  the  world  itself  at  last  free. 

"To  such  a  task  we  can  dedicate  our  lives  and  our  fortunes, 
everything  that  we  are  and  everything  that  we  have,  with  the 
pride  of  those  who  know  that  the  day  has  come  when  America 
is  privileged  to  spend  her  blood  and  her  might  for  the  principles 
that  gave  her  birth  and  happiness  and  the  peace  which  she  has 
treasured.     God  helping  her,  she  can  do  no  other." 


By  Harold  W.  Brecht 

I  have  noticed  with  piquant  interest  the  laudable  tendency  among 
many  magazines  to  publish  stories  which  appeal  to  the  baser  side  of  one's 
nature,  under  the  moralistic  sham  of  attacking  some  evil  of  the  day.  I  have 
always  enjoyed  this  sort  of  appeal  even  when  it  is  unexcused;  one  can 
imagine  my  pleasure  when  there  is  added  to  gratification,  pardon.  How- 
ever I  have  often  missed  reading  such  a  story — as  I  am  afterwards  informed 
by  the  young  lady  whom  I  am  going  to  make  my  wife — because  of  its  mis- 
leading title.  Accordingly  this  story  is  properly  designated  at  the  outset. — 
Author's  Note. 

I  SAT  in  one  of  the  tawdrier  cafds,  and  tried  to  pretend  that  I  was 
being  very  Bohemian  and  ungodly.  I  was  waiting  to  see  someone 
else  drink  the  same  sort  of  cocktail  that  I  had,  so  that  I  would 
know  how  to  drink  mine.  I  winked  a  particularly  vile  wink  at  a  young 
lady  who  was  ogling  me.  Probably  affairs  between  us  would  soon  have 
approached  a  particularly  vile  consummation,  when  a  man  entered  and 
lurched  down  into  the  seat  opposite  me.  He  was  pale,  haggard,  rather 
haunted  as  to  expression.  I  was  framing  a  suitable  protest  when  he 
leaned  over  to  me,  and  I  noticed  that  the  fire  in  his  eyes  had  sunk  them 
deep.      "You  wrote  'Joy  in  Beauty'  didn't  you?" 

This  was  fame.  I  nodded  coolly,  with  the  superiority  that  accrues 
to  the  author  of  "Joy  in  Beauty." 

"For  a  drink,  I'll  tell  you  a  rotten  story  that  beats  that." 

I  ordered  him  a  cocktail,  like  the  one  I  had,  so  that  I  would  know 
how  to  drink  mine.      He  began  abruptly: 

"Back — back  home  there  were  lilacs  all  over  our  porch."  He 
gulped  his  cocktail;  I  gulped  mine  and  choked.  "There  was  a 
little  white  church  on  a  hill;  there  was  Heloise;  stranger,"  he  bent  his 
burning  eyes  toward  me,  "there  was  mother."     (There  necessarily  was.) 

"Heloise  was  a  child  then,  with  long  hair  and  ankles  that  I  could 
measure  with  my  hand.  I  was  different  from  everybody  (I  thought), 
and  Heloise  was  the  only  one  who  understood  me.     I  loved  her. 

"We  ran  away ;  Heloise  had  no  mother,  and  I  left  mine.  My  mother 
does  not  know  where  I  am  now,  thank  God.  If  you  can  believe  me,  be 
kind  to  yours — kinder  than  I  was.  As  you  hope  for  life  up  there,"  he 
pointed  to  the  black  and  gold  roof,  where  I  did  not  want  life,  "  take  care 
of  your  mother.  Before  everything  that  you  do,  think  'Would  she  want 
her  son  to  do  this?"     Stranger,  God  made  your  mother  to  love." 


A  Rotten  Story  59 

I  stirred  uneasily,  for  my  conscience  was  not  stilled,  yet.  Anyhow, 
his  words  were  hackneyed. 

"My  sweetheart  and  I  hadn't  much  money,  and  the  boss  where 
Heloise  worked  insulted  her.  She  was  so  m.odest,  my  little  Heloise. 
I  used  to  write  her  poems — fool  poems,  and  she'd  fondle  them  with  her 
little  fingers,  and  laugh  at  them,  and  kiss  me  for  each  verse.  There 
were  always  many  verses.     Could  I  have  another  cocktail?" 

I  was  now  on  drinking  terms  with  two  brands. 

"We  had  to  do  something  so  we  went  to  France,  and  I  enlisted. 
She  was  a  nur^e,  a  holy  angel  of  a  nurse.  I  used  to  tell  her  that  I'd  get 
wounded,  just  to  have  her  nurse  me."  He  smiled  at  remembrance  of  his 
humor  but  his  mouth  was  not  one  fitted  for  smiling,  and  he  hid  it  quickly 
in  his  glass. 

"I  told  you  that  I  was  different  from  other  people.  I  am,  for  they 
are  not  all  cowards.  And  on  us  all,  cowards  or  not,  the  mud  caked,  the 
mud  the  ditch-water  made  when  it  mingled  with  the  clay  into  a  sticky, 
slimy,  freezing  hell." 

This  was  obvious  striving  for  effect.  But  I  can  excuse  a  man  who 
can  gulp  his  cocktails. 

"The  guns  were  always  roaring  till  your  nerves  gave  way,  and 
every  muscle  in  your  body  trembled  and  shook  like — "  the  goblet  in 
his  hand  quivered  as  a  little  child  does  that  is  shaken  by  sobs,  after  it 
has  been  whipped.  I  would  let  my  mother  rufHe  my  hair  as  she  liked 
to  do  (her  big  boy's  hair),  let  her  to-morrow,  no,  to-night. 

"Toads  and  unclean  things  lived  in  those  trenches;  and  rats  and 
lice  feasted  on  us.  Men  went  crazy  there.  I  remember  one  little  fellow, 
a  cheerful  little  fellow  who  wrote  to  his  mother  every  day.  He  went  mad, 
and  kept  moaning  for  her,  through  the  mud,  'Mother,  mother.'  Our 
general,  a  dissolute  son  of  the  war  minister,  had  him  shot.  I  would 
have  been  glad  for  them  to  shoot  me  too,  if  I  had  not  had  that  little  face 
all  framed  in  golden  hair,  to  cheer  me.  God  was  very  far  from  those 
trenches,  as  He  is  from  this  story,  but  not  from  her,  stranger,  not  very 
far  fiom  her. 

"I  got  more  and  more  afraid  and  sick  of  everything.  Then  one 
day  there  was  a  charge.  The  ground  quivered  with  the  guns;  there 
was  a  whispered  order,  and  we  were  out  in  the  open,  in  one  of  the  devil's 
lower  hells.  The  machine-gun  bullets  went  'crack,'  'crack,'  'crack,' 
and  the  man  next  to  me  toppled  over  into  mj'  arms,  and  his  brains 
spouted  over  my  face.  I  could  not  see.  A  wounded  horse  shrieked 
shrill  over  all  the  horrible  medley  of  sound,  and  the  wounded  men  moaned. 
We  won  the  trench,  and  killed  some  Germans,  stuck  them  like  pigs  and 


60  The  Haverfordian 

were  stuck."     He  pointed  to  a  scar  that  ran  from  one  eye  downward. 

"It  rained  on  the  wounded  now,  and  the  moaning  got  less  and  less, 
and  instead  there  hung  a  stench  of  putrefying  flesh,  like  a  steaming 
shroud — my  God,  a  stench  that  won't  wash  off." 

In  fright  he  stared  at  his  hands,  holding  them  so  tensely  that  they 
quivered. 

"That  night  I  deserted;  they  caught  me  of  course,  so  damned 
many  of  them,  and  they  were  going  to  shoot  me.  But  Heloise  found 
out  somehow  (she  used  to  say  that  some  unknown  sense  united  us, 
whea  we  sat  together  back  home,  and  I  made  her  crowns  out  of  lilacs — 
I  could  make  good  crowns,  then)." 

The  crowns  he  made  now  would  reek  of  nicotine. 

"I  wonder  if  the  stain  will  ever  wash  away;  if  my  mother  will  see 
it  and  smell  it,  up  above." 

Small  chance  that  she  would,  in  that  black  and  gold  clearing-house 
for  tobacco  smoke,  the  fumes  of  sour  wine,  and  blasphemy.  But  the 
man  was  crazy;  else  he  knew — no,  my  mother  would  never  tell  him. 
After  this  I  would  press  my  cheek  against  hers;  I  would  love  her  as  I 
did  when  I  was  her  big  boy,  at  six. 

"Go  on,"  I  said  pettishly.     "Heloise  found  out — " 

"We  both  got  passports  out  of  France  next  morning.  I  don't 
know  what  she  did  with  our  general  that  night,  I  don't  dare  know." 
His  eyes  burned  with  some  unholy  fire  from  a  lower  hell.  The  table 
quivered  underneath  his  hands.  "  I  only  know  that  she  loves  me. 
Her  eyes  are  stricken  by  fear ;  her  eyes  are  like  depths  of  velvet  on  which 
you  shake  the  shining  stuff  (stardust  she  calls  it)  that  the  children  like 
at  Christmas;  her  lips  are  sweet  as  the  lilacs.  She's  not  very  strong, 
but  she  smiles  when  she  sees  me,  and  stranger,  though  I'm  this,  she 
loves  me." 

Probably  he  would  have  leaned  his  head  down  upon  his  arms,  if 
the  table  had  invited  such  conventional  business.  The  vile  one  ordered 
a  cocktail,  and  I  followed  her  example.  Under  its  influence  he  raised 
up  and  spoke  again  in  a  wheedling,  whining  voice;  one  had  an  endless 
vista  of  him  speaking  thus. 

"  Do  you  want  to  make  a  night  of  it?" 

I  understood.  "Yes,"  said  I.  I  didn't.  "Do  you  know,  it  wasn't 
much  of  a  story?     Now  'Joy  in  Beauty' " 

He  left  and  returned  with  the  vile  one  on  his  arm;  her  face  was 
carefully  framed  in  golden  hair.  "Permit  me  to  introduce  Heloise." 
His  eyes  were  very  haggard  as  he  tried  to  smile.     What  a  rotten  story! 

As  we  went  out  I  was  careful  not  to  walk  too  near  him. 


I 


tirtDo  iBoo&£e  on  t\)t  Wav:  3  i^ebieto 

"The  War,  Madame,"  by  PaulG^raldy,  translated  by  Barton  Blake. 
Scribner,  New  York,  $.75  net.  "A  Soldier  of  Life, "  by  Hugh  de  S^Hn- 
court.     Macmillan,  New  York,  $1.50  net. 

"The  War,  Madame"  is  one  of  the  most  interesting  books  of  the 
war.  It  is  not  mere  war-correspondent  "copy,"  for  M.  G^raldy,  one 
of  the  most  promising  of  the  younger  French  poets,  has  been  in  the 
ranks  since  the  beginning  of  the  war  and  has  witnessed  the  events  which 
a  war-correspondent  usually  writes  up  in  the  kitchen-garden  of  a  subur- 
ban villa  in  Surrey.  The  story,  which  deals  with  a  young  "poilu"  on 
leave  of  forty-eight  hours  from  the  front  who  spends  his  time  in  revisiting 
Paris,  is  told  with  an  accuracy  of  detail  and  a  vivid  intensity  coupled 
with  an  extremely  French  lightness  of  touch  and  emotional  appeal. 
The  plot  is  of  the  simplest.  Corporal  Maurice  Vernier  on  furlough  to 
Paris  is  struck  by  the  absolute  indifference  to  the  reality  of  the  war  which 
prevails  there  and  the  almost  sacrilegious  levity  and  callousness  to  suffer- 
ing. Nor  does  a  visit  to  his  former  sweetheart  Fabienne — the  typical, 
ineffable  Parisienne — give  him  any  grounds  for  changing  his  opinion 
as  to  Paris'  attitude.  But  it  is  when  he  goes  to  see  Madame,  the  mother 
of  one  of  his  quondam  schoolmates,  now  in  the  trenches,  that  he  learns 
how  great  was  his  error:  that  he  has  only  looked  at  the  superficial  crust 
of  the  Parisian  population.  It  is  to  Madame  that  Maurice  tells  all  he 
feels  about  the  war  and  she  gives  him  the  generous  and  motherly  sym- 
pathy which  he  so  much  needs.  M.  Gerald,  already  noted  for  the  wistful 
and  naive  sentiment  of  his  dainty  poetry  has  breathed  this  delicacy  of 
emotion  into  the  clay  of  his  present  story,  evolving  a  pleasantly  sentimental 
and  genuinely  pathetic  story.  Withal  there  is  an  intensity  of  feeling 
and  personality  and  it  is  like  the  loss  of  an  old  friend  when  we  read  at  the 
conclusion  of  the  book  that  Maurice,  he  who  has  wound  tendrils  of  lascing 
affection  around  our  hearts,  is  dead ;  we  feel  a  real  bereavement  on  read- 
ing the  simple  notice  of  his  death  in  the  Order  of  the  Day:  "Vernier, 
Maurice,  Corporal  of  the  — -th  Regiment.  Already  cited.  Gravely  wound- 
ed, November  3,  1915  .  .  .  Has  succumbed  to  his  wounds." 

Mr.  de  Selincourt's  book  is  a  great  contrast  to  "The  War,  Madame." 
To  begin  with,  the  book  deals  not  with  the  war  so  much  as  with  the 
after-effects  it  has  had  on  a  man  who  has  returned  home  after  having 
"done  his  bit."  The  author  obtains  a  weird  and  curious  effect  by  the 
delineation  of  the  character  of  his  hero,  a  young  man  who  is  not  especially 
remarkable  and  whose  life  is  continually  haunted  by  an  obsession  in  the 


62  The  Haverfordian 

shape  of  an  uncanny  visitor,  the  figment  of  his  disordered  mind.  The 
whole  intrigue  revolves  on  his  sinister  struggle  against  insanity  which 
is  ever  ready  to  drive  his  reason  from  him  and  leave  him  a  mental  as  well 
as  bodily  wreck.  In  this  struggle  for  a  long  time  all  joy,  light  and  peace 
are  banished,  leaving  the  young  man  to  fight  his  battle — greater  by  far 
than  that  he  fought  in  the  trenches — under  an  almost  overpowering  dis- 
advantage. 

In  the  end  of  the  story,  however,  he  seems  to  have  triumphed  and 
the  future  seems  as  bright  as  a  harrowed  body  permits. 

Particularly  notable  are  the  faithful  character  portrayal,  the  vig- 
orous and  impetuous  style  and  the  careful  handling  of  the  plot.  Mr. 
de  Selincourt's  characters  are  ordinary  English  people  of  the  upper- 
middle  class;  his  style  very  refreshing  for  the  enthusiasm  infused  in  it, 
and  his  story  holds  our  interest  from  beginning  to  end. 

Especially  interesting  are  some  of  the  discussions  of  his  characters; 
we  quote  at  random:  "  It's  a  war  to  end  war.  The  nation  has  risen  like 
one  man  to  end  war  and  the  spirit  of  hatred  which  is  devastating  the 
world;  has  risen  in  support  of  the  weaker  nations,  to  put  down  the 
dominance  of  militarism,"  says  a  clergyman. — 

"  Is  Christ  the  God  of  War  or  the  Prince  of  Peace?" — 

"There  is  good  and  evil  in  the  world.  It  is  terrible  that  we  should 
have  to  fight  at  all,  but  we're  fighting  for  the  right." — 

"But  don't  the  Germans  think  so  too?  That  they're  fighting  against 
the  evil  which  made  the  Boer  War,  the  Russo-Japanese  War,  the  Tripoli 
business;  the  evil  that  has  joined  forces  to  crush  their  nation?" — 

"They  may  think  so;  but  they  are  mistaken.  Their  pride  must 
be  humbled." — 

"But  how  can  you  humble  by  military  means  a  military  pride  which 
has  put  up  such  a  fight  against  the  world?  We  hand  over  the  conduct 
of  the  whole  people  to  men  who  think  war  is  the  only  means  of  keeping 
a  nation  from  decadence.  They've  had  no  word  to  speak  of  for  years; 
and  now  they  are  in  supreme  authority;  they  rarely  get  killed,  and  is  it 
likely  they'll  go  out  of  authority  before  they're  forced?  We're  being 
sucked  ill,  sucked  in,  deeper  and  deeper.  These  military  potentates  on 
each  side  want  to  go  down  to  posterity  with  glorious  records  and  mean- 
while men  are  slaughtering  each  other,  blowing  each  other  to  pieces." — 

"I'm  not  in  a  position  to  discuss  the  war,"  answers  the  clergyman 
coldly.  For  these  significant  words  to  have  been  written  and  published 
in  England  by  an  Englishman  in  the  third  year  of  the  war  and  the  year 
of  grace  nineteen  hundred  and  seventeen,  there  must  be  a  strong  and 
growing  sense  of  right  among  the  thinking  classes  of  the  European  nations 
which  speaks  well  for  the  future  and  the  justice  of  Great  Britain. 

/.  G.  LeC.  and  J.  W.  A. 


3n  tfje  i^eart  of  Vienna 

LEAVES  FROM  THE  DIARY  OF  AN  AUSTRIAN  WOMAN 

By  Christopher  Roberts 

Sladlau,  March  24,  1916. 

The  horrors  of  another  day  have  passed.  The  dull  morning  found 
me  on  my  way  to  the  lists,  those  terrible  lists  that  I  so  dread  to  look 
upon.  The  Landstrasse  was  a  turbulent  thoroughfare  at  early  dawn. 
The  struggling  crowds  of  red-cheeked  women  from  the  village  surged 
before  the  huge  posters  with  the  long  lists  and  fought  their  way  through 
the  throng.  Oh,  the  many  that  turned  away  with  blanched  faces  over- 
come with  grief!  Gretel  was  there.  Her  husband  has  been  killed  in 
Galacia,  but  she  still  hopes  Karl,  the  son,  will  not  be  on  the  list.  May 
heaven  spare  my  boy. 

The  trucks  bearing  food  for  the  front  are  not  so  many  now.  But 
they  tear  through  the  streets  and  do  not  take  care.  I  was  nearly  hit  by 
one  as  I  helped  carry  hay  for  bedding  across  the  square  into  the  Hof- 
theatre,  for  it  is  now  a  hospital.  All  day,  the  provision  trucks  and 
lighter  carts  streamed  back,  filled  with  injured;  and  it  wrung  my  heart 
to  hear  the  groans  as  the  shaky  vehicles  bumped  over  the  cobblestones. 
Herr  Eckart  says  the  city  now  has  sixty  thousand  wounded. 

Disease  is  spreading.  I  saw  the  ambulances  going  from  house  to 
house.  The  contagion  has  not  touched  the  Stadlau  section,  thank 
God.  At  noon,  the  paper  boys  were  shouting  a  victory  as  I  stopped 
work  for  a  time  at  the  hospital.  Then,  a  fresh  supply  of  troops  marched 
by,  while  crowds  stood  silent  and  watchful  on  the  pavements.  We  are 
benumbed  with  suffering. 

For  days  now  the  same  trucks  have  gone  out  loaded  with  pro- 
visions only  to  return  weighted  with  the  dying,  the  same  lists  of  dead 
have  been  posted,  and  the  same  news  of  a  great  victory  has  been  shouted, 
while  countless  regiments  have  gone  out  of  the  city  only  to  be  carried 
back  in  broken  squads  in  the  empty  trucks.  Pestilence  is  raging.  There 
is  scarcely  a  household  that  is  not  in  mourning;  not  a  person  who  does 
not  feel  the  burden  of  the  war  taxes.  My  own  wretched  hoard  is  almost 
gone.  Each  week  more  business  houses  fail,  each  day  more  sacrifices 
must  be  made,  each  hour  extends  the  long  list  of  dead  and  dying!  When 
will  it  all  cease? 


^t  tije  ^lap:  ^  ©ramatic  iaebtetu 

53/  Jacques  Le  Clercq 

1 

^i  i^e  Bandbox  Theatre,  New  York,  Joseph  Urban  and  Richard 
Ordynski  present  "  Nju,"  a  Russian  play  of  everyday  life  by  Ossip  Dymow. 

THE  plot  of  "Nju"  is  by  no  means  startlingly  original.  Njura, 
the  heroine,  is  married  to  a  fairly  rich,  kind-hearted  husband, 
whose  greatest  cause  for  vanity  lies  in  the  fact  that  he  has 
been  able  to  annex  a  woman  of  the  beauty  of  Nju  and  keep  her  faithful 
to  him  for  eight  years.  I  suppose  he  has  accomplished  this  by  letting 
her  go  very  much  her  own  way  and  allowing  men  to  lavish  their  attentions 
on  her  so  long  as  they  realize  that  they  must  not  go  too  far  with  his 
property.  Forbidden  fruit  is  by  far  the  most  luscious,  and  her  husband 
has  not  had  cause  as  yet  to  forbid  any  man  to  admire  and  entertain  his 
wife.  Indeed,  the  success  of  his  wife  with  the  other  sex  has  been  a 
reason  for  self-gratulation,  for,  after  all,  it  is  he,  her  husband,  who  reaps 
the  harvest  of  what  the  other  men  sow  in  the  breast  of  Njura. 

One  day,  however,  a  young  fellow  comes  along — a  rather  handsome 
young  chap,  he  is,  who  has  had  numerous  affairs  of  the  heart  and 
who  has  evolved  a  new  philosophy  of  his  own  regarding  women,  which 
is  quite  successful  from  his  point  of  view.  As  a  matter  of  fact  his  ideas 
are  as  old  as  the  hills,  but  he  is  rather  handsome  and  so  he  manages 
to  "get  away  with  them."  Nothing  is  more  natural  than  that  Nju 
should  conceive  a  violent  passion  for  this  poetical  young  man — who  early 
in  the  play  shows  the  extent  of  his  poetry  by  writing  the  most  unmitigated 
nonsense  on  a  yard  of  paper — and,  moreover,  that  Nju  who  has  never 
really  been  in  love  should  be  unable  to  hide  from  her  husband  just  how 
much  she  cares  for  the  poet.  The  husband  finally  calls  his  young  friend 
to  account  and  the  latter,  far  from  denying  anything,  boldly  affirms  that 
he  is  in  love  with  Nju  and  that  Nju  is  in  love  with  him;  the  husband,  he 
says,  should  be  the  last  man  on  earth  to  object,  for  has  he  not  had  Nju  for 
eight  whole  years,  and  is  it  not  about  time  for  another  man  to  step  in? 
Infuriated  beyond  control,  the  husband  attacks  the  poet,  who  is  rather 
more  able  to  hold  his  own  than  the  traditional  poet ; — that  young  ass  in 
"Candida,"  for  example; — the  room  is  plunged  into  darkness  and  we 
hear  a  shot.  Nju  rushes  in  afraid  for  the  life  of  her  lover  who  calmly 
gets  up  and  turns  the  light  on,  and  the  husband  is  revealed  sitting  un- 
harmed on  the  floor. 

It  is  at  length  decided  that  Nju  shall  leave  the  conjugal  abode  that 


At  the  Play:   A  Dramatic  Review  65 

she  has  graced  with  her  presence  for  eight  years.  Despite  all  the  prayers 
of  her  husband  to  the  effect  that  she  stay,  that  the  poet  come  to  live  with 
them  and  that  all  three  live  quietly  together;  despite  all  his  threats  to 
the  effect  that  she  will  forfeit  all  right  to  their  son  Kostja,  that  he  will 
never  allow  her  to  return  even  if  she  be  repentant  and  that  she  will  have 
cause  to  regret  her  infatuation  for  an  empty-headed  oaf  who  regards  her 
grande  passion  as  a  liaison  de  passage,  she  firmly  makes  up  her  mind  to 
leave  her  husband.  She  carries  her  decision  out,  too,  putting  up  with  a 
thousand  hardships  in  a  squalid,  furnished  room  for  the  sake  of  her  poet; 
while  her  husband  is  clinging  madly  to  every  argument  which  might 
possibly  induce  her  to  return  home.  Soon,  all  too  soon,  she  comes  to 
realize  what  a  fatuous  idiot  of  a  man  this  lover  of  hers  is  and  after  such 
an  awakening  there  is  nothing  left  for  her  to  do  but  to  poison  herself, 
which  she  does  with  commendable  alacrity.  The  play  closes  with  her 
lover  standing  beside  her  body  at  the  funeral  making  the  same  fatuous 
speech  to  a  pretty  mourner  which  he  made  to  the  woman  whose  life  he 
wrecked,  as  the  play  began. 

At  best,  only  a  moderately  correct  impression  of  a  play  can  be  given 
by  relating  its  story  and  "Nju"  least  of  all  plays  lends  itself  to  this  lazy 
kind  of  treatment.  The  play  is  not  divided  into  acts  but  into  ten  epi- 
sodes, the  selection  of  which  is  one  of  the  most  powerful  factors  in  the 
interest  the  play  possesses.  Some  of  these  episodes  are  bewilderingly 
short  and  even  seem  a  trifle  trivial  at  first  thought,  but  the  abiding 
impression  is  that  the  author  has  chosen  just  such  incidents  as  are  best 
suited  to  portrayal  by  a  man  of  his  particular  temperament.  No  Anglo- 
Saxon,  not  even  a  man  like  Dickens  could  have  dealt  with  some  of  the 
ideas  and  pictures  Mr.  Dymow  presents  without  being  ludicrously 
sentimental  and  maudlin.  It  is  a  trait  peculiar  to  the  Russian  genius 
to  present  the  most  heartrending  and  the  most  appealing  emotional 
scenes  in  a  cold,  reserved  manner.  These  Russians  never  throw  them- 
selves into  the  moods  of  their  characters  as  Anglo-Saxons  would;  they 
regard  the  thing  from  the  eminence  of  impersonality  and  present  it  with 
a  sardonic  chuckle.  It  is  this,  I  think,  which  moves  even  the  most 
callous  of  us  to  sympathy.  I  must  confess  I  have  never  felt  the  least 
inclination  to  weep  over  the  death  of  little  Nell  or  even  that  of  Sidney 
Carton,  whereas  parts  of  Andreyev's  "The  Seven  who  were  Hanged" 
and  Dostoevsky's  "The  Idiot"  have  left  me  in  as  chastened  a  condition 
as  my  years  allow  or  my  physical  comfort  permits.  It  is  simply  because 
Dickens  sheds  so  many  and  such  copious  tears — tears  as  big  as  ostrich 
eggs— over  his  people  that  I  cannot  help  feeling  that  the  poor  souls  have 
been  mourned  enough  and  that  the  author  himself  has  done  my  share  of 


66  The  Haverfordian 

the  weeping  already;  while  the  mere  recital  of  events,  without  any 
mournful  comment  by  the  author,  is  infinitely  more  pathetic. 

There  are  a  great  many  pathetic  incidents  in  "Nju"  and  the  author 
has  made  the  most  of  all  of  them  by  presenting  them  in  a  pleasantly 
ironic  vein.  The  poet  mourning  over  the  bed  of  his  dead  mistress,  how 
much  more  vital  and  awe-inspiring  is  it  made  by  the  maid  who  sweeps 
the  rubbish  out  of  the  room  as  if  absolutely  nothing  existed  except  her 
own  dislike  of  untidy  rooms  and  her  hurry  to  get  the  daily  job  over? 
Again  when  the  child  Kostja  stands  on  a  chair  telephoning  to  his  mother 
and  she  suddenly  leaves  the  conversation  unfinished,  what  an  exquisite 
touch  that  is!  Did  the  lover  stop  the  words  from  passing  her  lips  by 
drawing  her  into  an  embrace  which  made  her  forget  all,  even  her  aban- 
doned child?  A  hundred  little  touches,  all  of  which  should  be  mentioned, 
make  this  play  one  of  the  most  interesting  things  we  have  yet  seen  in 
New  York.  And  then,  "Nju"  is  bound  to  appeal  to  the  best  type  of 
audience;  it  does  not  teach  a  lesson,  which  dissatisfies  the  three-eighths 
of  the  audience  that  regards  the  theatre  as  it  does  the  school  or  the 
pulpit ;  nor  does  it  supply  a  form  of  mild  amusement  to  the  other  three- 
eighths  that  expects  to  find  on  the  stage  what  it  does  in  "Puck"  and 
should  in  "Life";  the  quarter  that  is  left — such  as  it  is — represents  the 
highest  type  of  playgoers.  This  class,  I  feel  sure,  will  find  "Nju"  to  be 
a  work  of  considerable  talent  and  well  worth  a  hearing. 

The  acting  is  uneven;  in  spots  Miss  Ann  Andrews  leaves  nothing 
to  be  desired,  but  these  are  few  and  far  between;  on  the  whole,  however, 
she  gives  a  creditable  interpretation  of  a  difificult  part.  The  Poet  is 
totally  inadequate  and  is  like  nothing  but  a  man  trying  to  play  a  part 
for  which  he  is  utterly  unfit,  and  succeeding  in  showing  us  just  how  unfit 
he  really  is.  Mr.  Frank  Mills,  the  husband,  seems  a  trifle  unconvincing 
at  first,  but  as  the  play  goes  on,  acquires  a  poise  and  a  dignity — the 
dignity  of  overwhelming  grief — which  makes  his  a  polished  and  soberly 
sincere  performance.  Two  scenes  and  two  alone  of  Mr.  Urban's  are 
distinctive:  the  first,  in  a  ball-room,  where  a  clever  use  of  shadows  is 
made;  and  the  eighth,  in  the  private  room  of  a  restaurant.  The  pro- 
duction had  several  faults,  all  of  them  minor  ones,  some  questionable; 
in  to  to  it  was  satisfactory. 

2 

The  Washington  Square  Players  present  their  fourth  bill  of  the  present 

season  at  the  Comedy  Theatre,  consisting  of  three  plays:    "  Sganarelle," 

a  farce  by  Moliere,  freely  translated  from  the  French  by  Philip  Moeller; 

"  The  Poor  Fool, "  a  play  by  Hermann  Bahr,  translated  from  the  German  by 


At  the  Play:    A  Dramatic  Review  67 

Mrs.  F.  E.  Washburn- Frcund,  and  "Plots  and  Playwrights,"  a  comedy  in 
two  parts  by  Edward  Massey. 

The  Washington  Square  Plaj'ers  are  continuing  their  program  of 
giving  the  best  plays  they  ran  to  their  Broadway  audience,  and  in  Her- 
mann Bahr's  play  they  have  found  as  fine  a  thing  as  their  earlier  success 
"Bushido."  After  having  introduced  Maeterlink,  Alfred  de  Musset, 
Octave  Feuillet,  de  Portoriche  and  Courteline  to  the  public,  they  now 
offer  Moliere;  adding  the  name  of  Edward  Massey,  too,  to  their  list  of 
American  authors.  There  are  several  ways  of  giving  Moliere:  in  the 
tradition,  much  as  the  early  English  dramatists  are  played;  in  the 
manner  of  the  Theatre  Francais  and  in  the  modem  way.  About  two 
or  three  years  ago,  a  Music-hall  in  Paris,  I.e  Bobino,  whose  performances 
were  of  the  cafe-concert  type,  somehow  or  other  hit  upon  the  idea  of 
giving  the  masterpieces  of  Moliere,  interpreted  by  their  own  actors, 
to  their  rather  low  audiences,  with  such  a  success  that  many  critics  were 
only  too  ready  to  proclaim  a  renascence  of  the  French  drama.  The 
performance  of  the  Washington  Square  Players  is  almost  as  radical. 

Mr.  Philip  Moeller's  translation  is  just  as  modern  as  the  inter- 
pretation and  interpolations  of  the  actors  of  the  Bobino,  and  the  modem 
slang  of  which  he  makes  use  is  very  effective  insomuch  as  it  goes  a  long 
way  toward  modernizing  the  wit  of  Moliere's  day ;  for  the  general  public, 
therefore,  the  translation  is  not  only  adequate  but  amusing.  1  am  not 
sure,  however,  whether  Moliere  is  not  too  great  a  man  and  whether  his 
humour  is  not  too  obviously  a  thing  of  all  ages  to  allow  such  an  inter- 
pretation. But  this  is  easily  disputable.  Suffice  to  say  that  as  far  as  the 
translator's  interpretation  goes,  he  has  made  a  very  witty  adaptation, 
occasionally  a  brilliant  one,  and  has  certainly  given  Moliere  as  wide  an 
appeal  as  anybody  might.     After  all,  perhaps  this  should  be  our  criterion. 

Mr.  Arthur  Hohl  plays  the  role  of  Sganarelle  with  a  fine  sense  of 
humor  and  is  especially  happy  in  bringing  out  the  oddities  of  rhyme, 
now  and  then  the  intentional  violations  of  rhyme  and  the  modem  jargon 
of  the  adaptation.  Miss  Gwladys  Wynne,  Miss  Elinor  Cox  and  Mr. 
Edward  Balzerit  give  eminently  satisfactory  performances,  but  Miss 
Margaret  Mower  is  unfortunately  a  little  disappointing. 

Mr.  Edward  Massey  in  his  "Plots  and  Playwrights"  gives  the  Wash- 
ington Square  Players  the  most  hilarious  and  amusing  comedy  they  have 
yet  played.  It  is  a  brilliant  satire  on  the  dollar-dramatist  of  Broadway 
and  gives  every  member  of  the  company  a  chance  to  be  very  funny. 
Particularly  mirth-provoking  is  the  acting  of  Mr.  T.  W.  Gibson,  Miss 
Ruby  Craven,  Mr.  Arthur  Hohl,  Miss  Jean  Robb  and  Miss  Florence 
Enright;    the  more  serious  parts  being  very  well  done  by  Miss  Helen 


68  The  Haverfordian 

Westley,  who  plays  a  disappointed  mother  with  much  dignity;  Mr. 
Robert  Strange  as  a  brutal  brother,  and  Miss  Katherine  Cornell.  Mr. 
Gibson  is  quite  the  funniest  and  most  jovial  toper  that  we  have  seen. 
The  great  play  of  the  bill  is  "The  Poor  Fool" ;  for  while  either  of  the  two 
others  might  have  been  done  with  equal  success  by  other  companies,  the 
very  excellent  casting  of  Bahr's  play  and  the  equally  excellent  acting  in 
it  are  very  memorable  things.  The  story  of  the  play  is  as  follows: 
Vinzenz  Haist  is  a  man  of  soriie  fifty  years  who  has  been  brought  up  by 
his  father  to  work  continually  for  the  business;  he  has  followed  the  pa- 
rental recommendation  and  has  become  a  well-to-do  merchant.  But 
it  has  only  been  by  dint  of  hard  work  and  constant  concentration  that 
he  has  been  able  to  accomplish  this.  Edward,  one  of  his  brothers,  after 
a  wild  youth  and  an  infatuation  for  a  dancer,  stole  from  his  father  and 
after  the  ensuing  exposition  of  his  disgrace,  was  admitted  to  his  home 
by  his  brother  Vinzenz.  Hugo,  the  other  brother,  a  genius,  has  long 
since  lost  his  reason  and  is  committed  to  a  lunatic  asylum. 

Vinzenz  realizes  that  he  has  had  a  hard  life:  he  was  not  a  genius 
but  he  "worked,  worked,  worked";  Edward  was  half  a  genius  and  he 
ended  as  a  thief ;  Hugo,  the  genius,  is  a  lunatic.  Vinzenz  feels  that  he  is 
right,  that  the  life  he  has  led  has  been  the  best  of  the  three;  but  he  is 
anxious  to  make  sure.  People  seem  to  sympathize  so  much  with  his 
brother  Edward;  so  much  with  the  mad  man  Hugo;  even  his  own 
daughter,  Sophie,  does.  He  is  not  sick,  he  says  from  his  couch,  for  sick- 
ness is  a  punishment  and  he  has  committed  no  offense.  But  he  wants  to 
make  certain  whether  the  world  is  right  or  whether  he  is  right ;  whether 
Hugo  and  Edward  or  he  have  done  well;  so  he  sends  for  Hugo  whom 
he  wishes  to  see  in  order  to  persuade  himself.  It  was  not  sentimentality 
that  caused  him  to  have  his  brother  visit  him;  life  has  cured  him  of 
sentimentality;  it  was  to  know  who  was  right.  Hugo  comes  at  last 
and  Vinzenz  forces  Sophie  to  stay  in  the  room.  Hugo  is  absolutely 
an  idiot;  pale,  haggard,  leering,  not  understanding  anything,  he  is  led 
in  by  the  doctor.  But  he  has  his  lucid  moment  and  it  is  long  enough  to 
persuade  Vinzenz  chat  he,  the  lunatic  is  really  right.  "  I  had  togodown" 
he  says,  "down  to  the  very  bottom  of  life;  I  had  to  sink  in  the  mud  and 
slime;  I  had  to  drink  the  cup  to  the  dregs;  but  at  the  bottom  of  it  all 
I  found  God,  I  found  truth,  I  found  beauty."  He  has  indeed;  in  the 
most  God-forsaken  depths  of  life  he  has  wallowed,  and  there  it  is  that 
he  has  found  out  what  life  really  means;  that  the  true,  the  beautiful, 
the  good,  what  we  call  God  is  only  experienced  by  living  and  seeing. 

Vinzenz  has  no  autumn  in  his  life,  only  winter,  the  bitter  and  barren 
season  that  goes  before  the  shadow  of  death  sinks  all  life  into  oblivion. 


At  the  Play:   A  Dramatic  Review  69 

But  he,  Hugo,  is  now  in  his  autumn.  The  secret  of  life  is  to  search  for 
truth,  and  it  is  found  only  by  living.  We  must  drop,  drop,  drop  to  the 
fathomless  depths  of  life  in  order  to  learn  what  is  good.  Such  knowledge 
is  only  purchased  by  suffering  and  tortures  and  tears,  but  we  arise  as 
new  beings,  cleansed,  purified,  made  whole  by  the  white  flame  of  God. 
"The  price  is  great;  it  means  torment;  it  means  despair;  it  means  the 
blood  of  our  heart,  and  the  falling  of  our  illusions  like  the  numberless 
that  fall  before  the  sickle  of  Death.  But  what  matter?  Let  us  pay  the 
price,  for  it  is  well  worth  it.  And  his  last  words  to  Sophie  are:  "My 
child — Out  of  my  great  loneliness,  out  of  my  all-embracing  love,  this 
great  gift  I  bequeath  to  you:   Live,  live,  live  yourself  dead!" 

The  acting  of  this  play  was  well-nigh  faultless.  As  Vinzenz,  Mr. 
Arthur  Hohl  gave  a  studied  rendering  of  the  part;  stern,  cold,  harsh 
proud,  obstinate  and  yet  withal  of  a  good  heart.  M.  Jose  Ruben  as 
the  madman  showed  as  good  a  piece  of  work  as  any  in  New  York  at 
present;  Mr.  Ralph  Roeder  was  well  cast  in  a  part  which  required 
a  very  quiet,  natural,  graceful  interpretation.  This  Edward  is  a  man 
of  infinite  gentleness  and  of  a  great  and  good  heart;  he  too  has  learned 
that  one  must  live  after  one's  own  ideas,  and  Edward  gives  perhaps  the 
soundest  philosophy  of  the  play.  An  exquisite  piece  of  work  is  that  of 
Miss  Marjorie  Vonnegut  as  Sophie.  That  shy,  reserved,  chaste  sim- 
plicity of  the  young  girl;  the  vague,  unuttered  aspirations;  the  ineffable 
kindness  of  the  highest  type  of  womanhood  is  in  Sophie.  She  feels  a 
thousand  things  and  yet  she  does  not  speak;  a  creature  of  great  sensi- 
bility in  the  best  sense  of  the  word  and  of  vast  compassion;  surely  she 
is  one  of  the  most  beautiful  characters  in  the  modem  drama,  with  her 
old-time  demureness  and  simplicity?  At  all  events,  if  she  is  not.  Miss 
Vonnegut's  natural  acting  makes  her  seem  so. 

3 

"  The  Awakening  of  Spring"  (Fruhlings  Erwachen),  by  F.  Wedekind; 
presented  on  March  30th,  at  the  Thirty-ninth  Street  Theatre  by  Mr.  Geoffery 
Stein  and  Co-Workers,  under  the  auspices  of  the  Medical  Review  of  Reviews. 

The  bad  production,  mediocre  translation  and  abominable  acting 
make  it  impossible  to  regard  this  play  as  it  should  be  regarded,  for  one  is 
constantly  distracted  by  blemishes  alien  to  the  writing  of  the  play. 
The  actors  seemed  to  be  under  the  impression  that  when  youths  congre- 
gate, they  have  to  make  noises  like  orang-outangs.  I  never  heard  such 
a  tumult  and  howling — the  French  word  uleler  alone  gives  the  idea — 
unless  it  was  the  yelling  of  the  children  in  heaven  in  "The  Happy  End- 
ing."    In  a  very  bad  performance,  only  two  things  were  worthy  of  at- 


70  The  Haverfordian 

tention:  Miss  Jenny  Eustace  as  the  mother  of  Wendla  and  what  a 
critic  on  a  New  York  daily  rightly  called  "the  super-excellent"  per- 
formance of  Miss  Fania  Marinoff,  as  Wendla. 


By  Russell  N.  Miller     ■ 

A  lonely  night,  a  naked  strand, 
Where  oft  we  wandered,  hand  in  hand, 
Watching  the  peaceful,  sparkling  sea 
Lapping  the  shore  with  gentle  kiss, 
Lulling  to  dreams  of  future  bliss 
The  thoughts  that  then  arose  in  me. 
As  we  sat  and  pledged  our  lives  to  be ; 

The  sea-gull,  winging  alone  in  flight. 
My  sole  companion  this  desolate  night. 
Swooping  across  the  dark  waste  to  his  mate, 
Reminds  my  heart  of  the  passionate  yearning 
That  I,  full  of  love,  to  thee  returning, — 
Not  knowing  that  I  had  come  too  late — 
Had  pictured  would  be  my  happy  fate. 

The  stormy  waters,  the  waves  that  surge. 

And  sing  to  me  a  fitful  dirge. 

Silently,  slowly,  sullenly  roll 

And  beat  the  shore  with  a  hollow  moan 

As  if  they  re-echoed  the  sobbing  groan 

That  rends  itself  from  the  depths  of  my  soul 

Because  thou  art  gone,  O  Love  of  old ! 

And  I  gaze  at  the  raging,  turbulent  sea: 
With  promise  of  peace  it  beckons  me  .   .  . 


1 


Claine 

It  is  night  and  I  dream  of  you. 
(I  always  dream  of  you  at  night.) 

There  are  the  violet  veils  of  evening  to  remind  me 

Of  the  violet  of  your  eyes — 

Creeping  upward  from  the  valley 

To  meet  the  long  black  shadows  of  the  mountain; 

Mingling  with  them,  mingling,  mingling 

As  our  kisses  used  to  mingle 

When  our  souls  met  through  our  lips 

At  night. 

The  moon  sails  in  the  heavens 

And  the  stars  make  gold  of  the  heavens  .  .  . 

Your  hair  made  gold  of  your  face,  Elaine; 

Your  eyes  illumined  your  face,  Elaine, 

At  night. 

Some  lone,  abandoned  bird  of  the  night 
Shrieks  shrilly,  gratingly. 
To  call  its  wandering  and  fickle  mate 
Back  to  the  embrace  of  a  passionate  lover, 
Back  to  the  warmth  of  its  burning  breast — 
At  night. 

And  I — I  dream;   I  shall  never  forget 

When  out  of  the  dark,  mysterious  night 

You  came  to  me, 

Standing  forth  before  me  in  the  moonlight 

Like  an  angel  in  the  silvery  garb 

Of  God's  anointed. 

White,  pale,  trembling  and  tender, 

Amid  the  fragrance  of  the  garden 

Bewitchingly  beautiful. 

And  the  sea  made  music  for  you,  Elaine, 

And  the  moon  and  stars  bathed  you  in  the  white  light 

Of  their  worship. 

White  as  the  virginal,  slim  tiger-lily 

Was  your  Madonna-like  countenance; 

Red  as  the  blood  of  an  immolated  ox 

Lying  lifeless  on  the  tall  altars  of  Rome 

Were  your  lips,  made  for  kisses. 


72  The  Haverfokdian 

Meet  to  be  kissed  with  torment  and  anguish, 
With  fire  and  passion,  delight  and  desire 
That  know  no  end  and  seek  no  end 
But  Love,  the  king  of  all. 

Your  eyes  gleamed  like  coals  of  fire, 

Self-luminous,  phosphoric. 

Like  the  fierce  green  eyes  of  a  cat  in  the  night. 

Your  hair  fell  over  your  shoulders. 

Caressing  their  beautiful  velvet-like  softness, 

Lovingly  lingering  on  their  velvet-like  softness, 

Your  hair  that  kings  would  give  their  crowns  to  kiss 

And  cast  aside  their  diadems 

To  kiss  but  once,  and  vanish 

Unknown,  unseen,  unsung, 

Into  the  night. 

Your  breast  was  white  and  pulsing, 
White  as  the  driven  snows. 
White  as  the  foaming  billow  below. 

You  came  to  me 

And  I  was  weeping,  weeping.  .  .  . 

Slowly,  tenderly  you  came  to  me, 

Trembling  with  love,  aglow  with  tenderness. 

Shyly,  lovingly, 

You  took  my  head  in  your  hands. 

You  bent  o'er  me 

And  drew  my  pale  face  to  your  breast 

And  bid  me  rest,  and  bid  me  rest. 

I  grew  to  know  your  ways,  your  footstep, 

I  grew  to  know  your  eyes  and  why 

Soft  tears  ran  down  your  cheeks. 

I  grew  to  love  the  sweetness  of  your  kiss. 

To  know  your  eyes,  your  lips,  your  arms,  your  breast, 

Your  shoulders  and  your  soft-sweet  throat — 

I  loved  and  knew,  I  knew  and  loved  their  beauty. 

But  the  sheer  loveliness  of  your  sweet  spirit. 

Your  aching,  weary,  tender  soul. 

That  depth  of  love  that  knoweth  not  desire 

Or  passion's  crazed  storms — 

That  shall  I  never  fathom. 


^ 


Etoo  portraits  of  ILitt 

Illustrating  the  moving  and  dynamic  impulse  that  moved  a  man  to 
fight  and  the  appreciation  of  his  self-sacrifice. 

SLOWLY  he  made  his  way  along  the  crowded  streets,  oblivious  of 
his  surroundings  and  jostled  right  and  left  by  passers-by.  The 
expression  on  his  face  was  one  of  profound  meditation  and  he 
walked  on  as  if  he  were  bound  for  a  definite  place  but  did  not  realize 
it.     Then  he  arrived  at  the  door  of  the  recruiting  station. 

He  leaned  against  the  wall,  waiting  until  the  officer  should  return 
to  his  wonted  post  at  the  door,  determined  to  ask  the  latter  a  few  ques- 
tions before  he  took  the  most  critical,  the  crucial  decision  of  his  career. 

A  lounger  was  standing  near  him,  scanning  his  face  to  guess  what 
thoughts  were  going  on  behind  the  frown  that  had  settled  upon  his 
brow.     Then,  as  if  he  had  divined  his  thoughts,  he  asked: 

"Goin'  ter  enlist,  feller?" 

"What's  it  to  yer?" 

The  sergeant  came  down  the  steps: 

"Tryin'  ter  prevent  yer  from  enlisting,  was  'ee?" 

"Yea"  answered  the  two  in  one  breath. 

"Wal"  said  the  sergeant,  an  Irishman,  "let  'im  do  'is  d est." 

The  lounger  picked  his  ears  and  began: 

"Yer  muss'nt  take  the  life  of  one  of  yer  feller-men,  no  how.     I'm 

a  d good  feller  and  I  believe  in  religern,  so  help  me  God ;  and  what's 

more,  I  ain't  goin'  ter  do  ter  death  any  man  that  believes  in  God,  if 
ee's  a  Dutchman  or  a  Murphy  or  a  wop.  Let  me  tell  yer,  feller,  that 
war  shure  is  hell." 

"Go  to  war"  said  the  other  with  scrupulous  politeness  as  he  fol- 
lowed the  officer  up  the  stairs. 

II 

For  several  days  he  had  been  thinking,  thinking  until  his  head 
ached.  Now  it  was  over.  He  had  followed  the  sergeant  up  the  stairs, 
had  signed  a  paper  and  gone  through  the  necessary  forms  and  was  re- 
turning home  for  a  few  moments,  but  not  too  few  at  that,  he  thought. 
It  was  strange  how  badly  he  and  Maggie  had  got  along  together.  He 
had  been  so  sure  that  she  loved  him,  while  he  courted  her,  and  yet  had 
been  so  quickly  persuaded  to  the  contrary.  It  was  not  that  she  did 
not  have  a  kind  heart;  it  was  not  that  she  had  a  temper  and  sulked 
along  through  life.     There  was  something  else:  they  were  absolutely 


74 


The  Haverfordian 


unsuited  to  each  other,  and  not  even  the  coming  of  their  child  two  years 
ago  had  drawn  them  together.  But  now  it  was  all  over,  all  irretrievably 
over.  .  .  He  would  tell  her  he  had  joined  the  army,  that  he  would 
probably  have  to  go  to  some  place  far,  far  away  from  her  (thank God!), 
that  she  didn't  really  love  him  and  that  she  would  get  along  nicely 
without  him;  that  the  child  was  to  be  taught  to  remember — at  the 
thought,  a  tear  of  self-pity  fell  from  hid  eyes — that  Daddie  had  gone  from 
his  home  to  fight  for  his  country. 

How  Maggie  would  receive  him!  How  she  would  fly  to  him  and 
lean  her  head  against  his  shoulder  and  sob,  and  ask  for  forgiveness,  and 
swear  that  she  had  not  known  what  it  was  to  love  a  man  until  that 
moment.     What  a  coup!   What  a  revenge! 

He  entered  the  little  house,  letting  himself  in  with  his  own  key. 

"Maggie!"  he  called  sweetly. 

"I'm  in  the  kitchen — whadder  ye  want?"  came  the  surly  reply. 

"  I  want  to  tell  yer  something." 

"Come  inter  the  kitchen  then,  yer  simp!" 

Ah,  how  she  would  change  her  tone  in  a  minute! 

"Maggie,"  he  said  solemnly,  as  he  thrust  his  head  through  the 
doorway,  "I've  enlisted  and  I'm  goin'  ter  fight  for  the  country." 

"My  Gawd!"  she  bawled  incredulous.  "The  brat  fell  inter  the 
wash-basin  and  the  milk's  sour  and  I  ain't  got  no  money  and  now  this 
poor  fool's  goin'  ter  join  the  army." 


Casper  Wistar,  '02,  died  in 
Guatemala,  Central  America,  on 
the  14th  of  March,  1917,  at  the  age 
of  thirty-six  years,  leaving  a  widow, 
a  son  and  a  daughter  in  that 
country. 

After  graduation  from  Haver- 
ford,  he  spent  a  year  at  electrical 
and   mechanical   engineering   with 


side  interests  in  Home  Mission 
Work,  followed  by  further  study 
with  a  view  to  becoming  a  Foreign 
missionary  and  went  to  Chile  for 
three  and  a  half  years  under  an 
engagement  with  the  Presby- 
terian Board.  Since  the  autumn  of 
1908,  with  his  knowledge  of  Span- 
ish, he  felt  a  special  call  to 
mission     service     in     Guatemala, 


Alumni 


75 


where  he  remained  acti\e  until  a 
few  days  before  his  death,  carrying 
the  Gospel  message  and  distribut- 
ing copies  of  the  Scriptures  over  an 
ever-widening  region  of  that  rugged 
and  mountainous  country  and  gen- 
erally doing  what  he  could  to  re- 
lieve physical  and  spiritual  needs 
both  near  his  home  in  the  outskirts 
of  the  capital  and  in  many  moun- 
tain villages  and  secluded  hamlets. 

Incidentally,  he  was  an  ob- 
servant traveler,  and  found  an  en- 
joyable recreation  in  many  long 
and  short  journeys  by  land  and 
sea,  in  the  saddle,  afoot,  by  train, 
canoe  and  ocean  steamer.  A  pro- 
longed visit  to  his  old  Germantown 
home  last  year  gave  opportunity 
for  visits  to  Haverford  and  many 
other  familiar  places  and  for  the 
renewal  of  acquaintances  with 
many    relatives    and    friends. 

Returning  last  autumn,  his 
seventeenth  voyage,  the  ship  en- 
countered a  violent  hurricane  off 
the  coast  of  Yucatan,  which  de- 
scribing later,  he  found  to  be  the 
climax  of  a  list  of  varied  experi- 
ences, including  those  encountered 
in  two  voyages  "  'round  the  Horn." 

He  was  a  birth  right  member 
of  the  Germantown  Meeting  of 
Friends  in  which  he  was  much  in- 
ter-csted. 

News  of  his  death,  after  a  few 
days'  illness,  was  cabled  to  his 
father,  E.  M.  Wistar,  '72.  He 
had  visited  his  home  for  seven 
months  returning  to  Guatemala 
last  Ocotber. 


Herbert  I.  Webster  of  the  Class 
of  1901  died  at  Ambler,  Pa.,  on 
the  ninth  of  March,  1917. 


NEW  YORK  ALUMNI   AT 
ANNUAL  DINNER 

Mr.  Ackerm.^n's  Address  on  War 
Fe.\ture  of  EN'ENING 

The  annual  banquet  of  the  New 
York  /Association  of  Haverford 
Alumni  was  held  last  Saturday 
evening  at  the  University  Club,  18 
Gramercy  Park,  New  York  City. 
There  were  fifty-seven  members 
present  in  addition  to  the  following 
guests:  Russell  Doubleday,  Dr. 
Henry  G.  Leach,  Secretary  of  the 
American-Scandinavian  Founda- 
tion of  New  York;  Judge  Warren 
Barrett,  and  Messrs.  Dutcher  and 
White,  in  addition  to  the  under- 
graduate quartet,  who  gave  several 
selections. 

Arthur  S.  Cookman,  '02,  pre- 
sided at  the  business  meeting  at  the 
start  of  the  evening,  and  the  fol- 
lowing officers  were  elected  for  the 
new  term:  President — Walter  C. 
Webster,  '95;  Vice-President — Al- 
fred Brusselle,  '94;  Secretary  and 
Treasurer — David  S.  Hinshaw,  '11. 
The  Dinner  Committee  for  next 
year  was  appointed  with  the  fol- 
lowing members;  C.  F.  Scott,  '08; 
C.  D.  Morley,  '10,  and  W.  H.  B. 
Whitall,  '14. 

A  new  departure  was  marked  in 


76 


The  Haverfordian 


the  formation  of  an  Executive 
Committee  which  was  created  to 
govern  the  general  affairs  of  the 
Association  and  which  had  as  its 
first  members:  Franklin  B.  Kirk- 
bride,  '89;  J.  S.  Auchinsloss,  '90; 
L.  H.  Wood,  '96;  Royal  J.  Davis, 
'99;  A.  S.  Cookman,  '02;  J.  D. 
Kenderdine,  '10,  and  C.  D.  Edger- 
ton. 

As  a  special  piece  of  business  the 
meeting  discussed  the  proposal  of 
building  a  clubhouse  in  New  York 
for  Haverford  alumni.  The 
proposition  would  include  pro- 
viding lodging  for  younger  Haver- 
fordians  at  a  reasonable  rate  and 
would  make  the  club  a  headquar- 
ters for  such  events  as  smokers  and 
the  monthly  luncheons. 

Mr.  Cookman  after  the  com- 
pletion of  the  business  turned  the 
meeting  over  to  the  toastmaster  of 
the  evening.  Royal  J.  Davis,  '99, 
who  is  on  the  staff  of  the  New  York 
Evening  Post.  Toastmaster  Davis 
called  on  Dr.  R.  M.  Gummere  as 
the  first  speaker  of  the  evening, 
and  the  latter  gave  figures  and 
statistics  on  the  work  of  the  Ex- 
tension Committee  and  called  on 
the  Alumni  for  their  co-operation 
in  the  work  being  carried  on  by  the 
committee. 

James  Wood,  '68,  the  next 
speaker,  started  a  series  of  appre- 
ciations of  the  work  done  by  Presi- 
dent Sharpless  during  his  term  as 
President,  and  dealt  especially  with 
the  pleasant  relations  enjoyed  by 
the    Board    of    Managers    with    a 


president  who  had  such  high  aims 
and  whose  new  ideas  were  never 
introduced  with  anything  ap- 
proaching a  wrench. 

S.  B.  Kirkbride,  '89,  quoted  Dr. 
Pritchett,  President  of  the  Carne- 
gie Foundation,  as  one  who  paid 
high  tribute  to  Haverford's  aca- 
demic standing,  and  then  recalled 
President  Sharpless's  early  state- 
ment that  the  most  important 
requirement  was  the  "joy  and 
spirit  of  college  life,"  a  quality 
whose  presence  at  Haverford  had 
fulfilled  the  President's  own  ex- 
pressed wish. 

Walter  C.  Webster  gave  several 
anecdotes  about  President  Sharp- 
less  from  an  undergraduate  view- 
point, while  Dr.  A.  G.  H.  Spiers 
also  opened  in  a  humorous  vein 
and  gave  expression  to  his  former 
marveling  at  President  Sharpless's 
faculty  of  seeing  through  his  stu- 
dents. He  paid  his  tribute  by 
comparing  President  Sharpless's 
influence  to  Victor  Hugo's  "moth- 
er's love  spreading  throughout  the 
family,  but  making  each  member 
feel  that  he  is  getting  the  major 
portion  himself." 

Christopher  D.  Morley,  '10,, 
called  attention  to  President  Sharp- 
less's ability  to  "exterminate  a 
class" — that  is,  cut  away  the  dead 
wood — and  said  that  he  felt  the 
President's  great  virtue  was  in 
holding  out  for  the  scholar  against 
the   encroachments   of   the  dollar. 

President  Sharpless  impressed 
several    ideas   in   his   talk.      First 


I 


Alumni 


77 


was  the  expression  of  his  feeling 
that  he  was  blended  into  the  back- 
ground of  Haverford  tradition, 
leaving  what  he  had  done  as  a  part 
of  the  college  itself.  After  dis- 
cussing the  faculty  changes  an- 
nounced last  week  he  declared  that 
the  New  Graduate  School  would 
come  into  being  without  doing  any 
harm  to  Haverford's  undergradu- 
ate ideals.  He  paid  a  deep  tribute 
to  Dr.  Lyman  B.  Hall,  and  then 
issued  the  warning  that  American 
education  must  become  more 
thorough,  sa^•ing  that  the  elective 
system  had  been  overdone  and 
that  the  kindergarten  method  must 
not  be  carried  into  college  courses. 

About  eleven  o'clock  Carl  W. 
Ackermann,  the  guest  of  honor, 
who  had  just  returned  thisweekwith 
the  party  of  Ambassador  Gerard, 
came  into  the  room  and  addressed 
the  association  on  topics  connected 
with  the  present  war.  He  started 
by  describing  his  experiences  since 
he  had  been  appointed  two  years 
ago  to  cover  correspondence  in 
London  and  subsequently  in  Berlin, 
during  which  time  he  had  been  to 
the  front  a  dozen  times.  He  then 
made  the  statement  that  America's 
knowledge  of  conditions  abroad  was 
very  \-ague  and  gave  as  an  example 
of  this  our  ignorance  of  the  fact 
that  conditions  in  Roumania  were 
even  worse  than  those  existing  in 
Poland. 

Mr.  Ackerman,  followed  this  by 
describing  different  conferences  re- 
garding    separate     peace     agree- 


ments between  Russia  and  Ger- 
many, basing  his  statements  on 
what  he  had  learned  at  such  con- 
ferences at  The  Hague  last  October. 
The  recent  revolt  in  Russia,  he 
said,  was  unquestionably  a  result  of 
such  separate  peace  negotiations, 
and  furthermore  that  Russia, 
through  the  influence  of  the  Czar- 
ina, had  been  promised  an  open 
Constantinople,  but  that  the  Allies 
had  here  stepped  in  and  prevented 
this  through  threats  to  stop  inter- 
national credit  and  to  seize  certain 
ports. 

The  readjustment  of  ("ierman>-, 
Mr.  Ackermann  said,  is  being  put 
through  under  the  leadership  of 
Scheidemann  who  has  considerable 
control  over  the  Imperial  Chan- 
cellor, which  makes  the  latter  keep 
in  touch  with  him  on  the  steps  he 
takes.  As  a  nation  Germany  is 
making  many  efforts  to  appeal  to 
the  whole  people  as  a  unit,  but  the 
answer  is  well  gi\"en  in  the  phrase 
of  the  old  German:  "The  Kaiser 
never  wrote  to  usintimesof  peace." 
Mr.  Ackermann  concluded  by  say- 
ing that  he  felt  there  would  be  no 
revolution  in  Germany  similar  to 
that  in  Russia,  and  summed  it  up 
in  the  words:  "Germany  will  have 
an  evolution  rather  than  a  revolu- 
tion." 

BALTIMORE      ALUMNI      AT 
ANNUAL  DINNER 

The  Farewell  Dinner  to  Presi- 
dent Sharpless  Draws  38 
The  annual  banquet  of  the  Hav- 


78 


The  Haverfordian 


erford  Society  of  Maryland  was 
held  on  Saturday  evening,  March 
24,  at  the  University  Club,  Balti- 
more. There  were  thirty-eight 
present,  including  the  following 
guests:  Provost  Thomas  Fell,  of 
the  University  of  Maryland ;  Hon- 
orable John  C.  Rose,  John  B. 
Ramsey,  Edward  Stimson,  Howard 
P.  Sadler  and  Professor  Leigh  W. 
Reid,  of  Haverford  College. 

Dr.  William  Rush  Dunton,  Jr., 
'89,  the  president  of  the  association, 
presided,  and  in  his  capacity  as 
toastmaster  introduced  Francis  A. 
White,  '84,  as  the  first  speaker  of 
the  evening;  the  latter  paid  a  deep 
tribute  to  President  Sharpless, 
traced  his  influence  over  Haver- 
ford College  during  its  growth  in 
the  last  thirty  years,  and  showed 
how  he  had  fostered  the  "Haver- 
ford Spirit." 

President  Sharpless  was  the  next 
speaker.  After  expressing  his  sad- 
ness at  leaving  the  college,  even 
though  in  charge,  for  the  present, 
of  the  Graduate  School,  he  de- 
scribed with  satisfaction  Dr.  Com- 
fort as  being  a  good  president  for 
any  college,  with  a  different, 
though  a  wise  and  sane,  treatment 
of  college  problems.  Citing  ex- 
amples, he  said  that  the  function  of 
a  college  is  to  do  nothing  super- 
ficially, and  pointed  out  that  the 
only  way  to  educate  is  from  habits 
of  general  scholarship  through 
thought  and  hard  work,  and  to 
build  up  character  intellectually 
and  spiritually  not  through  money. 


but  through  contact  with  men  such 
as  Dr.  Arnold,  not  the  greatest 
scholars  or  teachers,  but  men  with 
a  pervasive  influence  for  good. 
He  paid  tribute  to  Dr.  Lyman  B. 
Hall,  and  then  showed  how  his  own 
success  had  come  through  influ- 
ence rather  than  by  rigid  discipline. 

President  Frank  J.  Goodnow,  of 
John  Hopkins  LIniversity,  the  guest 
of  honor,  spoke  on  the  subject  of 
higher  education.  He  began  by 
showing  the  change  in  the  point 
of  view  of  the  university  man  who 
used  to  consider  the  college  as  an 
evil  necessary  to  graduate  work, 
and  went  on  to  show  that  whether 
a  college  fits  well  or  ill,  its  func- 
tion is  to  develop  character.  He 
then  pointed  out  by  the  examples 
of  the  Maryland  Agricultural  Col- 
lege of  1856  and  of  Brown  Univer- 
sity of  1850  how  the  old  idea  of 
"Culture,"  or  knowledge  of  the 
past,  has  changed,  through  the  loss 
of  the  class  unit  and  intellectual 
solidarity,  and  is  now  completely 
bound  up  with  the  "Kulture,"  or 
knowledge  of  the  present.  The 
college  is  at  present,  he  went  on  to 
say,  in  a  state  of  transition;  cer- 
tain men  have  had  an  extraordinary 
effect  in  developing  character  and 
industry,  and  Haverford  College 
has  been  known  for  these  qualities 
through  the  leadership  of  Presi- 
dent Sharpless. 

Dr.  Thomas  Fell  related  how  he 
had  known  President  Sharpless  as 
a  warm  personal  friend  for  thirty 
years,  and  how  his  own  co-opera- 


Alumm 


tion  with  Haverford  College  had 
been  of  the  -warmest  character. 
He  gave  some  personal  reminis- 
cences of  Dr.  Winslow's  cricket  and 
Dr.  Reid's  tennis  at  Haverford's 
sevent\-fifih  anni\"ersary  several 
years  ago. 

The  next  speaker  was  Frank  \'. 
Morley,  '19,  who  gave  an  account 
of  the  condition  of  Haverford  Col- 
lege at  the  present  time  from  an 
imdergraduate  point  of  view.  He 
first  pointed  out  how  Haverford 
was  making  pro\ision  for  the  needs 
of  the  community,  as  shown  by  its 
growth  and  development  into  the 
field  of  graduate  study,  and  gave 
a  rapid  survey  of  each  undergrad- 
uate activity,  showing  in  a  few 
sentences  its  present  condition. 
After  mentioning  the  general  feel- 
ing of  activity,  he  ended  up  by  con- 
sidering the  increased  number  of 
applications  for  September.  1917, 
and  the  corresponding  rise  in 
standards  of  scholarship. 

Dr.  Wilbur  F.  Smith,  principal 
of  Baltimore  City  College,  said  that 
as  no  stream  could  flow  higher  than 
its  source,  the  "prep."  had  to  be 
considered  by  the  college  which  is 
its  ideal,  and  spoke  of  the  difficul- 
ties felt  by  preparatory  school  men 
in  gathering  enough  men  to  go  to 
college. 

Douglas  P.  Falconer,  '12,  the 
Secretary  of  the  Children's  Aid 
Society,  of  Newark,  N.  J.,  spoke 
of  the  fact  that  the  results  of  war 
in  connection  with  social  work  are 
often  overlooked,   and  that,  if  we 


go  to  war,  we  shall  defeat  the 
purposes  for  which  we  are  fighting, 
if  we  neglect  the  home  with  its 
dependent  children. 

Judge  John  C.  Rose,  of  the 
United  States  District  Court,  spoke 
of  the  very  rare  contact  of  Haver- 
fordians  with  the  law.  He  then 
pointed  out  that,  though  no  man 
was  ever  worse  off  for  four  years 
of  a  college  education,  many  have 
been  for  four  years  dodging  such 
an  education,  and  in  this  respect 
there  may  be  more  men  in  college 
than  there  really  ought  to  be. 

Dr.  Hans  Froelicher  showed  that 
character  is  a  by-product  to  be 
built  up  through  personality,  and 
went  on  to  say  that  Haverford  stu- 
dents are  now  in  much  closer  touch 
with  the  professors  than  formerly, 
and  attributed  this  to  the  influence 
of  President  Sharpless.  , 

At  the  close  of  the  banquet 
proper  a  business  meeting  was  held, 
at  which  Hans  Froelicher,  Jr.,  '12, 
as  secretary  of  the  association, 
presented  the  report  of  the  Scholar- 
ship Committee,  to  the  effect  that 
next  year  a  candidate  will  be 
chosen  for  the  .S200  scholarship 
offered  by  the  society.  The  fol- 
lowing officers  were  re-elected : 
President,  Dr.  William  Rush  Dun- 
ton,  Jr.,  '89;  Vice-President,  Rich- 
ard L.  Cary,  '06;  Secretary-treas- 
urer, Hans  Froelicher,  Jr,  '12.  The 
executive  committee  consists  of 
these  officers  and  Richard  J.  \^'hite, 
"87;  C.  Mitchell  Froelicher,  '10. 
and     the     Haverford     Scholarship 


80 


The  Haverfordian 


Committee  includes:  Dr.  William 
Rush  Dunton,  Jr.,  '89,  chairman; 
Miles  White,  Jr.,  75,  and  C. 
Mitchell    Froelicher,    '10. 

Arrangements  were  made  for  a 
series  of  luncheons  to  be  held  by 
the  members  of  the  association,  and 
assisting  those  in  charge  are  J.  H. 
Parker,  '12,  and  G.  Cheston  Carey, 
'15. 

The  Haverfordian  deems  the 
following  to  be  of  sufficient  interest 
to  older  Haverfordians  and  crick- 
eters to  occupy  the  columns  of  this 
department: — 
Pennsylvania's    First    Captain 

Charles  E.  Morgan,  '64,  one  of 
the  leaders  of  the  Philadelphia  bar, 
with  a  clientele  comprised  of  many 
of  the  city's  largest  banking  and 
public  service  corporations,  died  at 
his  home,  547  Church  Lane,  Ger- 
mantown,  on  March  4th,  1917 
after  an  illness  of  one  week.  Pneu- 
monia was  the  cause  of  his  death. 

Charles  Eldridge  Morgan  was 
bom  in  Philadelphia  on  December 
23,  1844,  his  brothers  being  Randal 
Morgan,  '73;  John  B.  Morgan, 
'66,  and  William  B.  Morgan,  '80, 
all  of  whom  are  known  as  men  of 
large  affairs.  He  attended  the 
school.5  of  Germantown,  and  was 
graduated  from  the  University  in 
the  class  of  1864  with  the  degree 
of  A.B.,  to  which  was  added  A.M. 
in  1867. 

He  was  a  member  of  the  Phi 
Kappa  Sigma  Fraternity,  won  the 
Sophomore  prize  for  oratory  and 


delivered  one  of  the  speeches  at 
Commencement  in  Musical  Fund 
Hall.  He  had  the  unique  distinc- 
tion of  being  captain  of  the  first 
intercollegiate  game  in  any  branch 
of  sport  in  this  country.  The 
game  was  won  by  Haverford. 

Ex-'56 
Hiram  Hadley,  who  was  a  Haver- 
ford student  in  1852-53,  is  now  a 
resident  of  Mesilla  Park,  New 
Mexico.  He  has  spent  the  past 
twenty-nine  years  in  that  state, 
engaged  chiefly  in  educational  work 
at  one  time  being  State  Superin- 
tendent of  Instruction.  He  is  also 
an  ardent  advocate  of  prohibition, 
woman  suffrage,  peace  and  arbi- 
tration. Though  now  past  eighty- 
four  years  old,  he  enjoys  robust 
health,  and  is  anxious  to  do  his  full 
share  of  the  world's  work. 

'85 
Rufus   M.   Jones  has   charge  of 
the  finance  of  the  Haverford  Emer- 
gency Unit. 

'89 
Dr.    Thomas   Franklin    Branson 
is    in    charge    of    the    Ambulance 
Instruction  of  the  Haverford  Emer- 
gency Unit. 

Dr.  Dunton  was  re-elected  pres- 
ident of  the  Haverford  Society  of 
Maryland  on  March  17th.  He  is 
a  pioneer  author  on  the  subject  of 
Occupational  Therapy.  The  in- 
terest  that   he   has   taken    in   the 


Alumx: 


81 


National  Society  for  the  Promo- 
tion of  Occupational  Therapy  has 
made  him  the  prime  mover  of  the 
organization.  He  has  contributed 
many  articles  to  technical  maga- 
zines on  this  subject  as  well  as  the 
publishing  of  the  foremost  book  on 
the  new  science.  Dr.  Dunton  has 
been  connected  with  the  Sheppard 
and  Enoch  Pratt  Hospital,  Tow- 
son,  for  more  than  twenty  years. 
The  Baltimore  American  of 
March  30,  contains  the  following 
notice: — 

Dr.   Dlttox  Returns 

Dr.  William  Rush  Dunton,  Jr., 
of  the  Sheppard  and  Enoch  Pratt 
Hospital,  Towson,  has  recently  re- 
turned from  a  visit  to  Clifton 
Springs,  New  York,  where  he 
assisted  in  the  incorporation  of  the 
National  Society  for  the  Promo- 
tion of  Occupational  Therapy, 
which  has  as  its  object  the  con- 
solidation of  workers  among  the 
blind,  crippled,  nervous,  physically 
and  mentalh'  weak,  who  use  work 
in  varying  degrees  as  a  means  in 
recovery  of  these  cases. 

'92 

William  Nicholson  has  been  a 
member  of  the  Board  of  Education 
of  Millville,  N.  J.,  for  the  past 
five  years,  during  which  the  schools 
of  that  place  have  made  remarkable 
progress.  In  commenting  upon  his 
recent  resignation  from  the  Board 
the    following    comment    appeared 


in  the  MilK'ille  Daily  Republican: — 
Mr.  Nicholson  has  been  one  of 
the  most  wise,  energetic  and  fear- 
less members  of  the  Board  of  Edu- 
cation, and  was  also  a  member  of 
the  Board  of  School  Estimates. 
His  absence  from  the  deliberations 
of  both  boards  will  be  keenly  felt, 
and  his  place  will  be  one  that  will  be 
exceedingly  difficult   to  fill. 

'98 

Dr.    \\'illiam    W.     Cadbury    of 

Canton,  China,  has  announced  his 

engagement     to     Miss     Catherine 

Jones  of  West  Grove,  Pennsylvania. 

'99 
A.  Clement  Wild  who  has  been 
associated  with  Lyman,  Adams 
and  Bishop  has  now  been  admitted 
to  the  firm,  which  will  continue 
the  general  practice  of  law  at  1610 
Title  and  Trust  Building,  Chicago, 
under  the  name  of  I^\man,  Adams, 
Bishop    and    Wild. 

'00 
Addison  Logan  has  been  ap- 
pointed chairman  by  the  War 
Department  of  a  group  of  five  sent 
to  France  for  the  observation  of 
battles    and    maneuvers. 

'01 
Dr.   A.   L.   Dewees  is  in  charge 
of    the    Camping    and     Outdoor- 
Life  Instruction  of  the  Haverford 
Emergency    L^nit. 


82 


The  Haverfordian 


Factory  and  Tannery: 
Wilmington,  Del. 


GIVES  LIFE  AND  GRIP 

We  take  our  own  medicine.  This  trusty 
man  is  giving  Rhoads  Preserver  to  a  belt  in 
our  own  factory.  We  know  nothing  better 
to  keep  our  belts  at  highest  efficiency. 

Rhoads  Preserver  saves  break-downs  be- 
cause it  makes  belts  last.  It  prevents  slip- 
page by  promoting  flexibility  and  close  con- 
tact. It  reduces  belt  bills  and  increases 
output. 

J.  E.  RHOADS  &  SONS 

Philadelphia  New  York 

12  N.  Third  Street         10%  Beekman  St. 

Chicago 

3%2  W.  Randolph  Street 


'02 
Richard    M.    Gummere   is   head 
of    the    Correspondence    Division 
of  the  Haverford  Emergency  Unit. 

The  following  by  A.  G.  H. 
Spiers  appeared  in  Contemporary 
Verse: — 

On    Being   Asked   For   a    Poem 
Oh  friend,  oh  comrades  of  the  radi- 
ant days 
Of  love,   of  hope,   of  passionate 
surmise 
When   beauty   throbbed   like   heat 
before  the  eyes 
And  even  sorrow  wore  a  golden 
haze! 


and  mine  and'  theirs 
Who  knew  not  life,   yet  wept  its 
utmost  cares 
And  laughed  more  joys  than  all 
creation  boasts? 
Then  was  my  spirit  vibrant  with 
the  spheres; 
Its    strings    across    the    ringing 
vault  lay  hot 
Where  passed  to  God  the  laughter 

and   the  tears 
And    all    the    million    prayers    He 

heeded  not. 
But  now,  dear  friend,  chilled  by  the 
wind  of    years 
My   heart   is   mute   and    all    its 
song  forgot. 


Can  you  not  let  them  rest,  those 
sacred  ghosts 
Of  our  dead  selves — yes,   yours 


'04 
James  M.  Stokes,  Jr.,  announces 
the   removal   of   his   office   to   879 


We  will  rent  you  a  late  model 

Underwood  Typewriter 

3  Months  for  $5.00 

and  apply  the  first  rental 
payment  on  the  purchase 
price  if  you  desire  to  buy 
the  machine. 

MARCUS  &  CO. 

STATIONERS— TYPEWRITERS 
1303  Market  St.,  Philadelphia 


Alumni 


83 


Army  and  Navy 


GOODS 


Drexel  Building,  where  he  will 
continue  to  represent  The  Mutual 
Life  Insurance  Company  of  New- 
ark, New  Jersey.  This  move  will 
enable  him  to  render  still  better 
ser\ice  to  his  clients  in  e\'er)' branch 
of  insurance. 

'04 

Harold   M.  Schabacker  of    Erie 
announces  the  birth  of  a  son. 

'05 
Mr.  Sigmund   Spaeth   was  mar- 
ried to  Miss  Irene  Katherine  Lane 

at     Greenwich,     Connecticut,     on      Complete  Camp  Equipment 
January  30th. 


'06 

T.  K.  Brown  is  head  of  the 
marching  and  hiking  departments 
of  the  Haverford  Emergency  Unit. 

Richard  L.  Cary  of  Baltimore 
has  recently  been  elected  President 
of  the  Monado  Oil  and  Gas  Com- 
pany of  Denver,  Colorado  and 
Baltimore,  Maryland.  Mr.  Cary 
is  at  present  looking  after  the 
Monado  properties  in  Montana, 
making  his  headquarters  at  Bill- 
ings. 

'07 
J.    P.   Magill   of   Elkins,   Morris 
and     Co.,     is    training    with     the 
Haverford     Emergency    Unit. 

Mr.  and  Mrs.  F.  D.  Godley 
have  moved  to  Millbrook  Avenue, 
Haverford. 

'08 

T.  Morris  Longstreth  has  been 
engaged  by  the  management  of 
the  Outing  magazine  to  write  a 
general  introduction  or  guide  book 
to  the  Adirondack  Mountains.  He 
is  expected  to  spend  the  summer 
gathering  material. 

M.  A.  Linton    has  been  elected 


Free  Catalogue 


B.  B.  ABRAHAM  &  CO. 

505  Market  Street 
FIRST  AID 

in 

All  Drug  Supplies 

CANDY  PERFUMES 

STATIONERY 

CIGARS     CUT  GLASS      KODAKS 

C.  G.  WARNER,  P.  D. 

Pharmacist  HAVERFORD,  PA. 


Daniel  EWestonI 


D©SS 


©HESTNUT  STRBHr 


84 


The  Haverfordian 


vice-president    of    the    Provident 
Life  and  Trust  Company. 

Winthrop  Sargent,  Jr.,  has  ar- 
ranged the  obtaining  of  automo- 
biles for  the  Haverford  Emergency 
Unit.  He  has  been  doing  a  great 
amount  of  work  for  the  Ambu- 
lance and  Transportation  Sec- 
tions. 

'09 
Alfred  Lowry,  Jr.,  who  was  in 
Germany  doing  relief  work  when  the 
German  Ambassador  was  given 
his  passports,  was  reported  to  be  on 
the  way  home  with  Ambassador 
Gerard.  Later  advices,  however, 
say  that  he  is  still  in  Switzerland 
with  his  wife. 

'10 

Mr.  and  Mrs.  Frank  Hummler, 
of  Scranton,  Pennsylvania  have 
announced  the  engagement  of  their 
daughter,  Frances,  to  Mr.  C. 
Mitchell  Froelicher  of  Baltimore, 
Maryland.  Miss  Hummler,  after 
four  years'  study  abroad  at  Lau- 
sanne and  in  Marburg  University, 
engaged  in  settlement  work  at 
Greenwich  House  in  New  York, 
and  has  for  the  last  two  years  been 
head  of  the  Locust  Point  College 
Settlement  in  Baltimore.  Mr. 
Froelicher  is  the  son  of  Dr.  and 
Mrs.  Froelicher  of  Baltimore,  and 
has  been  connected  with  the  Gil- 
man  Country  School  for  the  last 
six  years.  Mr.  Frcelicher  is  at 
present  head  of  the  Department 
of  Modern  Languages  at  the  Gil- 
man  School.  The  wedding  will 
take  place  some  time  in  June.  Mr. 
Froelicher  has  recently  accepted  an 
appointment  as  assistant  Head- 
master of  the  Pingry  School,  Eliz- 
abeth, New  Jersey. 


Established  1864 

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Get  acquainted  with 

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Alumni 


85 


A  Bibliography  on  Military 
Training  in  Secondary  Schools 
(with  annotations)  by  Burgess, 
Cumniings  and  Tomlinson  ap- 
peared in  the  March  Number  of 
the    Teachers'    College   Record. 

E.  S.  Cadbury  sailed  for  France 
during  the  middle  of  March  to 
serve    in    the    Ambulance    Cori:)s. 

'11 

The  following  is  a  letter  recently 
recei^■ed   by   John   S.    Bradway: — 

"As  you   know,    I   left  America 
about  September   1st    for  a  quick 
trip  around   the  world,  and  sailed 
for  Yokohoma  from  Vancou\-er  on 
September   6th.      After  about   six 
weeks  in  Japan,  I  went  on  through 
Korea  and  Manchuria  into  China. 
From   China   I    proceeded   to   Ma- 
nila and  spent  a  couple  of  months 
in  that  wonderful  Colony  of  ours. 
I    left    there    about    January    21st 
and    arrived    in    Sydney    on    7th 
February.     Since  then  I  have  been 
most  of  the  time  in  Sydney,  except 
for  one  trip  to  Melbourne.     I  have 
about  completed  my  work  here  for 
the  time  being,  and  next  week  ex- 
pect to  go  on  to  India,  returning 
to  Sydney  via  Singapore  and  Java 
about    the    last    of    July.       After 
about   four   months'  work  here  at 
that  time,  and  a  month  or  so  in 
New  Zealand,    I    hope   to  be  able 
to  come  home.      I   would   like  to 
get  home  in  time  for  the  Christ- 
mas   vacation    reunion,    but    that 
is  so  far  away  and  steamship  ser- 
vice is  so  uncertain  that  I  cannot 
promise  that  pleasure  to  myself  as 
yet.     I  only  heard  about  two  weeks 
ago  that  we  had  defeated  Swarth- 
more.       There    must    have    been 
some    great    celebrating    on    that 
Saturday  night." 

;.Signed)  Puii.  De.\ne. 


Headquarters  for  Everything 
IVIuslcal 

Banjos.       Ukuleles, 
Mandolins.    Violins 
Mandolutes.  Gui- 
tars. Cornets,  etc. 

Pianos  and 
Player- 


Pi 


lanos 


Victrolas  and  Victor  Records 

Popular.  Classical  and  Operatic  Sheet   Music 

m^MAHN 

1108  Chestnut  Street,      Philadelphia 


Aside  from  its  careful  work  in  filling  pre- 
scriptions 

Haverford  Pharmacy 

has  become  known  as  a  place  where  many 
of  the  solid  comforts  of  life  may  be  ob- 
tained. One  worth  mentioning  is  the  fa- 
mous Lotion  for  sunburn,  chapped  hands 
and  face,  and  other  irritations  of  the  skin. 
Decline,  gently  but  firmly,  any  other  said 
to  be  "just  as  good.'* 

WILSON  L.  HARBAUGH. 


Protection  is  the  Best  Policy 
The  Best  Policy  is  the  Best 
Protection 


Write  or  c.^ll  on 


Richards.  Dewees  & 

John  K.  Garrigues 

for  information. 

SPECIAL  .A.GENTS  FOR 

The  Provident  Life  and  Trust  Co. 

4th  and  Chestnut  Sts.,     Philadelphia 


86 


The  Haverfordian 


'12 
Joshua  A.  Cope  has  announced 
his  engagement  to  Miss  Edith  L. 
Gary. 

'13 
Stephen   W.    Meader   is   in    the 
Circulation     Department     of     the 
Curtis    PubHshing    Company. 

P.  H.  Brown  is  employed  as 
steward   at   Earlham   College. 

'14 
The    address    of    Edward    Rice, 
Jr.,  is  now  Punch  Edye  and  Com- 
pany, 8  Bridge  Street,  New  York. 

'15 
Hubert  A.  Howson  and  Donald 
Van  HoUen  have  entered  the  Naval 
Reserve  which  has  been  formed  at 
Harvard. 

'16 

C.  P.  Knight,  Jr.,  is  in  the  em- 
ploy of  B.  B.  and  R.  Knight,  a 
firm  controlling  a  system  of  cotton 
mills  in  Rhode  Island  and  Massa- 
chusetts. He  was  formerly  in  the 
employ  of  a  banking  house  in 
Providence,    Rhode    Island. 

James  Ellison  of  Mulford  and 
Co.,  is  training  with  the  Haverford 
Emergency  Unit. 

J.  Arthur  Cooper  is  learning  the     

fire   insurance   business    with    the 

Mutual   Fire    Insurance   Company     PTA-jy    f-Kof- 

of  Chester  County,  Coatesville. 


Pictures  Framed 

to  order,  and  in  an  artistic 
manner,  and  at  reasonable 
prices. 

J.  E.  BARKMAN, 

24  W.  Lancaster  Avenue 

Ardmore,  Pa. 

Pictures,    Stationery,    Gifts 


Joseph  C.  Ferguson,  Jr. 

6-8-10   South  Fifteenth  Street 

(Optical  anb 
3^f)otog;rapJ)ic  (^oobss 

OF  EVERY  DESCRIPTION 
Below  Market  Street 

Bryn  Mawr  Motor  Co.,  Inc. 

Main  Line  Agents 

BUICK 
AUTOMOBILES 

Branch    of 

HALE  MOTOR  CO.  Wayne,  Pa. 


Thirsty  Thirst 

DRINK 

HIRES 


Ha 


Haberforbian 


Contentst 


What  Books  Shall  We  Read? W.  H.  Chamberlin    90 

Joffre Granville  E.  Toogood     95 

The  Reformer Colby  Van  Dam    97 

Editorial  Comment 99 

Post-Cubic- Vortlcism Granville  E.  Toogood     99 

Individual  Independence H.  Hartman  100 

The  Issue:  A  Sonnet Charles  Hartshorne  101 

The  Mother  Cry A.  Douglas  Oliver  102 

At  the  Death  of  Two  Poets 102 

Symptom  Treating Christopher  Roberts  103 

When  God  Dies Charles  Hartshorne  105 

Vision  of  Death .' 105 

The  Great  Man Charles  Wharton  Stork  106 

Pierrot A.  Douglas  Oliver  109 


jMap 
1917 


Marceau 

Photographer 


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Philadelphia 

Special  rates  to  students 
Phone,  Spruce  5606 


Capital 
$1,000,000 


Surplus  and  Undivided 

Dividends 

$476,000 


Logan  Trust  Company 
of  Philadelphia 

1431-33   Chestnut  Street 


We  Intite  Corrtapondence  or  em  Intanievo  Retatitt 
te  Opening  Accvanla. 

Oitieon 

ROWLAND  COMLY,  President. 
HUGH  McILVAIN,  1st  Vice-President. 
WILLIAM  BRADWAY.  2nd  Vice-President. 
JOHN  H.  WOOD,  Secretary. 
ALFRED  G.  WHITE.  Assiatant  Trust  Officer. 
S.  HARVEY  THOMAS.  JR..  Assistant  Treasurer. 
GEORGE  W.  BROWN.  JR..  Asst.  Treas. 
H.  B.  V.  MECKE.  Asst.  Secretary. 


SAILOR  SUITS 
a  Specialty 

No  Agencies      Made  to  Order  Only 

PETER   THOMSON 
TAILOR 

— TO— 

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Children 


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The  Haverfordian 


FOUNDED  1865 


The  PROVIDENT 

Life  and  Trust  Company  of  Philadelphia 


OFFICERS 

Asa  S.  Wing,  President. 

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THE    HAVERFORDIAN 


Jacques  LeClercq,  Editor-in-Chief 

ASSOCIATE  EDITORS 

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I 


Price,  per  year $1.00  Single  copies $0.15 

The  Haverfordian  is  published  on  the  twentieth  of  each  month  during  college  year. 
Its  purpose  is  to  foster  the  literary  spirit  among  the  undergraduates  to  provide  an  or- 
gan 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  in- 
tended for  insertion  should  reach  the  Editor  not  later  than  the  twenty-fifth  of  the  month 
preceding  the  date  of  issue. 


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


Vol.  XXXIX  HAVERFORD,  PA.,  MAY,  1917  No.  3 


"atje  etque  ^ale" 

//  gioes  us  great  pleasure  to  announce  the   election 
of  J.  S.  Huston  to  the  Business  Managership. 


It  is  with  regret  that  we  say  good-bye  toA.E.  Spellissy 
and  H.  S.  Brodhead,  For  the  aid  which  they  have  been  to 
the  magazine,  for  the  efficient  way  in  which  they  have  ac- 
complished their  work.— the  college  owes  debt  of  gratitude. 


Wm  J^oofeg  ^fjall  ^e  ieieab? 

W.  H.  Chamberlin 

SEVERAL  years  ago  Dr.  Eliot,  of  Harvard  University,  expressed 
his  selection  of  the  world's  best  literature  in  a  list  of  books  en- 
titled "The  Harvard  Classics."  Now,  while  a  thorough  mastery 
of  this  collection  might  enable  a  student  to  pass  a  searching  examination 
in  English  literature,  it  would  scarcely  enable  him  to  derive  much  pleas- 
ure from  a  conversation  on  modem  literary  and  aesthetic  subjects.  For 
the  Doctor's  anthology  was  composed  almost  entirely  of  solid  and 
weighty  masterpieces  of  English  and  classic  authors.  There  was  a  liberal 
supply  of  standard  books,  which  successive  generations  have  dutifully 
read,  and  yawned  over,  such  as  Izaak  Walton's  "  Complete  Angler " 
and  William  Penn's  Journal.  But  there  was  practically  no  recognition 
of  the  group  of  European  novelists,  who,  during  the  last  century,  have 
contributed  so  much  to  the  formation  of  new  ideals  in  style  and  thought. 
During  the  last  summer  Mr.  Powys,  the  noted  English  critic  and  lectur- 
er, published  a  little  handbook  with  the  title  "One  Hundred  Best  Books." 
His  choice  was  radically  different  from  that  of  Dr.  Eliot.  But,  while  he 
had  the  courage  to  reject  most  of  the  respectable  bores  of  the  former  list, 
he  substituted  a  large  and  undigested  mass  of  works  by  modern  English 
authors,  whose  main  recommendation  seems  to  have  been  their  newness. 

These  selections  illustrate  two  faults  which  are  apt  to  assail  readers 
whose  literary  taste  is  not  altogether  satisfied  with  our  enormous  output 
of  light  fiction  magazines.  They  are  likely  either  to  saturate  themselves 
with  the  standard  classics,  which  are  duly  warranted  to  stamp  their 
readers  with  the  hallmark  of  cultivation;  or  else  to  take  a  reckless 
plunge  into  the  uncharted  sea  of  the  latest  books,  regardless  of  their 
merit.  In  either  event  they  are  prone  to  neglect  a  number  of  significant 
figures  in  the  world  of  letters,  who  are  too  modern  to  be  standardized 
and  yet  not  modern  enough  to  possess  the  charm  of  absolute  novelty. 
It  is  certainly  not  the  purpose  of  the  present  article  to  suggest  a  definite 
choice  of  the  best  books  along  the  lines  of  Dr.  Eliot's  or  Mr.  Powys'. 
The  writer  merely  wishes  to  call  attention  to  certain  authors  and  works 
which  are  not  entirely  unworthy  of  attention  because  they  are  not  in- 
cluded in  official  lists  of  literary  classics  and  not  published  in  1916. 

Nineteenth  century  Russia  has  a  unique  distinction.  It  is  safe  to 
say  that  never  in  the  history  of  literature  has  one  nation  been  able  to 
claim  three  contemporary  novelists  of  such  compelling  significance  as 
the  Russian  triumvirate,  Turgeniev,  Tolstoy  and  Dostoievsky.  These 
writers  have  lately  received  more  appreciation  on  account  of  the  general 


What  Books  Shall  We  Read?  91 

interest  in  Russia  which  has  been  aroused  by  the  War.  Unfortunately 
this  interest  has  not  always  been  intelligent  and  discriminating.  The 
old  chorus  of  exaggerated  abuse  for  Russia  and  everything  Russian  has 
given  way  to  a  new  chorus  of  exaggerated  praise.  And,  generally  speak- 
ing, the  appreciation  of  the  Slav  novelties  has  been  more  enthusiastic 
than  illuminating.  We  are  vaguely  told  that  they  preach  the  gospel  of 
human  suffering,  that  they  interpret  the  true  soul  of  the  Russian  people, 
along  with  a  number  of  other  observations  that  are  charming,  but  not 
particularly  instructive.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  they  are  too  distinctively 
individual  to  be  treated  as  a  mere  product  of  racial  spirit.  Moreover 
each  of  the  three  has  certain  marked  and  definite  characteristics,  which 
set  him  off  from  his  compatriots. 

Tolstoy,  the  best  known  of  the  triumvirate,  is  an  admirable 
illustration  of  the  manysidedness  which  makes  the  Russian  authors 
so  impossible  of  classification.  At  various  stages  of  his  life  a 
gambler,  a  saint,  a  debauchee  and  an  ascetic,  his  artistic  work  is  a  be- 
wildering phantasmagoria  of  conflicting  interests  and  passions.  Like 
the  Roman  Terence  he  believed  that  nothing  that  had  to  do  with  human- 
ity was  alien  from  his  sphere.  Equally  at  home  in  the  wild  free  air  of 
the  Caucasus  heights  and  in  the  perfumed  atmosphere  of  a  Petrograd 
ballroom,  Tolstoy  deserves  to  rank  among  the  great  interpreters  of  life 
in  all  its  forms  and  aspects.  Under  his  powerful  and  sympathetic  treat- 
ment the  Turkish  clansman,  with  his  simple  code  of  tribal  ethics,  and 
Anna  Karenina,  with  her  highly  complicated  struggle  between  love  and 
duty,  become  alike  vital  human  figures.  It  is  true  that  the  later  Tolstoy, 
obsessed  with  the  reformer's  passion,  committed  many  sins  against  the 
canons  of  pure  art.  But  much  may  certainly  be  forgiven  the  creator  of 
"Anna  Karenina,"  in  some  respects  the  ideal  novel  of  the  nineteenth 
century.  There  is  no  element  of  arid  intellectuality  in  Leo  Tolstoy. 
His  exuberant  fancy  and  wide  experience  give  to  his  characters  a  tone  of 
convincing  naturalness.  Long  after  many  of  Tolstoy's  visions  of  social 
reform  have  perished  the  works  into  which  he  put  the  best  part  of  him- 
self will  survive  as  the  expression  of  a  rich  and  mighty  personality. 

Ivan  Turgeniev  has  suffered  in  comparison  with  his  more  spectacular 
associates,  Tolstoy  and  Dostoievsky.  Yet,  although  not  so  striking,  his 
contribution  to  literature  is  fully  as  distinctive  and  valuable  as  that  of 
either  of  his  compatriots.  His  high  artistic  ideals  are  pursued  with 
fidelity  and  achieved  without  ostentation.  It  is  only  after  long  acquaint- 
ance with  his  exquisitely  drawn  characters,  his  perfectly  conceived  plots 
that  we  come  to  recognize  the  supreme  genius  of  their  creator.  Intimate 
association  with  some  of  the  greatest  masters  of  French  prose,  Flaubert, 


92  The  Haverfordian 

Daudet  and  Maupassant,  gave  Turgeniev  clarity,  precision  and  balance 
without  destroying  the  rich  imagination  and  warm  sympathy  which  were 
the  peculiar  qualities  of  his  Slavic  spirit.  He  excels  in  one  field  where 
French  and  English  novelists  are  conspicuously  weak:  in  the  depiction 
of  lifelike  and  sympathetic  heroines.  His  temperament,  enriched  by  wide 
and  cultivated  understanding  of  poetry,  music  and  art  rendered  him 
sensitive  to  the  delicate  nuances  of  the  feminine  mind.  Still  another 
feature  of  his  work  is  his  warmhearted  feeling  for  distress,  his  generous 
indignation  at  cruelty,  oppression  and  hypocrisy.  In  this  quality  he 
closely  resembles  Dickens,  although  he  is  free  from  the  bathos  and  sen- 
timentality of  the  English  writer.  There  are  few  authors  who  can  be 
read  with  more  unalloyed  enjoyment  than  Ivan  Turgeniev.  His  works 
breathe  the  fragrant  and  melancholy  beauty  of  moist  spring  nights, 
they  are  filled  with  the  radiant  joy  and  indefinable  pathos  of  pure  roman- 
tic love.  With  a  touch  that  is  at  once  tender  and  unerring  he  sounds 
the  thousand  modulations  of  the  symphony  of  life.  He  attains  the  lofty 
harmony  which  only  comes  from  the  full  development  and  union  of 
the  component  parts  of  a  well  rounded  artistic  temperament:  rich 
imagination  and  warm  sympathy  blended  with  finished  technique  and 
an  admirable  sense  for  moderation  and  proportion. 

Very  different,  indeed,  is  Feodor  Mikhailovitch  Dostoievsky,  per- 
haps the  most  original  and  outstanding  figure  in  the  Russian  school. 
The  western  culture  which  is  so  predominant  a  feature  in  Turgeniev  is 
altogether  lacking  in  his  compatriot,  who  regarded  the  intellectualism 
of  France,  England  and  Germany  as  a  snare  to  seduce  Holy  Russia  from 
the  faith  of  her  fathers.  Yet  this  fanatical  Slavophile,  this  epileptic 
gambler  has  marked  claims  to  distinction,  both  as  author  and  as  reli- 
gious teacher.  Despising  adornment  of  verbiage  and  amenity  of  style, 
he  achieves  titanic  effects  by  projecting  plots  of  intense  dramatic  and 
psychological  power  upon  a  sombre  background,  where  men  and  women, 
with  shattered  nerves  and  diseased  minds,  flit  about  in  the  dark  alleys 
and  recesses  of  Russian  town  and  city.  With  appalling  completeness  he 
probes  the  lowest  depths  of  human  nature.  Yet  he  believes  most  pas- 
sionately in  the  ultimate  redemption  of  weak  and  sinful  humanity  through 
the  saving  grace  of  humility,  charity  and  love.  The  Christianity  of 
Dostoievsky  has  little  in  common  with  the  colder  faiths  of  the  West, 
which  lay  such  a  stem  emphasis  upon  duty.  The  profound  religiosity  of 
the  great  Russian  lays  slight  stress  upon  positive  moral  precepts  of  any 
kind.  His  only  concern  is  with  love,  love  of  God,  love  of  one's  fellow- 
men.  With  love  the  most  sinful  man  can  be  redeemed;  without  it 
the  most  virtuous  is  lost. 


( 


( 


What  Books  Shall  We  Read?  93 

Considered  purely  as  a  novelist  Dostoievsky  occupies  a  high  place. 
His  cumbersome,  longwinded  books,  with  their  rough  style  and  diffuse 
philosophical  reflections,  are  packed  with  superb  dramatic  effects,  which 
can  scarcely  be  paralleled  outside  of  Shakespeare.  His  characters  are 
neither  heroes  nor  villains,  in  the  conventional  sense;  they  are  rather 
men  and  women  in  whom  the  noblest  and  basest  instincts  are  blended 
in  inextricable  confusion.  His  novels  are  full  of  prostitutes  who  read 
the  Bible  and  have  the  purest  thoughts,  murderers  who  kill  for  the 
regeneration  of  society,  degraded  rakes  who  commit  suicide  or  go  into 
penal  servitude  as  a  quixotic  expiation  for  their  sins.  His  psychopathic 
insight,  perhaps  stimulated  by  his  own  epileptic  condition,  is  uncanny. 
His  characters  all  have  a  certain  element  of  madness  in  them:  a  madness 
that  can  only  be  exorcised  by  the  sovereign  remedy  of  the  White  Christ 
and  His  Gospel.  Through  the  sombre  pages,  loaded  with  meanness, 
jealousy,  wanton  cruelty  and  unnatural  lust,  there  runs  a  perpetual 
melody  of  redemption,  which  swells  out  like  a  triumphant  chorus  in  the 
mighty  climaxes  of  "Crime  and  Punishment"  and  "The  Brothers 
Karamazov."  Dostoievsky  is  the  supreme  interpreter  of  the  strange, 
mystical,  Byzantine  faith  which  composes  the  spiritual  entity  of  Holy 
Russia. 

I  have  dwelt  on  this  triumvirate  of  Russian  novelists  not  only 
because  of  their  unquestionable  genius,  but  also  because  of  their  relative 
neglect  in  America.  The  great  Slavs  have  received  far  less  attention 
than  many  less  gifted  writers  of  France,  England,  Germany  and  the 
United  States.  Moreover  the  criticism  to  which  they  are  subjected  is 
not  always  of  the  highest  quality.  And  no  one  of  the  three  can  be  ex- 
hausted at  a  single  reading  or  dismissed  in  a  few  well  turned  phrases. 
They  are  all  men  whose  complexity  and  kaleidoscopic  variety  require  the 
most  careful  study.  But  Russia  is  not  the  only  country  which  has  pro- 
duced comparatively  unrecognized  men  of  genius.  France,  although 
much  more  familiar  to  the  American  reading  public,  is  represented  by 
at  least  two  men  who  are  not  read  as  widely  as  they  should  be. 

Henri  de  Beyle,  better  known  under  his  pen  name  of  Stendhal,  is 
interesting  not  only  as  an  author,  but  as  a  personality.  Deeply  sympa- 
thetic with  the  French  Revolution  and  a  confirmed  political  liberal,  he 
was  also  an  ardent  hero-worshipper  of  Napoleon;  and  hence  came  into 
contact  with  the  strongest  force  and  the  strongest  man  of  the  transition 
period  between  the  eighteenth  and  nineteenth  centuries.  Stendhal 
fought  in  Napoleon's  campaigns;  and  was  one  of  the  few  to  escape  from 
the  disastrous  Russian  expedition.  His  chief  distinction  lies  in  his  frank 
adoption  of  a  pagan  code  of  morals.     Like  Goethe  and  Nietzsche,  those 


94  The  Haverfordian 

two  great  Germans  who  hated  Germany,  he  entered  fully  into  the  spirit 
of  the  Italian  Renaissance.  Although  he  lacks  the  profound  wisdom  of 
Goethe  and  the  lyric  fire  of  Nietzsche,  Stendhal  is  a  clearsighted  observer, 
a  man  whose  vision  is  unclouded  by  prejudice  of  race,  creed  or  caste. 
His  "De  L'  Amour"  is  not  only  a  masterly  analysis  of  that  much  dis- 
cussed passion,  it  is  also  an  admirable  description  of  the  temperaments 
of  the  European  nations  by  a  writer  who  invariably  lived  up  to  his 
professed  motto: 

"I  neither  blame  nor  approve;  I  observe." 

As  a  stylist  he  can  not  be  compared  to  the  recognized  masters  of 
French  prose.  Yet  he  combines  compactness  and  felicity  of  expression 
with  an  austerely  classical  instinct  for  self-repression.  He  says  that  he 
studied  the  "Code  Civile"  as  the  model  of  a  simple,  compressed  style. 
But  his  native  brilliance  often  finds  outlet  in  epigrams  and  paradoxes 
that  are  worthy  of  Chamfort  and  Rochefoucauld.  Clearcut,  rational- 
istic and  cosmopolitan  in  his  habits  of  thought,  Stendhal  will  always  be 
a  valuable  antidote  for  readers  suffering  from  an  overdose  of  mysticism, 
sentimentality  and  nationalism. 

Another  French  author  of  distinction  who  has  been  both  underrated 
and  misinterpreted  is  Gustave  Flaubert.  Entirely  too  much  stress  has 
been  laid  upon  his  methods  of  composition.  The  uninitiated  reader  flees 
in  terror  from  the  works  of  a  man  who  spent  weeks  in  searching  for  the 
exact  word  or  phrase,  who  spent  years  of  constant  labor  upon  a  compara- 
tively short  novel.  The  point  that  ought  to  be  made  is  that  Flaubert 
was  no  pedant  or  novice,  floundering  about  in  an  uncongenial  field;  but 
a  trained  literary  artist  who  was  determined  to  make  the  most  of  his 
natural  ability.  Leaving  aside  all  thought  of  the  method  arid  consider- 
ing only  the  result,  it  must  be  admitted  that  he  succeeded  in  the  attempt. 
He  fairly  attains  the  ideal  of  all  good  writers:  a  style  so  perfect  and  so 
compressed  that  no  word  is  thrown  away.  Flaubert  is  even  more  often 
underrated  by  critics  who  insist  on  regarding  him  merely  as  an  exponent 
of  the  realistic  school.  It  is  true  that  "Madame  Bovary"  stands  forth 
as  the  masterpiece  of  French  naturalism;  but  on  the  other  hand,  no 
hashish  dream  of  romanticism  could  surpass  the  gorgeous,  flamboyant 
coloring  of  "Salammbo"  and  "The  Temptation  of  St.  Anthony."  Like 
his  friend  Turgeniev,  Flaubert  combines  an  inexorable  sense  for  truth 
with  rich  power  and  sweep  of  imagination.  A  thorough  aristocrat  in 
thought,  he  hated  the  mediocre  and  the  commonplace  with  a  consuming 
hatred.  His  creation  of  Homais  in  "Madame  Bovary"  will  live  as  the 
eternal  revenge  of  the  artist  upon  the  philistine.  Good  author,  good 
aristocrat  and  good  hater,  Gustave  Flaubert,  even  through  the  medium 


What  Books  Shall  We  Read?  95 

of  a  translation,  is  worthy  of  closer  study  than  he  has  yet  received  from 
American  readers. 

At  first  sight  it  appears  absurd  to  place  Henryk  Ibsen  in  the  class 
of  unappreciated  men  of  genius.  His  plays  have  been  widely  produced  in 
America;  his  ideas  have  been  still  more  widely  studied  and  discussed. 
But  Ibsen  has  been  considered  too  much  as  social  reformer,  too  little  as 
artist.  Plays  like  "Doll's  House"  and  "Ghosts,"  while  excellent  in 
themselves,  do  not  contain  the  author's  finest  dramatic  work  simply 
because  they  are  written  in  a  primarily  didactic  spirit.  Ibsen  has  done 
valuable  service  in  awakening  the  world  to  a  sense  of  the  injustice  and 
stupidity  of  its  attitude  towards  a  number  of  vital  social  problems.  But 
it  is  seldom  that  a  man  can  be  both  prophet  and  artist.  It  is  in  the 
exquisite  psychology  and  terrific  irony  of  "The  Wild  Duck,"  in  the 
glorious  symbolism  of  "The  Master-Builder"  that  Ibsen,  unhampered 
by  the  desire  to  attack  and  demolish  any  specific  abuse,  reaches  the  full 
height  of  his  Norse  genius.  Nothing  could  be  grimmer,  more  sternly 
realistic  than  the  weak,  pitiful  characters  of  "The  Wild  Duck,"  vainly 
groping  about  in  their  search  for  "the  ideal."  And  the  thrilling  climax 
of  "The  Master-Builder"  attains  a  rare  altitude  of  genuine  mystical 
exaltation.  Ibsen  the  reformer  will  be  forgotten  with  the  changing  con- 
ditions of  the  ages  to  come;  but  Ibsen  the  artist  will  live  by  grace  of  a 
boldly  original  outlook  of  life,  expressed  with  an  abundance  of  sincere 
conviction  and  poetic  fervor. 

Perhaps  the  best  example  of  a  modem  thinker  who  has  been  much 
discussed  and  little  understood  is  Friedrich  Nietzsche.  Of  late  the 
misinterpretation  of  the  ill-fated  poet-philosopher  has  reached  the  limit 
of  tragic  absurdity  in  England  and  America.  Some  one,  whose  vivid 
imagination  was  unrestrained  by  his  limited  and  imperfect  knowledge  of 
Nietzsche,  gave  him  credit  for  originating  the  Great  War;  and  this  bril- 
liant idea  has  been  echoed  with  singular  unanimity  by  the  scores  of 
popular  writers,  who  have  seized  upon  the  European  conflict  as  a  prof- 
itable field  of  exploitation.  There  was  much  pathetic  irony  in  the  life 
of  Friedrich  Nietzsche;  but  nothing  reveals  the  utter  misapprehension 
of  the  man  and  his  message  quite  so  clearly  as  the  general  acceptance  of 
the  theory  that  Nietzsche,  one  of  the  most  internationally-minded  men  of 
the  nineteenth  century,  was  responsible  for  a  conflict  which  primarily 
owed  its  origin  to  an  insensate  emphasis  on  nationalism.  No  one  attacked 
the  Prussian  spirit  with  more  scathing  bitterness  than  the  author  of 
"Human,  All-Too-Human."  No  one  has  expressed  in  more  emphatic 
terms  the  belief  that  national  lines  will  inevitably  disappear,  that  the 
domination  of  a  chosen  race  is  the  absurd  fantasy  of  a  diseased  imagi- 


96  The  Haverfordian 

nation.  But,  even  when  we  get  rid  of  the  silly  phantom  of  the  German 
soldier  going  into  battle  with  a  gas  bomb  in  one  hand  and  a  copy  of 
"  Zarathustra  "  in  the  other,  we  still  find  certain  difficulties  in  the  way  of 
a  complete  understanding.  And  here  again  it  is  the  misinterpreters  of 
Nietzsche,  rather  than  the  man  himself,  who  are  m.ost  at  fault.  With  a 
journalistic  predilection  for  the  sensational  most  of  the  commentators 
on  the  German  thinker  have  singled  out  striking  phrases,  such  as  the 
Superman  and  the  Eternal  Recurrence,  as  the  cornerstone  of  his  system, 
and  have  devoted  all  their  attention  to  the  consideration  of  these  phrases. 
Now  it  is  a  very  easy  m.atter  to  refute  Nietzsche  as  a  technical  philoso- 
pher with  a  "system."  He  is  full  of  paradox,  inconsistency  and  exag- 
geration. But,  when  all  the  defects  of  his  thought  are  carefully  noted 
and  pointed  out,  there  is  still  som^ething  left.  And  that  something  is  the 
real  Nietzsche,  a  poet  rather  than  a  philosopher,  an  artist  rather  than 
a  logician.  And,  even  though  the  Superman,  the  Eternal  Recurrence 
and  the  rest  of  his  m.ad,  magnificint  visions  dissolve,  like  the  fabled 
Valhalla,  in  the  light  of  the  future,  a  sympathetic  reader  can  scill  find, 
in  his  lyrical  prose  works,  with  their  poetic  titles,  glorious  hymns  of 
solitude  and  friendship,  bursts  of  dazzling  color,  mountain  peaks  of 
serene  contemplation,  and  the  torrential  rush  of  a  mighty  spirit. 

In  suggesting  these  authors  as  worthy  of  closer  study  and  more 
general  attention  I  have  not  intended  to  disparage  the  more  generally 
recognized  men  who  are  recommended  in  the  most  approved  literary 
anthologies.  I  make  no  claim  that  a  plunge  into  this  weirdly  asserted 
collection  of  Russian,  French,  German  and  Scandinavian  thought  will 
transform  the  reader,  by  some  miraculous  process,  into  a  vessel  full  of 
sweetness  and  light.  The  primary  inducement  to  read  these  works 
is  their  piquancy,  originality  and  entire  freedom  from  pedantry  and 
dullness.  But  if  one  seeks  for  a  more  altruistic  and  disinterested  argu- 
ment in  favor  of  them,  it  may  at  least  be  asserted  that  they  all  tend  to 
eliminate  provincialism  and  to  stimulate  more  universal  habits  of  thought. 
And  never  in  the  history  of  the  world  has  there  been  more  need  of  a 
sympathetic,  tolerant  and  international  attitude  of  mind. 

f offrc 

Granville  E.  Toogood,  '20 
A  fleeting  glimpse  as  past  his  motor  sped : 
The  scarlet  cap,  the  massive,  fine  old  head, 
The  kindly  smile,  the  all-embracing  glance, 
And  I  had  seen  the  Savior  of  France. 


QDljc  i^eforme 

By  Colly  Van  Dam 

My  hopes  are  high 

For  this  pink,  wrinkled  bit  of  life 

Clutching  at  my  breast. 

Until  now 

I've  whirled  about  in  a  tiny  vortex 

Of  little  world  events 

Writ  large  on  small  town  minds. 

I've  slyly  watched  the  clothes  my  neighbor  wore 

And  the  money  she  spent 

On  herself. 

I've  worried  lest  she  should  outdo  me 

With  her  new  gown  and  hat. 

I've  gloried  in  the  minister's  wife's  praise 

Of  my  new  set  of  furniture. 

I've  spent  whole  days  of  thought 

On  whether  I  should  give  a  bridge  or  tea 

To  perpetuate  my  name 

On  lips  that  were  the  oracles  of  my  fate 

In  this  world  and  the  next. 

Ane  now  at  last  my  neighbors 

Compete  for  my  good  graces. 

They  look  well  pleased  when  I  pay  compliments 

To  their  homes,  their  children,  their  dinners 

Or  themselves. 

In  all  this  mighty  little  suburb  town 

There's  not  a  family  of  social  rank 

That  does  not  greet  me  with  a  welcome  smile. 

I've  gained  the  favor  of  both  men  and  women, 

And  kept  the  love  of  him  who  calls  me  wife. 

But  suddenly 

Like  a  gleam, 

This  wide-eyed  babe  came  down  to  me 

Out  of  the  infinite, 

With  his  halo  of  heaven 

Still  unvanquished  by  our  coarser  light. 

For  a  time  I  lost  myself  in  the  mystery  of  him. 

And  afterwards 


98  The  Haverfordian 

The  town,  its  people  and  my  social  game 

Were  all  forgot  in  wonder 

At  the  naked  little  soul 

That  I  had  clothed  in  flesh. 

To  my  mother-blinded  eyes 

He  was  the  perfect  symbol  of  all  love  and  beauty : — 

An  electric  touch  of  spirit, 

That  shocked  my  earth-bound  heart. 

All  that  ever  drew  me  to  my  husband 

And  all  that  he  has  ever  found  in  me 

To  win  him  from  the  charms  of  other  girls 

Is  now  incarnate  in  this  precious  load 

That  weighs  upon  my  never  weary  arms. 

0  Baby! 

Round  me  hard  with  your  two  infant  fists, 

Reach  on  through  into  the  heart  of  me 

And  free  the  fearful  force  of  my  desires 

From  all  these  petty  chains  that  bind  them  down, — 

From  love  of  self,  to  service  for  mankind. 

Lately 

I've  given  up  my  teas  and  bridge 

And  all  the  paraphernalia  of  a  puppet-show  life 

Played  to  an  audience  of  neighbors. 

1  am  free  with  my  own  creation.     . 
I  tend  him  faithfully 

Making  every  detail  of  his  care 

A  sacred  rite  dedicated 

To  that  Fair  Land  whence  he  came. 

For  this  child  must  needs  grow  strong 

To  bear  the  double  burden  on  his  shoulders 

Of  making  himself  into  a  man 

And  me  into  a  woman, 

For  if  he  will  let  me 

I  can  follow  him 

Higher  than  the  blue  vault  of  heaven 

Out  beyond  where  all  horizons  meet 

To  the  fulfillment  of  my  own  latent  possibilities 

And  the  goal  of  my  immortal  soul. 

My  hopes  are  very  high 

For  this  pink  wrinkled  bit  of  life 

Clutching  at  my  breast. 


Z^t  Wat  anb  ilaberforb 

Within  an  incredibly  short  time  a  committee  was  appointed  to  look 
into  the  question  of  training  ourselves  for  an  emergency  and  suggested 
an  excellent  plan.  While  not  military,  the  work  which  has  been  adopted 
goes  a  long  way  toward  fitting  any  man  for  service,  at  the  same  time 
enabling  such  men  as  have  conscientious  scruples  against  war  to  enter 
into  branches  of  warfare  which  do  not  require  the  taking  of  another 
man's  life.  The  plan  adopted  should  give  any  man  a  knowledge  of 
Ambulance  work,  of  transportation,  of  mechanics  and  manual  labor, 
while  the  frequent  marches  should  give  him  a  constitution  robust  enough 
to  undergo  the  hardships  of  military  training. 

The  promptness  of  the  committee  in  charge,  the  generous  co-opera- 
tion of  our  faculty  and  alumni,  the  practicability  of  the  plan  and  the 
support  it  has  elicited  are  things  which  cannot  be  too  much  praised  and 
reflect  great  credit  to  Haverford  College. 

^o£(t-Culiic=^ortici£;m 

By  Granville  E.  Toogood 
I  stood  amazed. 
Before  me  was  a  riot, 
A  riot  on  canvas,  or  better 
An  explosion  in  a  shingle 
Factory.    As  I  say 

I  stood  amazed.     And  I  looked  and  saw 
By  the  sign  that  it  was  a 
Painting,  but  I  doubted  it.     At  least 
If  it  were  a  painting,  the  culprit  who 
Painted  it  was  crazy  or  drunk  ■ 
Or  something.     Or  perhaps  he  stood 
At  twenty  paces  and  threw  his 
Brush,  and  when  he  registered  a 
Hit  he  would  come  and  make  a 
Tally  in  red  or  green  or 
Indigo  or 

Something.     Anyway 

It  looked  like  it,  and  I  asked  the  attendant, 
"Who  is  responsible  for 

This  'Dynamic  Force  of  Spring'?"  and  he  said 
"You  poor  nut,  where  was  you 
Brung  up?  That  is 
'A  Nude  Milking  a  Cow'." 
And  I  left. 


Snbibibual  Snbepenbence 

By  H.  Hartman 

LIFE  seems  to  most  of  us  a  game  of  mere  chance.  We  hopelessly 
resign  ourselves  to  the  supposed  allotment  of  Providence,  mutter- 
ing between  long-drawn  sighs,  "There  is  no  use  trying!  Fate  is 
against  me!  Luck  is  not  with  me! "  or  some  such  deplorable  thought,  few 
of  us  realizing  that  on  us  lies  the  responsibility  for  most,  if  not  all,  of  che 
disagreeable  incidents  which  we  experience  in  life.  Happiness  is  not  acquired 
externally.  Within  us  lies  the  dynamo  which  illuminates  and  strength- 
ens. This  never-failing  generator  presence,  personality,  inventive,  and 
productive  power.  In  equal  racio  with  the  force  applied  is  the  efficiency 
attained.  We  need  constantly  to  be  alive  with  fresh,  enthusiastic 
thought  and  action.  Modern  education  is  gradually  applying  this  prin- 
ciple. The  individual,  and  not  the  mass,  is  being  considered  the  unit. 
The  leading  men  of  to-day  realize  the  important  part  taken  in  the  world's 
progress  and  achievements  by  personality,  originality,  and  independent 
application.  In  short,  the  secret  of  a  wholesome,  successful  life  is 
indepencence — ^not  of  the  class,  but  of  the  individual. 

Individual  independence'  demands  that  definite  laws  be  obeyed. 
It  demands  that  we  live  above  the  average  standard, — that  we  overcome 
environment.  If  we  are  content  to  slide  along  aimlessly  and  never  to 
exert  ourselves  to  rise  higher  than  the  plain  on  which  the  gravity  of 
non-stipulated  thought  and  action  leaves  us,  then  we  are  deserving  of 
the  results  of  inefficiency.  The  best  we  can  command  must  be  put  into 
every  action.  If  we  are  satisfied  to  live  without  struggling  daily  to 
rise  above  our  surroundings,  we  are  useless  to  our  immediate  community, 
and  we  contribute  nothing  to  our  fellowman.  Since  most  of  us  are 
confined  to  a  small  territory,  and  come  in  contact  with  comparatively 
few  men,  there  is  a  tendency  to  moral  and  intellectual  back-sliding;  so 
to  keep  abreast  of  progress,  each  day  must  show  an  improvement  over 
the  previous  one.  Progress  depends  oa  a  constant  and  continual  source 
of  new,  invigorating,  helpful  activity  of  the  individual.  Every  problem 
should  be  worked  out  so  thoughtfully  and  carefully  that  the  decision 
would  stand  the  test  of  honesty  for  all  time, — honesty  with  one's  self, 
but  above  all,  honesty  with  one's  neighbor. 

Self  should  never  be  considered,  except  as  a  producer  and  trans- 
mitter of  force,  nor  should  personal  consideration  for  the  recipient  of  our 
energies  govern  our  motive  and  acts.  Absolute  control  of  our  emotions 
is  the  secret  of  individual  liberty.  Speech  should  be  the  result  of  careful 
thought  and  not  the  expression  of  indifference  or  the  result  of  a  desire 


The  Issue:   A  Sonnet  101 

to  injure.  Any  misdemeanor  is  sure  to  return  to  the  originator.  Prov- 
idence thus  exacts  its  toll,  but  in  the  meantime  destructive  effects 
have  been  felt  by  those  who  are  sinned  against. 

We  are  told  there  is  wisdom  in  convention,  but  conventionality  and 
custom  should  not  govern  us.  We  owe  no  sacrifice  to  the  narrowing 
influences  of  tradition.  Slaves  of  circumstance  contribute  nothing  to 
the  world's  progress.  It  is  the  masters  of  occasion  that  have  led  the 
world  to  better  things.  All  of  us  are  endowed  with  facilities  which  divine 
command  has  ordered  not  to  be  wrapped  up  in  a  napkin.  Listlessly 
following  the  beaten  pathways  of  habit  does  not  stimulate  individuali- 
ty. Originality  is  the  soul  of  progress.  It  means  the  courage  to  venture 
on  untrodden  roads.  It  does  not  mean  peering  too  eagerly  into  the  future, 
fearing  the  things  that  never  come  to  pass.  Only  when  we  complete  in 
the  best  possible  way  each  task  as  it  presents  itself,  with  a  faith  steadfast 
in  the  triumph  of  what  is  right,  do  we  give  our  share  to  the  world.  This 
after  all  is  our  business  here,  governed  by  the  great  law  of  love,  which, 
interpreted,  is  no  personal  enmity  or  hatred,  but  opposition  to  what  is 
unjust.  It  is  with  malice  toward  none,  but  a  desire  to  overcome  evil; 
opposition,  not  to  the  man,  but  his  deeds.  It  is  the  lone  voice  of  the 
courageous  man  that  has  moved  the  world  to  higher  things. 


VL^t  Mint:  ^  bonnet 

By  Charles  Hartshorne 

Now,  when  the  world  is  launched  in  freedom's  fight. 

Our  great  Republic  marshalled  to  the  cause 

Of  heaven's  truth  behind  man's  outraged  laws. 

And  Holy  Russia  rises  in  the  light 

Of  her  free  spirit,  with  an  innate  might 

That  wakens  trembling,  and  a  vast  applause; 

Now  when  the  conflict  of  the  ages  draws 

To  one  clear  Issue  in  our  living  sight, — 

Now,  pacifist,  think!      Think  with  the  voice 

Of  millions  lauding  truth  not  known  before! 

Hear  Him  who  recked  not  human  life,  but  gave  it, 

Free  on  a  cross,  for  truth!    Now,  make  the  choice: 

Be  one  who  loves — not  more,  but  blindly;  or 

Who  for  love  even  life  shall  lose — to  "save  it." 


By  A .  Douglas  Oliver 

Agaia  the  night  stoops  down,  O  God, 
The  day  has  crawled  on  past; 
Thy  gift  of  sleep  we  must  find  again, 
Banish  our  dull-mad,  wracking  pain. 
Cursed  with  life,  we  must  live — in  vain: 
Out  of  the  depths  we  have  cried  to  Thee, 
Grant  us  Thy  peace  we  crave. 

Blind  little  mouths  that  have  fumbled  our  breasts, 
Dimpled  hands  that  have  clutched  and  clung, 
Our  babes  that  were  grown  to  princely  men 
Tom  to  shreds  in  the  dust  like  dung; 

The  wine  of  our  marriage  sacrament.  Lord 

The  hope  of  our  lives  to  be ; 

We  have  obeyed  Thy  one  great  law. 

Flesh  of  our  flesh  we  gladly  bore, 

Yet  barren  now,  by  the  gun's  cold  maw. 

What  have  we  done?     O  Lord,  forgive! 

Haste  us  down  to  the  grave. 


^t  tf)e  IBeatl)  o!  Ctoo  ^oetsi 

April  is  here  and  the  world  rejoices — 
Heart  of  mine  be  glad  and  sing! 
Yonder  beckons  a  shining  to-morrow. 
Come,  forget  thine  old-time  sorrow 
And  follow  the  train  of  my  lord  the  Spring. 

Nay,  for  life  is  a  grievous  thing — 
What  if  joy  in  every  place  is? 
I  have  lost  sight  of  their  seraphic  faces — 
I  cannot  hear  their  angel-voices — 
Tears  would  choke  me  were  I  to  sing. 


^pmptom  treating 

By  Christopher  Roberts 

IT  is  natural  to  try  to  eradicate  evils.  The  reformer  is  born  in  all  of 
us.  But  the  means  of  combating  wrongs  are  often  diverse  and 
ineffectual.  We  live  in  an  age  of  superficial  thinking.  The  im- 
perfect education  of  vast  numbers  of  people  today,  especially  in  the 
United  States,  gives  only  a  smattering  of  knowledge  and,  at  best,  a 
meager  ability  to  comprehend.  The  natura'  result  of  this  condition  is  a 
tendency  to  treat  the  immediate  symptom  of  evil  rather  than  its  basic 
cause. 

There  is  a  great  amount  of  profitless  work  on  the  part  of  philan- 
thropic people  and  organizations  by  reason  of  the  prevalence  of  wasting 
time  and  energy  on  non-essentials.  It  is  much  less  trouble  to  get  people 
to  treat  effects  rather  than  causes,  to  do  relief  work  rather  than  preventive 
work.  The  parable  of  the  good  Samaritan  teaches  active  beneficence. 
Yet,  how  much  more  would  we  applaud  the  altruism  of  a  man  who  rid 
the  road  to  Jericho  of  thieves? 

Upon  a  closer  consideration  of  this  habit  of  passing  over  the  fun- 
damentals, we  find  two  reasons  for  its  existence.  In  the  first  place, 
surface  evils  are  self-evident.  It  is  much  easier  to  recognize  the  evil  of 
poverty  or  the  condition  of  Belgium,  than  the  cause  of  poverty  or  the 
cause  of  the  Belgian  invasion.  Hence,  we  maintain  charities  and  con- 
tribute to  the  Belgian  fund;    both  forms  of  symptom  treating. 

In  the  second  place,  there  is  great  disagreement  as  to  how  to  remove 
the  cause  once  it  is  found.  The  Socialists  and  Singletaxers  offer  different 
theories;  but  there  are  many  groups  of  reformers  who  believe  that 
neither  the  ownership  of  the  means  of  production  nor  a  single  tax  on  land  • 
is  the  simple  remedy  for  the  ills  of  society.  The  divergent  methods  cause 
much  confusion;  and  many  turn  from  the  wordy  arguments  of  a  cult 
and  flock  to  increase  the  numbers  of  those  engaged  in  doctoring  humanity 
with  palatable  pills  that  merely  assuage  the  disease  for  a  time. 

The  difficulty  is  that  individuals  and  nations  have  neither  the  time 
nor  the  inclination  to  conduct  a  long  and  earnest  search  for  a  solution 
of  the  problems  that  beset  us.  Thus,  we  are  constantly  having  new 
ointments  applied  to  the  surface  eruptions  of  society,  while  the  germ 
undermining  the  inner  tissues  is  left  to  work  its  destruction.  The  German 
government  may  be  cited  as  an  instance  of  the  tinkering  habit  carried  to 
a  remarkable  degree  in  paternal  legislation.  Every  minor  evil  is  stifled 
by  legislative  enactment.  Everything  in  Germany  is  verboten.  As  a 
biographer  said,  "Bismark  made  Germany  great;  but  he  made  the 
German   very   small." 


104  The  Haverfordian 

The  German  is  so  restricted  by  petty  laws  in  normal  times  that 
every  twelfth  man  in  the  empire  has  been  arrested,  not  on  account  of 
breaking  a  criminal  statute,  but  because  of  some  little  infringement  of 
the.  countless  bewildering  rules  and  regulations.  There  is  actually  a 
ruling  against  the  crossing  of  one's  legs  in  a  street  car  and  one  prescribing 
the  proper  way  to  carry  an  umbrella, — these,  of  course  are  interesting, 
minor  examples. 

But  in  all  countries  with  the  growth  of  paternalism  there  is  evidenced 
a  tendency  to  treat  symptoms.  Bills  are  passed  in  a  hurry  to  relieve 
every  acute  ailment.  On  the  other  hand,  governing  bodies  are  not 
inclined  to  increase  their  burdens  by  taking  up  subjects  about  which 
the  public  is  not  keenly  aroused.  The  immediate  remedy  for  an  evil  is 
sought,  and  there  is  a  noticeable  lack  of  farsighted  statesmanship.  Not 
only  do  all  laws  regulating  the  minutiae  of  private  conduct  kill  initiative ; 
but  the  constant  alleviating  of  evils,  by  surface  legislation,  postpones 
the  day  when  society  will  rest  on  a  better  foundation. 

The  huge  national  sores  which  are  seen  so  plainly  today  arouse 
right  thinking  people.  "Conditions  are  wrong,"  they  say.  "We  must 
change  this  wage  scale  or  that  international  law."  But  a  great  conflict  of 
interests,  such  as  is  now  going  on,  opens  the  eyes  of  men  to  the  need  of 
a  new  social  and  international  arrangement. 

There  is  no  simple  answer  to  questions  of  right  and  wrong  in  the 
present  war.  This  makes  it  a  difiScult  matter  to  place  guilt.  Those 
who  claim  to  have  found  the  cause  of  the  war  to  be  due  to  the  influence 
of  certain  individuals  or  groups  of  individuals  belong  to  a  special  type 
of  surface  thinkers.  The  ladies  who  exclaim,  "The  Kaiser  is  responsible. 
He  must  be  mad.  I  wish  someone  would  kill  him!"  furnish  an  argu- 
ment against  woman's  suffrage.  The  seeds  of  this  catastrophe  were 
sown  long  ago.  It  was  not  Emperor  William,  but  wrong  attitudes — 
world  wide, — prejudiced  minds,  superficial  thought,  and  the  lack  of 
real  religion. 

But  the  world  will  soon  be  in  a  position  to  do  important  preventive 
work.  The  Germans  talked  of  der  Tag;  and  we  are  now  in  the  night 
that  has  followed  the  day.  The  morning  of  the  new  day  is  coming  with 
a  revolution  of  ideas.  "This  shall  never  happen  again"  is  the  cry  of 
the  warring  nations.  There  is  not  to  be  a  bolstering  up  of  the  old  system ; 
not  a  new  partition  of  territory  with  a  new  balance  of  power;  Germany 
or  the  Allies  will  not  be  disarmed,  leaving  the  victors  a  prey  to  the  old 
ambitions.  There  is  a  great  demand  for  a  new  order  of  things.  At  no 
time  before  has  the  putting  out  of  the  constantly  smoldering  flames  of 
war  been  within  power  of  accomplishment  by  the  nations  of  the  earth. 


When  God  Dies  105 

Perhaps  symptom  treating  may  creep  in,  and  the  work  may  be 
imperfectly  accomplished;  but  a  constructive  readjustment  is  the  only 
good  a  war  of  this  kind  can  bring.  A  birth  of  ideas  for  the  prevention 
of  future  wars  brought  forth  from  this  travail  is  the  hope  of  good  to 
come  from  the  conflict.  An  adjustment  will  have  to  be  made;  and  it 
appears  to  be  America's  object  to  try  to  make  that  adjustment  a  com- 
plete step  forward.  If  there  has  been  an  enthusiasm  for  treating  causes 
awakened  in  the  world,  then,  truly,  the  war  is  not  in  vain. 


Wttn  ^ob  Mitsi 

By  Charles  Hartshorne 

When  flowers  weed-choked  are  dead. 
And  never  one  remains. 
When  sunset  glows  have  fled 
And  tintless  daylight  wanes; 
When  homes  and  hearths  are  bare 
Of  any  spark  of  love. 
And  hate  rains  blackness  where 
Now  is  peace  to  dream  of; 
When  in  the  world  no  right 
Is  known,  nor  despised  no  wrong. 
When  truth  can  lead  no  light, 
Freedom  lift  not  song ; 
When  this  fair  beauty  we  see 
In  nature  and  in  man. 
Is  stripped  from  necessity 
Their  rude  inviolate  plan. 
When  no  more  weighty  power 
Stirs  the  prophetic  heart. 
Tells  of  the  brighter  hour 
Points  to  the  higher  fort, — 
When  the  urgent  upward  trend 
Of  a  great  race  sprung  from  the  sod, — 
When  these — and  my  heart — are  at  end : 
Then — there  will  be  no  God. 


By  Charles  Wharton  Stork 

I  like  to  think  of  famous  men  I've  met, — 
Notable  statesmen,  bankers,  novelists, — 
But  when  I  mean  to  tell  myself  the  truth 
I  say  that  of  them  all  there  has  been  one, 
Only  one  great  man.     This  is  how  I  saw  him. 

Mother  had  brought  me  to  a  big  "at  home" — 
Just  then  I  was — had  said  "Wait  here  for  me," 
Pushing  me  to  a  corner  by  a  clock. 
And  vanished  'mid  black  coats  and  fluffy  sleeves. 
Oh,  what  a  crowd,  how  red  the  ladies'  faces! 
At  first  'twas  rather  fun  to  hear  the  men 
Say  things  they  fancied  no  one  overheard. 
Then  I  was  bored,  I  drummed  upon  a  chair, 
Felt  for  my  new  pearl  pen-knife  fifty  times, 
And  tried  to  tell  myself  a  story,  how 
When  I  had  shot  a  deer,  the  Indian  braves 
Came  slinking  through  the  waving  prairie  grass, 
And  how  the  arrows  whizzed  above  my  head. 
And  how  I  shot  the  red-skins  when  they  sneaked 
Too  close,  and  how  I  watched  for  three  long  nights. 
Till  when  I  was  almost  dead  from  wounds  and  thirst- 
Dear  me!  the  tiresome  people  interrupted 
And  always  spoiled  the  end.     An  elbow  came 
Between  my  head  and  some  chief's  tomahawk. 
But  did  I  thank  it,  I  with  pistol  raised 
To  shoot  him  in  his  tracks?  Not  I,  forsooth! 
So  I  had  given  it  up,  was  feeling  vexed 
And  peevish,  wondering  where  mother  was. 
When  I  looked  up  and  saw  him  looking  down. 
"Hullo!  what  brought  you  to  this  silly  place?" 
He  had  a  nice  smile,  not  at  all  the  kind 
The  others  wore,  all  sort  of  plastered  on; 
His  smile  seemed  just  to  come  right  out  of  him, 
Although  his  face  was  tired.     He  looked  as  if 
I'd  known  him' a  long  while,  and  so  I  said, 
"I'm  waiting  here  for  mother  'cause  I  must. 


The  Great  Man  107 

But  why  do  you  stay  here?     Can't  you  go  'way?" 
He  smiled  a  little  wider,  let  his  hand 
Run  down  along  my  bang,  and  then  he  said, 
"No,  I've  been  bad  and  this  is  what  they  do 
To  punish  me.     They  keep  me  here  all  day 
And  feed  me  on  ice-cream  and  lemonade 
And  lady  fingers,  yes  and  compliments." 
"What's  compliments?" 

"A  kind  of  sugary  thing 
You  like  the  first  time,  then  it  makes  you  sick. 
But  tell  me  what  you  were  thinking  of  just  now. 
Not  girls  yet." 

So  I  told  him  all  the  fight 
And  then  about  my  new  dog  Jack,  and  then 
About  the  carp  that  Billy  Jones  and  I 
Had  caught  in  Billy's  uncle's  pond.     At  last 
Came  mother,  took  me  ofif  with  her  so  quick 
I  hadn't  time  to  say  good-bye  to  him. 

At  supper  father  asked  me  what  I'd  done 
When  mother  left  me,  and  I  told  him.     Then 
Mother  said,  "Well,  I  wonder  who  it  was." 

Just  a  week  afterwards,  or  maybe  two. 
They  took  me  in  to  a  big  picture  show. 
I  didn't  like  it  much  till  mother  said, 
"Come  see  the  one  that  everyone  admires," 
And  led  me  up  quite  close.     Of  course  the  rest 
Could  look  right  over  me,  so  there  I  stood 
And  gazed  at  the  big  picture. 

Strange  it  was 
How  I  forgot  my  tiredness  and  the  crowd. 
Imagining  things  as  if  I  was  alone. 
There  was  a  wide,  green  meadow  like  the  one 
On  grandpa's  place  with  daisies,  lots  of  them, 
And  trees  to  play  at  hide-and-seek  behind. 
There  was  a  fence,  too,  only  not  so  high 
As  grandpa's  where  I  fell  and  hurt  my  knee. 
But  oh,  the  funniest  thing!  There  was  a  boy 
Almost  my  size  that  picked  the  daisies  there, 
And  a  girl  with  him,  might  be  Daisy  Trent 
Except  that  she  had  freckles  and  red  hair 


108  The  Haverfordian 

And  this  one  hadn't.     But  when  I  looked  up 
To  find  out  if  the  round  white  fluffy  clouds 
Were  over  all  the  sky,  I  sort  of  woke 
And  saw  the  other  pictures.     My,  but  they 
Were  stupid,  fish  and  cows  and  girls  and  things! 
Then  mother  came  for  me,  but  as  we  walked 
Along  she  pointed  out  where  some  man  stood 
With  lots  of  people  round  him,  "Look,  dear,  look! 
That's  the  most  famous  artist  of  them  all, 
Who  painted  the  great  lansdcape  that  you  liked." 
I  caught  her  by  the  sleeve  and  pulled  her  down 
To  whisper,  "Oh  but  mother,  that's  the  man 
That  talked  to  me  when  you  left  me  at  the  tea." 
"Dear,  are  you  sure?" 

"Mother,  of  course  I  am; 
He  talked  so  long  and  nicely.     Could  I  go 
And  speak  to  him  again?" 

"No,  dearest,  no. 
You  see  the  people  round  him." 

"But  I'm  sure 
He  wouldn't  mind." 

"No,  you  must  come  along." — 
Ah  well,  that's  all,  except  that  father  said 
He  thought  that  mother  might  have  let  me  go 
And  speak  to  him.     That  year  he  went  abroad, 
And  so  I  never  saw  him  any  more. 

Yes,  I've  met  men  since  whom  the  world  calls  great, 
Notable  statesmen,  bankers,  novelists. 
But  none  I'm  half  so  sure  of  as  of  him. 


Pierrot 

By  A.  Doiiolas  Oliver 

Picnol  is  (laid  lluy  say, 

But  that  is  false  I  kiimc; 

For  when  the  world  is  laeed  with  green 

And  dogwood  petals  snow, 

I  hear  his  Jar-off  silv'ry  call 

That  wakes  my  heart  anew. 

For  Pierrot's  soul  is  in  the  wind 

That  calls  a  soft  halloo. 

For  Td  be  off  from  mart  and  street, 
Sweet  hedgrow  paths  Td  take. 
With  throbbing  throat  and  mellow  note 
To  sing  beside  her  gate — 

'  The  moon's  a  lantern  pale  of  gold. 
Hung  in  a  lilac  stretch  of  sky. 
Its  faint  light  quivers  o'er  the  lake 
Where  pools  of  shaking  purple  lie. 
Dear  heart  o'mine,  so  shy,  so  sweet, 
Haste  dozen  with  fairy,  flying  feet. 

More  love  to  you  I  can  not  bring. 
My  heart  is  now  too  full  to  sing 
Gay  lilting  songs  that  laughing  try. 
To  ope  your  latticed  windoivs  shy." 

Oh  Pierrot's  call  is  on  the  wind. 
His  footmarks  in  the  dew; 
For  rose-red  petals  strew  the  paths 
Which  Pierrette  led  him  throw'h. 


The  Haverfordian 

For  Lawn  and  Garage 

It  is  easy  to  use  Nonkink  Hose,  because  it  is  so 
smooth  and  light  and  flexible.  It  lasts  so  long,  and 
is  so  free  from  leaks  that  it  adds  economy  to  your 
satisfaction  in  using  it.      18c  per  ft.  coupled. 

With  it,  let  us  supply  any  Nozzles,  Reels,  or 
Sprinklers  that  you  need. 

J.  E.  Rhoads  £?  Sons 

12  N.  Third  Street,  Philadelphia 


Advertise  in 
The  Haverfordian 


We  will  rent  you  a  late  model 

Underwood  Typewriter 

3  Months  for  15.00 

and  apply  the  first  rental 
payment  on  the  purchase 
price  if  you  desire  to  buy 
the  machine. 

MARCUS  &  CO. 

STATIONERS— TYPEWRITERS 

1303  Market  St.,  Philadelphia 


The  Haverfordian 


Army  and  Navy 


GOODS 


I 


Complete  Camp  Equipment 


Free  Catalogue 


B.  B.  ABRAHAM  &  CO. 


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FIRST  AID 

in 

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CANDY  PERFUMES 

STATIONERY 

CIGARS     CUT  GLASS      KODAKS 

C.  G.  WARNER,  P.  D. 

Pharmacist  '        HAVERFORD,  PA. 


'teunas. 


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CENTRAL  TRUNK  FACTORY 

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BRADBURN  &  NIGRO 
bailors 

Cor.   13th  and  Sansom  Streets 
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The  Haverfordian 


1 


Headquarters  for  Everything 
Musical 

Banjos,       Ukuleles, 
Mandolins,    Violins 
Mandolutes,  Gui- 
tars, Cornets,  etc. 

.        Pianos  and 
►hi    Player- 
Pianos 

Victrolas  and  Victor  Records 

,'    Popular,  Classical  and  Operatic  Sheet  Mnsic. 

WEYMAHN 

1108  Chestnut  Street,      Philadelphia 


Aside  from  its  careful  work  in  filling  pre- 
scriptions 

Haverford  Pharmacy 

has  become  known  as  a  place  where  many 
of  the  solid  comforts  of  life  may  be  ob- 
tained. One  worth  mentioning  is  the  fa- 
mous Lotion  for  sunburn,  chapped  hands 
and  face,  and  other  irritations  of  the  skin. 
Decline,  gently  but  firmly,  any  other  said 
to  be  "just  as  good." 

WILSON  L.  HARBAUGH. 


Protection  is  the  Best  Policy 
The  Best  Policy  is  the  Best 
Protection 


Write  or  call  on 


Richard  S.  Dewees  & 

John  K.  Garrigues 


for  information. 


SPECIAL  AGENTS  FOR 

The  Provident  Life  and  Trust  Co. 

4th  and  Chestnut  Sts.,     Philadelphia 


Pictures  Framed 

to  order,  and  in  an  artistic 
manner,  and  at  reasonable 
prices. 

J.  E.  BARKMAN,  * 

24  W.  Lancaster  Avenue 
Ardmore,  Pa. 

Pictures,    Stationery,    Gifts 


Joseph  C.  Ferguson,  Jr. 

6-8-10   South  Fifteenth  Street 

Optical  anb 
^fjotograpftic  (^oobsi 

OF  EVERY  DESCRIPTION 
Below  Market  Street 

Bryn  Mawr  Motor  Co.,  Inc. 

Main  Line  Agents 

BUICK 
AUTOMOBILES 

Branch    of 

HALE  MOTOR  CO.  Wayne,  Pa. 

For  that 

Thirsty  Thirst 

DRINK 

HIRES 


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H.  D.  REESE 

1203  P'ilbert  Street,  Philadelphia 

Meals 


Bell  Phone.  Filbert  2949  and  2950 


Keystone  Phone.  Race  3835  and  3836 


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Undertakers 
ARDMORE,  PA. 

Successors  to 
JOSIAH  S.  PEARCE 

120  E.    Lancaster  Avenue 

Phone,    Ardmore    9 


BELMONT 
IRON 
WORKS 


Main  Office  and  Works: 
PHILADELPHIA,    PA. 


New  York  Office: 
32  BROADWAY 


Bridge  Shops: 
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Drawing  Instruments, 

BOARD.S,    TABLES,    ARTISTS' 

MATERIALS,   DRAFTING    and 

ENGINEERING  SUPPLIES. 

Equipment  of  Art  and   Drawinji  Rooms  a 
Specialty. 

F.  WEBER  &    CO:S   Water  ^prooj 
India  In^s 

Black  and  Nine  Colors 

Special  Discount  to  Students. 

F.  WEBER  &  CO. 

1125  Chestnut  Street, 

■WEBER"  stamped  on  your  supplies,  is  like  "STER- 
LING" on  Silver. 

Bell  Phone,  Ardmore  269-W 

Raf>rl(>r'&    QU.ality  candies 
uacaer  s,      our  own  make 

Special  Orders  for  Teas.  etc..  given  our  prompt 
attention. 

26  E.  Lancaster  Avenue,      Ardmore 
Main  Store,    PHIL.\DELPHIA 


Philadelphia 


FRANK    MULLER 


Manufacturing  Optician 

1631  CHESTNUT  ST.,  PHILADELPHIA 

Invisible  Bifocal  Lenses 
Opera,  Field  Glasses  and  Lorgnettes 

No  cord  or  chain  required  w/ith  our  Eye  Glasses 


When  Patronizing  Advertisers  Kindly  Mention  The  Haverfordi.\n 


The  Haverfordian 


Smedley  &  Mehl 

Lumber 

and  Coal 
BUILDING  MATERIAL 


Phones.  Nos.  1100  and  1 101 


ARDMORE 


TELEPHONE,  ARDMORE  163-J 

VERL  PUGH 

ELECTRICAL    CONTRACTOR 
ELECTRICAL   SUPPLIES 

8  Cricket  Ave.         Ardmore,  Pa. 

WILLIAM  SHEWELL  ELLIS 
Has  moved  his  Photographic  Studios 

to 
1612   Chestnut  Street,  Philadelphia 


I 


Merion  Title  and  Trust  Co.  of  Ardmore 

Incorporated  March  28,  1889. 

Capital  Paid S150,0»0  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 
Burglar  Proof  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 


LINCOLN 
HIGHWAY 


Rooms  with 
Privale  Bath 


INN 


MODERN    APPOINTMENTS  | 

Every  Room  with  Outside  Light  and  Air 
No  Bar.         SALESMEN'S  DISPLAY  ROOM 
Especial  Attention  to  Automobile  Parties 

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The  Haverfordian 


Plate  Glass 


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I 


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 


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fhis  is  ihe  {ype 
\J  S^Young/lan 
.  who  arouses 
your  admi  ration - 
/le  wears  our 

Clothes 


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nabcidashers 
•Hatters- 

H24-l«6Chc5lnirtSt. 
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Good  Hair  CuUiiig  is  an  art.    Our  men  all  know 

how,  and  will  give  you  the  best  work  at  standard 

prices.      No  tipping  or  other  annoyances. 


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Sixth  Avenue.  Reading  Terminal  Market, 

Twelfth  and  Arch  Streets.  PHILADELPHIA 

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The  Haverfordian 


The  Bryn  Mawr  Trust  Company 


Capital  Authorized,  $250,000 


Capital  Paid,  $135,000 


Allows  interest  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 


DIRECTORS 
A.  A.  Hirst  Elbridge  McFarland  Wm.  C.  Powell,  M.  D. 

William  L.   Hirst  John  S.  Garrigues  H.  J.  M.  Cardeza 

J.  Randall   Williams  Jesse  B.    Matlack  Joseph  A.  Morris 


John  C.  Mellon 

W.  H.  Ramie/ 
Phillip  A.   Hart 


ARDMORE  HARDWARE  CO. 
ARDMORE,  PA. 

Hardware,  Sporting  Goods, 

Housefurnishing 

HARRY  HARRISON 

DEPARTMENT  STORE 

Dry  Goods.  Notions,  Clothing  and  Shoes,  Ladies' 
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Contents^ 


Training  for  Service  at  Haverf ord President  Sliarpless  121 

The  Reply Harry  C.  Hartman  122 

Academic  Freedom:  Tlie  Reality  and  the  Ideal 

William  H.  Chamberlin  123 

Evening  on  Lonesome  Lalte Philip  E.  Howard,  Jr.  130 

Moses  Delancey  and  "Blaclc  Famine" J.  H.  Smith  131 

The  Evening  and  the  Morning H.  W.  Brecht  133 

The  Delights  of  Musing Charles  Wharton  Stork  141 

The  Universal  Game Christopher  Roberts  143 

The  End  of  a  Chapter J.  G.  C.  Le  Clercq  146 


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THE    HAVERFORDIAN 


Jacques  LeClercq,  Editor-in-Chief 

ASSOCIATE  EDITORS 

H.  P.  Schenck  W.  S.  Nevin 

Charles  Hartshorne  R.  N.  Miller 

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> 


I 


Price,  per  year $1.00  Single  copies $0.15 

The  Haverfordian  is  published  on  the  twentieth  of  each  month  during  college  year. 
Its  purpose  is  to  foster  the  literary  spirit  among  the  undergraduates  to  provide  an  or- 
gan  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  in- 
tended for  insertion  should  reach  the  Editor  not  later  than  the  twenty-fifth  of  the  month 
preceding  the  date  of  issue. 

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


Vol.  XXXIX  HAVERFORD,  PA.,  JUNE,  1917  No.  4 


f 


tE^rainins  for  ^erbice  at  ^abcrforb 

By  President  Sharpless 

THERE  is  a  general  disorganization  of  college  work  all  over  the 
country  as  the  result  of  the  war  conditions.  In  Haverford  it 
has  taken  a  different  form  than  elsewhere.  We  have  the  large 
aumber  of  young  men  who  desire  to  aid  the  government  in  the  prosecu- 
tion of  the  war.  We  have  also  a  number  both  in  the  faculty  and  the 
student  body,  who  accept  the  traditional  views  of  the  founders  of  the 
college,  and  who  wish  to  make  them  more  than  traditional  by  personal 
conviction  based  on  inquiry  and  evidence.  When  the  first  serious 
excitement  came  for  military  enlistment,  it  seemed  that  a  large  pro- 
portion of  the  college  would  be  disposed  to  take  any  service  that  should 
be  presented.  Under  the  spur  of  the  moment  it  was  proposed  to  form  a 
military  company  and  have  training  on  or  off  the  college  grounds. 
On  further  reflection ,  however,  many  of  the  students  thought  that 
such  a  move  would  tend  to  an  unfortunate  disorganization  of  the  college, 
and  almost  on  the  spur  of  the  moment  a  proposition  was  made  which 
seemed  to  solve  the  question.  Training  of  a  non-military  character 
was  proposed  and  the  whole  college  vigorously  adopted  the  proposition. 
Thus  under  the  very  active  co-operation  of  some  of  the  members  of  the 
faculty  and  the  leading  students  the  movement  has  been  carried  through 
in  a  most  successful  way.  They  have  now  been  at  it  long  enough  to 
appreciate  the  fact  that  it  is  an  excellent  preparation  for  any  service 
which  they  might  be  called  upon  to  render  to  the  government,  and 
it  is  also  peculiarly  a  Haverfordian  affair  in  which  we  may  all  unite. 

The  college  has  been  divided  into  four  sections,  each  one  of  which 
has  one  exercise  a  week.  One  of  these  sections  in  one  of  the  following 
forms  has  largely  completed  the  leveling  of  a  baseball  field,  another 
has  studied  the  science  and  practice  of  ambulance  and  relief  work, 
another  the  mechanical  and  scientific  principles  involved  in  automobile 
management  and  the  fourth  the  problems  of  camp  life  and  sanitation. 
Once  a  week  the  whole  of  the  four  groups  go  off  on  a  "hike"  of  some 
miles  in  length.  The  effect  of  this  is  to  put  the  whole  college  in  an 
excellent  physical  condition,  and  to  turn  attention  to  the  duties  of 
national  service  of  some  sort  when  needed.  Seven  of  our  students  have 
gone  to  the  Officers'  Training  Camp  at  Fort  Niagara,  seventeen  have 
joined  the  Ambulance  Unit,  Number  10,  and  have  sailed  for  France. 
A  few  others  have  enlisted  in  various  branches  of  service,  but  have  not 
been  called  out.  A  number  have  gone  to  work  on  farms  or  are  preparing 
for  this  service  during  the  summer  vacation. 


122  The  Haverfordian 

All  of  this  will  of  course  have  its  effect  upon  the  size  of  the  college 
another  year.     Fortunately  there  is  every  prospect  of  a  large  Fresh- 
man class,  and  our  Sophomore  Class  will  also  retain  most  of  its  member- 
ship.    From  the  two  upper  classes  a  number  will  doubtless  be  taken 
away,  but  we  are  in  thorough  accord  with  the  resolutions  adopted  by 
the  College  Presidents  of  Pennsylvania  at  a  recent  meeting  as  follows: 
"In  view  of  the  serious  need  in  the  near  future  for  men 
broadly    educated,    capable    of   solving   the    great    problems, 
spiritual  and  intellectual,  that  will  arise  in  this  country,  we 
believe  that  students  in  our  colleges  of  liberal  arts  should  con- 
tinue where  possible  throughout  their  courses  of  study,  and 
that  all  young  men  who  can  avail  themselves  of  the  oppor- 
tunities offered  by  our  colleges  should  be  urged  to  enter." 
This  sentiment  of  the  college  authorities  has  been  endorsed  prac- 
tically by  the  government  at  Washington. 

The  new  administration  of  Haverford  will  doubtless  be  confronted 
by  serious  problems  and  the  strain  of  the  last  three  months  will  be  to 
some  extent  carried  over,  but  the  policy  of  Haverford  College  has  already 
developed  would  seem  feasible  and  proper  and  in  the  future  might  be 
construed  as  follows: 

That  our  young  men  should  not  be  carried  away  by  sudden  excite- 
ment into  any  serious  movement  which  would  control  their  future; 
that  those  who  feel  it  their  serious  duty  to  go  into  the  fighting  ranks 
should  receive  the  sympathy  of  the  college ;  that  those  whose  consciences 
make  them  feel  that  entrance  upon  the  same  course  would  be  wrong 
should  be  encouraged  to  be  true  to  their  convictions,  and  that  the  college 
should  be  held  together  as  far  as  possible  on  the  basis  of  the  liberty  and 
inviolability  of  every  man's  honest,  educated  conscience. 

Isaac  Sharpless. 

tKfje  Eeplp 

By  Harry  C.  Hartman 

Love  you  alone,  and  you  entirely? 
Give  you  my  hand,  my  heart,  my  life? 
Heed  not  the  fellowship  of  others? 
Just  to  be  a  slave  to  your  delight? 
Forsake  the  home  where  I  was  fostered? 
Forget  the  friendships  of  the  past ; 
Love  you  alone,  and  you  entirely? 
But  think  you,  child,  such  love  can  last? 


I 


Slcabemic  Jfrcebom:  Efje  Eealitp  and  tfje  3l)eal 

By  William  Henry  Chamberlin 

ONE  of  the  first  objects  of  collegiate  education  is  lost  if  it  does 
not  convey  a  distinct  sense  of  responsibility  to  those  who 
have  received  it.  This  is  especially  true  in  a  democratic 
nation.  A  highly  organized  and  efficient  autocracy  can  direct  its  afi'airs 
without  much  dependence  upon  the  individual  initiative  of  its  subjects. 
But  a  government  which  is  really  controlled  by  the  will  of  the  people  is 
certain  to  suffer  seriously  if  it  fails  to  enlist  the  whole-hearted  and 
intelligent  co-operation  of  that  class  of  its  citizens  which  has  had  the 
advantage  of  the  most  thorough  and  intensive  type  of  mental  prepara- 
tion. Now  it  is  a  generally  admitted  fact  that  the  American  college 
undergraduate  is  inferior  to  his  European  cousin  not  in  natural  brillance 
and  flexibility  of  mind,  but  rather  in  power  of  application  and  capacity 
for  intellectual  enthusiasms.  Moreover,  a  series  of  tests,  recently 
conducted  in  a  number  of  eastern  colleges  and  universities,  disclosed 
a  common  state  of  blissful  ignomace  on  the  most  vital  problems  of 
current  history  that  would  be  ludicrous  if  it  were  not  really  alarming. 
It  would  seem  that  the  educational  authorities  of  the  country  are  fully 
awake  to  the  gravity  of  the  situation.  Our  periodicals  are  filled  with 
articles  by  college  presidents,  deans  and  professors,  expatiating  on  the 
sins  and  shortcomings  of  the  average  student,  diagnosing  causes  and 
suggesting  remedies.  Football,  fraternities  and  tangoing  all  come  in 
for  a  share  of  the  blame.  But,  while  excessive  devotion  to  athletics 
and  society  may  contribute  to  the  present  unfortunate  situation,  the 
real  crux  of  our  academic  problem  lies  in  a  condition  which  seems  to  be 
altogether  overlooked  by  the  very  persons  who  could  do  most  to  reform 
it.  This  condition  is  brought  about  by  the  non-recognition,  in  most  of 
our  colleges  and  universities,  of  the  principle  of  academic  freedom  which 
is  the  cornerstone  of  all  true  culture  and  solid  intellectual  achievement. 
This  non-recognition  is  to  be  found  in  two  forms.  First  it  is  generally 
understood,  especially  in  the  larger  universities  and  state  colleges,  that 
certain  industrial  and  social  problems  are  forbidden  ground  for  free 
discussion.  For  instance  a  professor  in  one  of  these  institutions  could 
express  himself  with  the  utmost  liberty  on  the  subject  of  German  atroc- 
ities in  Belgium;  but  this  liberty  would  scarcely  hold  good  if  he  ventured 
to  enter  into  the  question  of  capitalistic  atrocities  in  Bayonne.  Again 
he  might  wax  eloquent  on  the  subject  of  the  women  and  babies  who 
were  drowned  on  the  "Lusitania";  but  he  would  find  little  favor  with 
the  ruling  powers  if  he  commenced  to  discuss  the  fate  of  the  women 


124  The  Haverfordian 

and  babies  who  were  burned  and  shot  down  in  cold  blood  by  the  Rocke- 
feller assassins  in  southern  Colorado.  We  do  not  have  to  go  very  far 
from  home  to  get  undeniable  proof  that  academic  freedom,  so  far  as 
it  involves  any  disturbance  of  the  sacred  Golden  Calf  of  vested  inter- 
ests, is  nothing  but  a  name  and  a  figment.  The  famous,  or  infamous 
case  of  Scott  Nearing;  the  recent  expulsion  of  Dr.  Patten,  accomplished 
with  more  skill  but  in  the  same  spirit ;  the  refusal  to  allow  the  President 
of  the  American  Federation  of  Labor  to  use  the  university  grounds  to 
deliver  an  address,  all  these  occurrences,  and  many  others,  point  to  an 
inevitable  conclusion.  They  show  that  the  authorities  of  our  neighbor- 
ing university,  however  zealous  some  of  them  may  be  for  the  triumph 
of  the  cause  of  freedom  in  France,  Belgium,  Russia,  Armenia,  Meso- 
potamia and  other  conveniently  remote  localities,  are  heartily  adverse 
to  the  progress  of  democracy  in  America.  It  may  even  be  said  that 
these  authorities  actually  prefer  the  empty-headed,  foxtrotting  type  of 
student  which  they  ostensibly  deprecate  to  the  vigorous  intellectual 
radical  who  is  always  the  most  formidable  enemy  of  despotism,  whether 
that  despotism  be  a  military  autocracy  or  a  capitalistic  oligarchy. 

The  repressive  attitude  of  most  of  our  large  universities  towards 
progressive  political  and  economic  tendencies  has  already  produced  some 
very  serious  results.  Under  the  present  system  most  students  leave 
college  either  indifferent  to  public  affairs  or  strongly  prejudiced  in 
favor  of  the  conservative  viewpoint.  As  a  result  the  calibre  of  progres- 
sive leadership  in  the  country  has  unmistakably  suffered.  If  further 
proof  of  this  statement  is  wanted,  one  has  only  to  review  the  conduct 
of  the  so-called  progressive  leaders  during  the  recent  international 
crisis.  The  issue  was  so  clearly  drawn  that  a  child  could  scarcely  miss 
its  fall  implications.  The  World  War  had  resolved  itself  literally  into 
a  death  struggle  between  autocracy  and  democracy.  The  result,  far 
from  being  settled,  was  still  very  much  in  doubt.  German  victory,  in 
all  probability,  would  involve  the  downfall  of  the  western  democracies, 
France  and  England,  and  the  dissolution  or  exploitation  of  the  new 
republic  of  Russia.  In  this  event  America  would  have  the  choice  of 
two  alternatives :  ignoble  submission  to  the  inevitable  attack  of  "  kultur  " 
or  the  adoption,  in  sheer  self-defense,  of  a  militarism  which  would  go 
beyond  the  fondest  dreams  of  Theodore  Roosevelt,  Major  General 
Leonard  Wood  and  the  Hon.  Augustus  P.  Gardner.  Either  alternative 
would  be  unthinkable  to  any  sane  liberal ;  every  consideration  of  honor, 
expediency  and  future  safety  urged  us  to  throw  our  power  into  the 
balance  and  save  the  cause  of  democracy  before  it  was  too  late.  But 
La  Follette,  Cummins,  Clapp,  Norris  and  the  other  reputed  liberals 


Academic  Freedom:    The  Reality  and  the  Ideal  125 

in  the  Senate  played  a  most  pitiful  role  in  the  emergency,  sacrificed 
everything  to  a  hysterical  demand  for  peace  at  any  price,  and  actually 
left  gentlemen  of  the  reactionary  tendencies  of  Mr.  Lodge  and  Mr. 
Root  in  the  somewhat  anomalous  position  of  standard-bearers  in  the 
army  of  human  freedom.  This  is  only  one  very  striking  case  where  the 
cause  of  liberalism  in  America  has  suffered  discredit  because  its  advo- 
cates evinced  more  sentimentality  than  brains. 

What  has  only  been  an  irritating  misfortune  in  the  past  may  well 
become  a  genuine  tragedy  in  the  future.  One  does  not  have  to  be  a 
visionary  or  an  alarmist  to  predict  that  America  will  be  confronted 
with  some  very  serious  problems  within  the  next  fifty  years.  So  far 
our  enormous  natural  resources  have  enabled  us  to  put  up  with  an 
economic  system  that  is  at  once  wasteful,  unscientific  and  unjust.  But 
this  condition  cannot  endure  indefinitely.  Already  there  have  been 
armed  clashes  between  the  forces  of  labor  and  capital  in  Colorado,  in 
West  Virginia,  in  California,  in  Bayonne.  Even  more  ominous  than 
these  sporadic  outbursts  of  violence  was  the  recently  averted  menace 
of  a  nation-wide  railroad  strike.  Only  the  most  hidebound  conservative 
can  fail  to  see  that  vast  changes,  involving  a  radical  readjustment  of 
many  of  our  present  political  and  social  theories,  are  an  inevitable 
concomitant  of  the  future.  How  are  these  changes  to  be  accomplished? 
By  the  agency  of  wild-eyed  visionaries,  professional  agitators  and 
unbalanced  fanatics?  Or  under  the  guidance  and  direction  of  the 
trained  minds  of  the  country?  The  answer  to  this  question  depends 
very  largely  upon  the  attitude  of  the  colleges  themselves.  If  they 
give  fair  consideration  to  the  new  ideals  of  social  and  industrial  justice, 
they  may  hope  to  play  a  leading  part  in  the  work  of  reconstruction. 
But  if  they  persist  in  their  present  policy  of  Mettemichian  repression 
(well  exemplified  by  the  collegiate  protest  against  the  appointment 
of  the  liberal  Brandeis  to  the  Supreme  Court)  they  will  have  only  them- 
selves to  blame  if  the  necessary  evolution  of  America  degenerates  into  a 
bloody  revolution,  under  the  sinister  leadership  of  the  Haywoods  and 
Emma  Goldmans. 

Lack  of  liberty  of  thought  and  speech  on  political  and  economic 
topics  is  probably  not  a  condition  that  is  peculiar  to  America.  It  exists, 
in  modified  form,  in  most  European  universities,  although  the  tradition 
of  academic  freedom  is  much  stronger  there  than  here.  But  there  is 
one  archaic  custom,  quite  frequently  found  in  our  small  colleges,  which 
could  scarcely  be  duplicated  elsewhere  in  the  civilized  world.  This  is 
the  familiar  practise  of  requiring  students  (and,  in  some  cases,  professors) 
to  go  through  some  public  religious  observance.     Sometimes  the  author- 


126  The  Haverfordian 

ities  of  our  small  sectarian  colleges  restrict  this  requirement  to  the 
exercises  of  their  own  faith.  Sometimes  they  are  magnanimous  enough 
to  extend  their  toleration  to  all  the  recognized  form.s  of  the  Christian 
religion.  But,  whatever  the  details  of  the  compulsory  outward  pro- 
fessions of  faith  which  are  so  prevalent,  they  are  all  thoroughly  antiqua- 
ted, basically  unreasonable  and  altogether  inconsistent  with  the  proper 
spirit  of  a  liberal  and  cultural  institution. 

In  order  to  gain  a  full  appreciation  of  the  grotesque  elements  in 
this  peculiar  rite  or  custom,  conceive  a  few  concrete  situations.  Imagine 
Friedrich  Nietzsche,  either  as  student  or  teacher,  submitting  to  the 
prescribed  religious  fare  of  one  of  our  small  Protestant  sects.  How 
long  could  Arthur  Schopenhauer  hold  the  chair  of  philosophy,  how  long 
could  Ernest  Renan  maintain  a  position  as  biblical  instructor  in  one 
of  our  denominational  institutions,  which  set  the  claims  of  sectarianism 
above  those  of  culture  and  reason?  These  men  may  have  been,  doubt- 
less were  perverted  instruments  of  the  Evil  One;  but  who  can  deny 
that  their  genius  would  do  much  to  irrigate  the  barren  waste  of  many 
an  orthodox  college?  It  is  not  easy  to  see  where  the  authorities  of  the 
typical  American  small  college  find  any  justification  for  their  attitude, 
outside  of  the  obsolete  and  antiquated  prejudices  of  the  founders  of 
their  sects.  For  certainly  it  would  be  absurd  to  claim  that  Christianity 
itself,  to  say  anything  of  its  narrow  sectarian  interpretations,  has  received 
the  unanimous  endorsement  of  men  of  genius  in  any  age,  however 
superstitious.  But,  it  may  be  said,  the  Nietzsches,  Schopenhauers, 
Voltaires,  Haeckels  are  mere  isolated  freaks;  they  are  not  representative 
in  any  sense,  of  public  feeling ;  and  their  ideas  should  find  no  countenance 
in  institutions  which  aim  to  turn  out  normal  citizens.  This  view, 
while  it  may  be  optimistic,  from  the  religious  standpoint,  is  scarcely 
accurate  in  the  light  of  actual  conditions  in  the  three  most  enlightened 
nations  of  the  world  to-day,  England,  France  and  Germany.  England, 
long  a  stronghold  of  that  puritanical  bigotry  which  is  so  unamiable  a 
characteristic  of  Matthew  Arnold's  middle-class  philistine,  is  now  under- 
going a  distinct  change.  It  would  have  been  impossible  for  a  writer 
like  H.  G.  Wells  to  maintain  both  his  anti-clericalism  and  his  popularity 
a  generation  ago.  As  for  Germany,  it  is  a  notorious  fact,  which  could 
be  supported  by  countless  illustrations,  that  the  highly  educated  and 
artistic  classes  have  little  more  concern  for  the  official  state  religion 
than  the  Greek  and  Roman  intellectual  aristocrats  had  for  the  state 
worship  of  their  time.  Of  course  just  now  Germany  is  not  an  ideal 
place  from  which  to  draw  examples;  but  take  the  case  of  France,  who 
has  won  the  admiration  of  the  whole  world  through  her  devoted  loyalty 


Academic  Freedom:    The  Reality  and  the  Ideal  127 

and  courageous  self-sacrifice.  The  unbroken  glorious  French  literary 
and  philosophical  tradition,  from  Abelard  to  Anatole  France,  has  been 
on  the  side  of  spiritual  freedom  and  against  the  arbitrary  religious 
conformity  which  is  so  ruthlessly  exacted  in  the  colleges  of  our  own 
country.  Of  late,  to  be  sure,  there  has  been  a  great  deal  of  talk  to  the 
effect  that  the  War  (a  most  singular  instrument  of  Christian  conversion!) 
has  miraculously  transformed  France  from  a  land  of  godless  infidelity 
into  a  country  of  spotless  piety.  How  much  foundation  for  this  pleasing 
fancy  exists  in  fact  may  be  surmised  from  the  personality  of  the  man 
whom  France  chose  as  head  of  her  recent  embassy  to  the  United  States, 
M.  Rene  Viviani.  This  distinguished  statesman,  in  the  course  of  a 
comparatively  recent  public  speech,  made  a  most  bitter  attack  on  the 
foundations  of  revealed  religion.  And  this  speech  was  published  and 
circulated  throughout  France  by  a  three  to  one  vote  in  the  Chamber 
of  Deputies. 

So  it  may  be  seen  that,  in  pursuing  a  policy  of  repression  on  ques- 
tions of  religion  and  philosophy,  the  typical  American  sectarian  college 
is  simply  playing  the  role  of  the  proverbial  ostrich,  who  sticks  his  head 
in  the  ground  and  refuses  to  see  anything  that  goes  on  about  him.  In 
fact  this  policy,  involving  as  it  does  enforced  attendance  at  various 
penitential  religious  exercises,  sedulous  exclusion  of  certain  prohibited 
authors  from  the  college  library  and  careful  avoidance  of  the  true  sig- 
nificance of  the  great  pagan  and  agnostic  writers  in  the  courses  of  the 
curriculum,  this  policy  would  be  quite  ludicrous  if  it  did  not  have  a 
certain  serious  aspect.  As  matters  now  stand  the  vast  majority  of 
students  leave  college  indifferent  to  the  essential  problems  of  religion, 
prejudiced,  perhaps,  against  the  formal  observances  which  have  been 
thrust  upon  them,  but,  on  the  whole,  successfully  inoculated  alike 
against  intelligent  belief  and  rational  scepticism.  Now  hitherto  there 
has  been  very  little  intellectual  criticism  of  religion  in  America.  Thomas 
Paine  and  Robert  IngersoU  on  one  side,  Philips  Brooks  and  Henry 
Ward  Beecher  on  the  other,  stated  their  positions  in  terms  which  appealed 
to  the  passions  and  emotions,  rather  than  to  the  reason.  But  this  con- 
dition will  scarcely  be  permanent.  It  is  hardly  in  the  best  interests  of 
religion  that  it  should.  Ic  is  a  parasitic  form  of  spiritual  life  that  thrives 
on  stagnation  and  lack  of  vigorous  opposition.  And  this  opposition 
will  not  always  be  wanting.  It  is  quite  likely  that,  in  the  near  future, 
someone  will  rise,  in  the  very  midst  of  this  land  of  blue  laws  and  Sabbath 
Associations,  and  attack  the  old  creeds  and  traditions  with  the  brilliant 
wit  of  a  Voltaire,  the  inexorable  logic  of  a  Schopenhauer  or  the  apostolic 
fervor  of  a  Nietzsche.     And,  once  this  prophet  of  infidelity  has  broken 


128  The  Haverfordian 

the  outer  crust  of  dogmatism  and  indiffereBce,  he  will  find  little  to  resist 
his  progress.  In  the  field  of  religious  speculation,  as  in  that  of  social 
justice,  illiberal  repression  will  not  be  able  to  check  the  ultimate  develop- 
ment of  human  thought.  It  will  only  make  the  cataclysm,  when  it 
comes,  more  destructive,  less  rational,  more  potent  for  evil  and  less 
productive  of  good  than  it  would  otherwise  have  been.  The  academic 
institutions  of  a  country  should  certainly  claim  both  the  privilege  and 
the  obligation  of  supplying  a  large  measure  of  its  political  and  philo- 
sophical leadership.  In  America  the  vast  majority  of  the  colleges  have 
forfeited  this  privilege  and  this  obligation.  They  are  not  marching 
in  the  vanguard  of  the  army  of  human  progress,  they  are  not  even 
keeping  step  with  the  main  body;  they  are  lagging  somewhere  far  in 
the  rear,  fettered  by  double  handicap  of  plutocratic  and  sectarian 
domination. 

It  would  be  worse  than  useless  to  point  out  these  abuses  without 
suggesting  some  remedy.  Now  there  can  be  no  doubt  that  the  only 
effective  change  in  the  present  situation  must  come  from  the  concerted 
action  of  the  students  themselves.  It  is  useless  to  hope  for  any  con- 
cessions from  the  authorities  of  the  colleges.  They  are  either  imbued 
with  class  and  sectarian  prejudices  themselves ;  or  else  they  are  restrained 
from  assuming  a  more  liberal  attitude  by  a  canny  fear  of  the  displeasure 
of  wealthy  alumni  and  other  prospective  benefactors  of  the  institution. 
The  "free"  college,  whose  policy  is  not  guided  by  anything  but  the 
highest  intellectual  and  aesthetic  considerations,  is  almost  as  mythical 
as  the  "free"  church.  But  fortunately  there  is  a  certain  power  in 
public  opinion;  and  a  well  directed  appeal  to  this  power  cannot  fail  to 
accomplish  much.  The  demonstrations  of  the  students  after  Scott 
Nearing's  outrageous  expulsion  probably  had  no  small  effect  in  per- 
suading the  trustees  of  the  university  to  ■yi'ithdraw  from  some  of  their 
most  reactionary  positions.  Now  suppose  that  the  students  in  all 
American  colleges  commenced  to  feel  an  enthusiasm  for  political  and 
intellectual  freedom  that  was,  in  some  measure,  commensurate  with 
their  enthusiasm  over  a  big  football  game.  It  is  safe  to  say  that  this 
new  spirit,  finding  expression  in  leagues  for  freedom  of  thought  and 
speech,  meetings,  strikes  and  other  demonstrations,  would  soon  bring 
about  a  radical  clearing  in  the  musty  atmosphere  which  is  so  unpleasantly 
characteristic  of  many  of  our  institutions  of  learning.  And  is  it  too  much 
to  ask  of  a  student  that  he  should  devote  some  of  the  energy,  which  he 
expends  so  liberally  in  "making"  a  team  or  a  popular  fraternicy,  to 
the  task  of  creating  a  fuller  appreciation  of  the  principles  of  social  and 
individual  libertv? 


Academic  Freedom:    The  Reality  and  the  Ideal  129 

If  American  studeits  desire  an  inspiration,  they  have  only  to  look 
at  the  example  of  their  comrades  in  Russia.  There  the  situation  was 
far  more  depressing  than  it  is  here.  The  universities  were  filled  with 
spies;  and  every  symptom  of  liberalism  was  punished  with  the  most 
ruthless  ferocity.  But  the  heroic  students  could  not  be  crushed.  Hun- 
dreds were  shot,  thousands  more  went  to  penal  servitude  in  Siberia; 
but  others  took  up  the  great  work  of  propagating  liberalism  and  preach- 
ing revolt  against  Czar  and  Church;  and  finally  there  came  the  glorious 
revolution  of  last  spring,  which  placed  Russia  in  the  very  forefront  of 
democratic  nations.  Here  in  America  we  have  nothing  to  fight  that  is 
quite  so  tangible  as  the  Czar  and  the  Secret  Police;  but  we  do  have 
to  contend  with  the  spirit  of  pietism  and  materialism,  which  here,  as 
everywhere,  is  the  unrelenting  enemy  of  culture  and  freedom. 

It  is  not  too  much  to  say  that  the  colleges  of  America  are,  on  the 
average,  about  fifty  years  behind  the  time  in  appreciation  of  political 
and  intellectual  changes.  It  should  be  the  aim  of  every  patriotic  student, 
who  feels  a  real  sense  of  obligation  for  his  educational  advantages,  to 
work  for  the  happy  day  when  this  condition  will  be  reversed,  when  the 
colleges  will  stand  not  for  the  dead  traditions  of  the  past,  but  for  the 
living,  glowing  hope  of  the  future.  We  are  often  told  nowadays,  that 
we  have  entered  upon  a  war  for  democracy.  And  indeed  that  slogan, 
"the  world  made  safe  for  democracy"  is  at  once  our  sole  and  our  supreme 
justification  for  plunging  into  an  abyss  of  slaughter  and  destruction. 
If  that  ideal  is  forgotten  or  lost  sight  of,  then  we  have  committed  a 
stupendous  crime  against  civilization;  but,  if  it  be  achieved,  no  sacrifice 
that  we  make,  however  great,  will  have  been  in  vain.  There  could  be 
no  happier  augury  for  the  future  democracy  of  America  than  the  im- 
mediate liberation  of  the  colleges  from  the  bonds  of  plutocratic  greed 
and  sectarian  bigotry. 


€bcnmg  on  %tmtiomt  Hafee 

By  Philip  E.  Howard,  Jr. 

NOT  once  did  that  streak  of  silver  venture  near  the  cast  of  flies 
which  I  was  gently  flickering  over  the  water;  it  was  better 
so,  for  if  it  had,  I  would  have  been  blind  to  the  shifting,  living 
scene  about  me.  As  I  laid  my  rod  aside,  the  thump  of  the  reel  as  it 
touched  a  thwart,  awakened  in  the  hollows  to  the  West  clear  echoes, 
which  faded  into  a  rushing  sound,  as  of  distant  wind.  The  boat  hung 
still  in  the  clear  water;  the  lake  rested  in  the  mountain-top  basin  like 
a  fallen  bit  of  the  heavens.  But  for  the  old  mountaineer  and  his  wife, 
in  the  cabin  on  shore,  I  was  alone  on  the  wild,  spruce-clad  mountain 
ridge,  and  I  lay  still  in  the  boat. 

To  the  West  the  burnt,  black,  spruce  stubs  were  silhouetted  against 
the  soft  rosy  sky;  the  nearer  hill  tops  were  mirrored  in  the  lake,  and 
the  more  distant  eastern  peaks  still  hold  the  last  rays  of  the  sun.  Above 
these  peaks  the  sky  was  a  delicate,  very  light  blue.  The  deep  blue 
lake  was  broken  now  and  then  into  widening  rings  by  the  gentle  splash 
of  a  trout  as  he  leapt  for  a  darting  white  miller  near  the  surface. 

The  heavily  wooded  shores  lay  still  and  cold;  a  deer  snorted  in 
the  brush,  and  the  sound  made  the  chill  in  the  air  seem  more  real.  A 
white-throated  sparrow  started  to  sing,  but  stopped  as  if  he  dared  not 
break  the  stillness.  A  woodpecker  gave  a  loud  "pip"  as  he  slipped 
off  into  the  forest,  and  the  clear,  liquid  note  of  a  hermit  thrush  floated 
higher  and  higher  until  my  human  ear  could  no  longer  catch  the  delicate, 
vibrating  trillings.  The  cabin  door  opened,  feet  shufflied  a  moment  on 
the  gravel  walk,  and  the  door  clicked  shut  again  arousing  sound  the  rushin 
sound  in  the  forest.  And  then  came  the  absolute,  cold  stillness  that 
presses  in  on  the  ears. 

The  western  sky  became  a  deep  rose-color;  the  lake,  the  hills  and 
peaks  turned  black,  and  the  eastern  sky  changed  to  a  deep  blue,  pierced 
here  and  there  by  the  shining  point  of  a  star.  The  flickering,  brown, 
wood  bats  tumbled  out  of  the  forest  and  chased  insects  through  the 
shifting  mists.  The  lamp  from  the  cabin  shot  a  warm  gleam  along  the 
lake.  The  white-throats  all  about  the  lake  called  their  clear,  plaintive 
good-nights.  The  water  was  no  more  broken  by  the  spreading,  lapping 
rings. 

Night  came  on,  and,  not  with  tropical  suddenness,  but  slowly 
and  gently,  pushed  the  glow  from  the  western  heavens.  It  brought 
its  little  stars  out  and  put  them  in  their  places;  it  silenced  the  wild 
folk;    it  smoothed  the  jagged  edges  of  the  hills;    it  soothed  the  lake 


Moses  Delancey  and  "Black  Famine"  131 

into  cold,  calm  blackness.  Nothing  dared  stir.  I  felt  the  silence,  and 
it  pierced  me  through  and  through.  I  became  as  one  with  the  wild 
people;  I  wondered  why  we  cover  the  land  with  foolish  blocks  of  stone, 
and  keep  the  land  awake  with  our  dazzling  lights.  I  could  not  imagine 
the  noise  of  the  city;  was  there  such  a  thing  on  the  earth?  I  would 
probably  never  see  a  city  again,  and  my  whole  being  was  at  peaceand 
harmony  with  the  wild,  still  North.  I  lay  still  in  the  boat  and  watched 
the  blinking,  dancing  stars. 


iHofies  5BeIancej>  anb  "Placfe  jFamine" 

By  J.  H.  Smith 

SAN  MARRA  was  distinguished  from  the  other  towns  of  its  size 
in  New  Mexico  by  two  notable  people:  Jim  Peterson,  the  sheriff 
and  "Black  Famine,"  the  outlaw.  It  is  not  a  striking  fact 
that  they  should  both  have  graced  San  Marra  with  their  presence, 
because  one  was  responsible  for  the  other.  Jim  Peterson  would  not 
have  worn  a  tin  star  on  the  inside  of  his  vest,  if  "Black  Famine"  had 
not  ravaged  prosperous  ranches;  nor  would  "Black  Famine"  have 
pumped  vaqueros  full  of  lead,  except  to  have  the  excitement  of  plough- 
ing the  mesquite  grass  on  his  loping  roan,  in  the  dead  of  night,  with  a 
posse  on  his  trail.  Peterson  had  one  aim  in  life:  to  get  the  outlaw,  it 
was  "Black  Famine's"  to  pay  a  certain  little  debt  he  owed  the  sheriff, 
which  he  had  contracted  several  years  before.  But  this  is  the  way  it 
started. 

One  day,  about  three  years  ago,  when  it  was  so  hot  that  the  chap- 
paral  blossoms  curled  under  to  wait  for  night,  a  young  cow-puncher 
swaggered  into  Danny  O'Keefe's  saloon.  Although  no  one  had  ever  seen 
him  before,  they  let  him  in  the  poker  game.  He  was  in  a  fair  way  to 
make  paupers  out  of  the  lot  of  them  when  the  old  story  happened.  There 
were  some  high  words,  a  lightening  draw  and  a  sharp  report.  When 
the  smoke  cleared  away,  "Thimble"  Sampson  was  a  dead  man,  and 
the  stranger  was  riding  a  lathered  pony  far  off  in  the  distance. 

That  set  things  going  at  San  Marra.  It  now  had  a  "bad  man," 
the  sheriff  would  soon  follow.  He  came  with  the  name  of  Jim  Peterson. 
Jim  was  a  wise  fellow,  who  could  handle  a  .44  better  than  most  people 
can  manipulate  a  fork  and  knife.  He  learned  that  the  stranger  had  a 
girl  living  out  in  the  chapparal.  It  remained  for  him  to  find  her  abode 
and  his  job  would  be  done.  He  ran  across  it  by  accident,  and  that 
same  night,  Jim  tried  to  conceal  himself  in  the  cactus  near  her  hut 


132  The  Haverfordian 

and  make  himself  comfortable  at  the  same  time.  At  eleven  o'clock, 
the  clink  of  spurs  told  him  the  stranger  had  come.  Yes,  he  could  hear 
her  low  sympathetic  voice  talking  to  him.  The  lamp  cast  a  shadow 
of  them  tenderly  embracing  each  other,  right  near  him.  The  sheriff 
cautiously  crawled  to  the  open  window  and  with  a  .44  in  each  hand, 
snarled  in  his  best  manner,  "Hands — ."  But  that  was  as  far  as  he  got. 
"Black  Famine"  kicked  over  the  table  with  the  lamp  and  there  was 
total  darkness.  It  was  a  tight  place  for  Jim.  He  fired  one  revolver, 
by  its  flash  took  lightening  aim,  and  fired  again.  The  girl  gave  a  choked 
cry  and  fell  to  the  floor,  dead.  A  bullet  clipped  Jim's  ear  as  it  sung  by. 
Before  he  could  collect  himself,  his  man  was  gone.  Faintly  audible 
above  the  pounding  hoof-beats  of  the  retreating  roan,  he  caught  these 
words,  sung  in  a  harsh,  rancorous  voice: 

"For  monkeying  with  my  Lulu  girl. 
You  can't  tell  what  I'll  do." 

About  a  year  after  that  Jim  Peterson  made  the  acquaintance  of 
Moses  Delancey.  Moses  was  a  quiet  soul  who  used  to  drop  in  around 
nine  o'clock  at  night  and  talk  domestic  science.  He  was  a  big  powerful 
man  with  a  strong  face,  but  he  was  insufferably  lazy.  As  often  as  not, 
Jim  embellished  in  his  warring  outfit,  would  stride  into  the  room  with 
clanking  rowels.  "Moses,"  he  would  say,  "I  got  to  track  that  low- 
down  "Famine"  to-night." 

"Why,  what's  he  gone  and  done  now?"  Moses  would  drawl. 

"A  business  little  to  the  north,"  Jim  would  mutter.  "Cleaned 
out  Judge  Summer's  ranch  horn  and  hoof.  He  and  his  gang  were  last 
heard  of  at  San  Rossaro.     I'll  have  him  by  morning." 

"Oh  I  wouldn't  exert  myself  so  much.  The  chances  are  you  won't 
even  get  a  smell  of  "Black  Famine." 

"But  I  got  to  get  him,  for  my  own  sake,"  Jim  would  say.  "I 
know  'Famine'  will  take  my  Maisie  the  first  chance  he  gets.  You 
know  I  accidently  got  his  girl.  Well,  the  very  best  way  for  him  to 
strike  me,  would  be  through  my  daughter  Maisie.  She's  just  the  right 
age  for  him  and  as  pretty  as  a — well,  Mose,  you  know  how  pretty  she  is." 

Such  a  conversation  as  this  would  take  place  regularly  every  eve- 
ning. Jim,  sullen  and  determined,  would  gallop  his  pony  far  into  the 
night  after  the  outlaw,  while  Moses  would  make  love  to  Maisie.  Words 
cannot  describe  Maisie.  Imagine  your  own  Peggy,  Susan  or  BeatriSe; 
tone  her  down,  then  liven  her  up,  smooth  her  over  and  make  her  win- 
somest  charms  more  tantalizing,  and  you  will  have  a  bare,  colorless 
picture  of  Maisie.     She  liked  Moses  immensely.      In  fact,  she  liked 


The  Evening  and  the  Morning  133 

him  so  much  that  Moses  said  one  evening,  "Jim,  Maisie  and  I  like  each 
other  first  rate,  and  with  your  kind  permission,  I  will  take  steps  to  have 
her  name  changed  from  Peterson  to  Delancey."  Jim  had  been  expecting 
this  for  some  time  so  his  "yes"  was  not  long  in  coming. 

The  wedding  was  held  in  great  style,  and  the  congratulations 
that  poured  in  upon  Jim  for  having  go  fine  a  son-in-law  almost  over- 
whelmed him. 

That  night  when  the  numerous  guests  had  departed,  a  buckboard 
drove  up  to  the  door  to  take  them  on  their  honeymoon.  Their  few 
belongings  were  packed  carefully  away  in  the  back.  "Maisie,"  said 
Jim  slowly,  "I'll  be  kind  of  lonesome  without  you.  I  hate  to  say  good- 
bye little  girl  after  we've  been  pals  for  so  long,  but  you've  got  a  good 
chap  to  take  care  of  you.  You'll  come  and  see  your  old  dad,  won't 
you  Maisie?"  He  kissed  her  tenderly  and  then  lifted  her  into  the 
buckboard. 

"Good-bye  daddy  dear."  Maisie's  voice  quivered  as  she  spoke, 
and  dried  a  hot  tear  with  a  ridiculously  small  handkerchief.  The  team 
started  and  left  Jim  standing  on  the  little  rose  trellised  porch.  He 
watched  them  turn  the  hill  and  disappear  from  sight  only  to  reappear 
again  far  ofT  in  the  distance. 

"'Bye  Maisie,"  he  said  softly.  He  turned  to  go  into  the  house, 
but  stopped  suddenly.  Something  caught  his  ear.  Faintly  audible 
from  the  direction  of  the  reareating  buckboard,  he  heard  these  words 
sung  in  a  harsh,  rancorous  voice: 

"For  monkeying  with  my  Lulu  girl, 
You  can't  tell  what  I'll  do." 


tlTfje  (Ebening  anb  tfje  iWorning 

By  H.  W.  Brecht 

A  LITTLE  silver  stream  ripples  through  the  village  of  Bliss;  the 
houses  are  mostly  white,  clustering  on  either  side  of  the  white 
road.  To  one  romantically  inclined  the  whole  village  is  wrought 
in  cream-white  and  silver,  and  one  can  hardly  help  being  romantically 
inclined  in  Bliss.  There  is  everywhere  an  atmosphere  of  quiet,  of  rest, 
of  an'all-pervading  peace  the  more  to  be  prized  because  of  the  chaos 
elsewhere.  In  Bliss  simple  deeds  take  on  a  deeper,  better  significance; 
good  acts  are  common  and  bad  ones  few.  The  Reverend  Arthur  Barton 
is  minister  there. 


134  The  Haveiifordian 

I. 

Justine  and  Eric  were  wading  in  the  little  stream.  A  bubbling 
stream  that  rippled  good-naturedly  around  the  pair  of  sturdy  legs  and 
the  more  slender  brown  ones,  hurrying  on  (foolish  stream!)  to  Simkins' 
Corners,  which  was  growing,  where  there  was  no  Reverend  Arthur 
Barton,  where  it  was  made  a  sewer. 

"Let's  build  a  little  dam,"  said  Eric. 

"Oh  let's!  And  let's  make  li'l  holes  in  it  so  the  fishes  can  swim 
down."  Justine's  rounded  r's  and  drawling  cadence  were  southern, 
for  her  mother  had  come  from  the  south. 

"What  do  girls  know  about  building  bridges?"  Eric  heatedly 
inquired  of  an  old  willow.  "Leave  little  holes  in  it— silly!"  He  was 
goaded  almost  to  madness.  "To  swim  down — gosh!"  He  made  three 
stones  ricochet  numberless  times  up  the  water. 

"Mister  Arthur  said  to  always  be  kind  to  the  li'l  animals,  'cause 
God  made  them  for  us  to  be  kind  to.  An'  my  mother — "  the  under- 
lip  quivered  here,  for  the  little  girl's  mother  had  gone  to  where  such 
things  are:  where  (Justine  had  told  Eric)  holes  are  left  in  dams  so  that 
God's  little  fishes  can  swim  down. 

Eric  was  plainly  little  moved  by  the  incipient  tears,  but  never- 
theless he  agreed.      "Awright." 

"When  you  grow  up  an'  be  a  minister  are  you  going  to  tell  the 
children  to  be  kind  to  the  li'l  animals?" 

"  I'm  going  to  be  just  like  Mister  Arthur.     Get  me  that  big  stone." 

For  a  while  they  toiled  in  silence,  backs  bent. 

If  only  I  could  see  with  the  eyes  of  the  Reverend  Arthur  Barton  I 
could  describe  the  herculean  tasks  they  performed ;  the  mammoth  stones 
they  moved;  the  holes  they  left  for  the  little  fishes.  But  it  is  given  few 
people  to  see  with  the  eyes  of  Mister  Arthur. 

At  last  Justine  announced  that  she  would  work  no  more.  In  vain 
Eric  expostulated  with  her  and  demonstrated  the  trite  theorem  that 
no  one  must  abandon  an  undertaking  before  he  has  finished  it.  So  as 
punishment  he  amused  himself  by  skipping  small  tones  around  her  so 
that  drops  of  water  splashed  on  her  dress.  "Now  Eric,  stop  it,"  she 
cried.  She  kicked  a  shapely  and  ineffectual  foot  at  him.  "I  think 
you're  just  as  mean  as  you  can  be,  and  I'll  never  speak  to  you  again." 

It  appeared  that  Eric  exulted  in  being  mean,  and  fairly  gloated 
over  not  being  spoken  to  again.  As  he  was  telling  her  this,  and  select- 
ing another  pebble,  Justine  was  frightened  by  another  splash.  Looking 
up  with  a  cry  of  mingled  rage  and  fear  she  saw  three  young  citizens 


The  Evening  and  the  Morning  135 

of  Simkins'  Center  on  the  bank.  A  second  stone  fell,  and  covering  her 
face  with  two  small  hands  Justine  took  the  womanly  refuge  of  tears. 

But  not  Eric.     "Don't  you  do  that  again,"  he  commanded. 

"You  was  doin'  it,"  gasped  the  amazed  hurler  of  the  stone,  whom 
we  may  as  well  call  Skinny. 

This  was  logic,  but  all  through  his  life  Eric  was  great  enough  to 
rise  above  logic.  "That's  all  right,"  he  threatened  darkly.  "Do  it 
again,  and  I'll  smash  your  nose." 

This  announcement  was  received  with  uproarious  laughter,  per- 
haps because  Skinny  did  not  fear  a  further  smashing  of  this  already 
almost  obliterated  organ.  The  derisive  merriment  was  expressed  in  a 
stone  that  was  better  aimed  than  the  others,  so  that  the  slender  shoulders 
quivered  more  convulsively. 

For  answer  Eric  splashed  his  way  to  the  bank.  Justine  caught  his 
arm.     "Don't,"  she  pleaded.     "He'll  hurt  you." 

It  was  Eric's  turn  to  laugh  derisively.  "Don't  you  be  afraid," 
he  reassured  her  with  more  kindness  than  a  warrior  usually  shows  to 
his  woman.     "  I  can  lick  two  'a  him." 

On  the  bank  one  of  Skinny's  followers  had  constituted  himself 
referee,  and  was  drawing  a  line.  In  the  meantime  taunts  were  in  order 
and  Skinny  began.  "You're  only  a  darned  sissy  anyway,  playing  with 
girls." 

Justine  shrank,  for  being  the  cause  of  this  terrible  sneer.  But 
Eric  put  his  arms  over  her  shoulder,  as  her  brother  would  have,  and 
drew  the  trembling  little  maiden  nearer  him  in  the  protecting  shelter. 
A  struggling,  slightly  bashful  smile  that  spoke  of  trust  assured  turned  up 
the  brave  corners  of  her  mouth.  "I'm  not  a  sissy,"  he  said,  "and  I'm 
not  afraid  of  being  called  one."  No  unworthy  successor  of  the  Reverend 
Arthur  Barton  here. 

As  challenger  Eric  must  first  spit  across  the  line.  Skinny  replied 
with  an  expectoration  so  beautiful  of  execution  and  so  well  placed  that 
it  betokened  nothing  but  long  practice.  Then  the  fight  was  on  while 
two  small  and  dirty  boys  encouraged  their  champion  with  varied  and 
profane  urgings,  and  a  little  girl  on  bended  knees  prayed  God  for  victory. 

Clenched  fists  struck  small  faces;  breaths  mingled  in  quick  grunts; 
a  thin  stream  of  scarlet  came  from  Eric's  nose.  Justine  gave  a  little 
half-smothered  cry  and  the  dirty  ones  raised  a  paean. 

Victory  is  not  always  on  the  side  of  right,  and  it  will  never  do  to 
have  our  hero  ill-treated  at  the  start.  So  let  us  introduce  the  Reverend 
Arthur  Barton. 

"Boys,"  he  said  simply,  "stop."     They  stopped  and  boy-like  began 


136  The  Haverfordian 

to  explain,  while  a  little  girl  huddled  around  a  friendly  trouser-leg 
and  tearfully  proclaimed  it  all  as  her  own  fault. 

If  the  Reverend  Arthur  had  been  one  kind  of  story-book  minister 
he  would  have  preached  a  sermon  at  once;  if  he  had  been  the  "char- 
acter" attempt  he  would  have  said,  "Fight  it  out";  but  being  only 
the  Reverend  Arthur  Barton  he  laughed  hugely,  and  no  quarrel  will 
hold  up  its  head  at  being  laughed  at.  "Let's  go  hunt  for  cookies  in 
the  cooky-jar,"  he  suggested. 

As  they  walked  off  Eric  spoke:  "Does  God  have  holes  in  his  dams 
in  heaven  so  that  the  little  fishes  can  swim  through?" 

The  minister  blew  his  nose  hastily  and  profusely.  "Sonny,"  he 
said  at  last,  "it  depends  on  the  dam."  Then  he  gathered  them  all  in 
his  smile,  especially  the  redoubtable  Skinny.  "I  think  they  are  choco- 
late cookies." 

II. 

A  long-limbed  boy  stood  idly  skipping  stones  up  the  little  stream. 
As  babbling  a  little  stream  as  ever  and  as  foolish  in  its  haste,  a  little 
more  shallow  maybe  than  when  it  had  eddied  around  that  slenderer 
pair  of  brown  legs.  Twilight  was  falling,  and  somewhere  in  the  east 
the  cows  were  going  home,  with  a  tinkling  of  bells.  Stone-skipping  is 
diverting,  but  it  will  not  keep  one  from  thinking  of  Justine. 

A  few  years  ago  he  had  teased  her  to  tears;  now  (he  thought)  he 
would  sacrifice  all  that  he  had  to  spare  her  the  slightest  sorrow.  Then 
he  had  kissed  her  at  will;  now,  mantled  as  she  was  in  some  indefinable 
glamour  he  only  dared  love  her,  from  afar.  She  was  some  enshrined, 
idealistic  being,  almost  too  holy  for  his  worship. 

His  thoughts  were  something  like  this,  while  the  setting  sun  was 
being  panoplied  in  clouds  of  lemon  and  crimson.  A  light  step  came 
up  the  road,  a  step  that  filled  him  with  joy  and  fear  that  was  almost 
awe.  He  stepped  out,  a  boyish  figure,  a  little  wistful  it  seemed  to  the 
girl.     "Justine,"  was  all  that  he  said. 

"Eric,  how  you  surprised  me!"  As  the  silvery  voice  died  among 
the  shadows  conversation  fell  very  flat  indeed.  At  last,  pouting  at  his 
silence,  she  glanced  up  at  him  with  a  half-bashful  smile,  "How  do  you 
like  my  new  dress?"     What  a  foolish  question! 

Thrilled  by  her  voice  and  her  nearness  he  plunged  boldly  in.  "It's 
very  pretty,  but  I  wish  it  was  like  it  used  to  be,  I  mean,"  he  might  have 
stopped  lamely  here,  and  matters  would  have  been  as  unsatisfactory 
as  before,  but  Eric  was  too  fortunate  to  know  when  to  stop,  "I  mean 


The  Evening  and  the  Morning  137 

I  wish  you  were  a  little  girl,  and  was  wearing  knickerbockers,  and  we 
could  go  wading  again." 

She  smoothed  down  her  new  skirt  with  curved  fingers  before  she 
asked  her  second  foolish  question,  "Why?" 

"Because  you  used  to  like  me  then." 

"Oh!"     Her  little  teeth  closed  over  the  monosyllable. 

With  a  new-found  boldness  he  led  her  to  a  soft  patch  of  moss  (their 
house  in  the  knickerbocker  epoch)  and  sank  down  at  her  feet.  She 
gathered  them  together  primly  as  a  maiden  should.  "It's  different 
Eric,  now.     We  were  only  children  then — " 

Words  were  rushing  hotly  to  his  throat.  "It's  not.  I  loved  you 
then,  and  I  love  you  now." 

"Don't  Eric."  But  she  did  not  move  away,  and  a  mounting 
blush  sped  up  to  her  hair. 

"Do  you  think  that  sometime,  ever,  you  could  love  me,  just  a  little 
bit?  Darling!"  His  face  was  very  earnest,  very  wistful,  shadowy 
in  the  half-light. 

The  sweet  lips  trembled  with  the  sweetest  answer  a  woman  can 
ever  give.      "  I  do." 

The  crimson  sun  made  a  glory  that  went  unnoticed  by  these  two 
who  had  found  the  old,  new  glory  of  their  own.  Something  holier,  as 
of  a  higher  heaven,  hung  over  them,  something  nobler,  something 
better.  God  guard  them  and  guide  them — Justine  and  they  Eric,  Eric 
and  thy  Justine. 

"Did  you  really  feel  very,  very  afraid,  and  sorrowful?"  A  world 
of  pity  gave  its  cadence  to  her  tone. 

"You  can't  imagine  it,  Justine."  This  was  perhaps  the  tenth 
time  that  he  had  answered  the  same  question  in  the  same  way.  This 
was  perhaps  the  tenth  time  that  he  had  kissed  her  to  show  her  that 
she  could  not  imagine  it. 

"Were  you  really  afraid  that  I  would  never — ask  you?"  An  in- 
finitude of  pity  lent  its  cadence  to  his  tone. 

"You  can't  imagine  it,  Eric."  This  was  the  tenth  time  that  she 
had  answered  the  same  question  in  the  same  way.  This  was  the  tenth 
time  that  she  had  kissed  him,  shyly,  to  show  him  that  he  could  never 
imagine  it. 

"It's  'way  past  supper-time,  but  I  don't  care.     Do  you,  Eric?" 

"  I  want  to  go  wading  in  the  river,"  he  said  dreamily. 

"Don't  be  silly.     And  build  li'l  dams — " 

"With  holes  in  them  for  the  fishes  to  go  through." 

They  laughed  uproariously  at  their  own  wit;  a  silver-shot  laughter 
that  set  off  a  deeper  one. 


138  The  Haverfordian 

"Let's  tell  Mister  Arthur  about  it,"  she  suggested. 

When  they  were  out  on  the  road  he  put  his  arm  around  her  slender 
shoulders  and  drew  her  closer  into  his  protecting  embrace.  "Kiss  me 
first." 

"You  can  only  have  one  kiss  a  day."  She  lifted  her  mouth  care- 
fully, then  covered  it  with  a  little  hand. 

"This  is  yesterday's."  There  was  a  playful  struggle  until  their 
lips  met.  Again  they  laughed  uproariously,  and  wandering  hand  in 
hand,  were  lost  and  became  one  in  the  darkness. 

And  the  evening  and  the  morning  were  the  first  glory. 

III. 

Late  afternoon  in  Bliss.  The  Reverend  Arthur  Barton's  hair  was 
too  quickly  white,  but  his  eyes  were  young  as  ever  as  he  smiled  tolerantly 
down  at  the  two  on  his  steps. 

"I'm  so  glad  to  have  you  home  again,"  Justine  said  for  perhaps 
the  twelfth  time. 

"Think  of  the  days  I  have  to  make  up,"  he  smiled,  thinking  for 
his  own  part  of  a  picture  that  was  frayed  around  the  edges. 

"Eric,  don't  you  dare  kiss  me,  right  here  on  the  street!  How 
do  you  like  my  hair  this  way?     I  don't  believe  you  even  noticed  it." 

"And  she  spent  two  hours  fixing  it,  running  over  to  me  every  ten 
minutes  to  find  for  sure  when  the  train  from  a  certain  theological  semi- 
nary would  come."  The  minister  laughed  heartily,  at  the  same  time 
dismissing  comfortably  all  thoughts  on  to-morrow's  sermon. 

"  It's  very  pretty.  But  I  think  I  like  it  better  the  old  way,  hanging 
down  your  back.  Somehow  I  have  always  dreamed  of  your  coming 
to  me  with  your  hair  all  wind-tossed,  hanging  down." 

"Fix  it  for  me."  She  bent  her  bright  head,  while  with  long  and 
strangely  clumsy  fingers  that  lingered  caressingly  he  fixed  it.  Mean- 
time the  minister  smiled  a  twisted  smile  that  he  did  not  use  very  often. 
There  had  never  been  a  Mrs.  Arthur  Barton. 

A  garish  gray  automobile  came  to  a  noisy  stop  before  them,  and 
a  white-flanneled  young  man  leaped  lightly  out,  ducking  a  suit-case 
that  was  thrown  at  him.  There  were  repeated  good-byes,  someone 
shouted,  "Remember  the  doctor's  orders  Dicky,  no  cigarettes";  an- 
other, "See  you  in  six  weeks."  Then  the  big  car  shot  ofT,  while  two 
tiny  lace  handkerchiefs  were  waved  at  either  side  of  the  rapidly  receding 
tormeau. 

The  young  man  called  Dicky  lit  a  cigarette.  He  surveyed  the 
little  town  with  an  air  of  extreme  boredom.     He  saw  the  little  group 


The  Evening  and  the  Morning  139 

on  the  steps  and  redoubled  his  boredom  as  he  advanced  toward  them. 
"Have  I  the  honor  of  addressing  the  hotel-keeper,  or  the  hotel-keeper's 
daughter?"  A  frank  admiration  lit  a  face  that  was  not  much  given  to 
frankness. 

Justine's  face  flushed  inside  its  aureole  of  golden  hair.  In  her 
gentle,  drawling  voice  she  told  him  where  the  hotel  was.  He  sauntered 
off,  a  jaunty,  graceful  figure,  and  passing  his  suit-case  he  kicked  it 
disdainfully  to  one  side  of  the  road. 

Thus  did  Dicky  Clifford,  desired  of  young  women,  enter  the  village 
of  Bliss. 

The  next  afternoon,  Eric,  with  dreams  of  hand-in-hand  wanderings 
deepening  the  far-away  expression  of  his  eyes,  was  told  that  Justine 
was  out  walking.  With  the  new  young  gen'l'man.  Down  by  the 
brook,  prob'ly.  No,  she  hain't  left  no  word.  Eric  spent  the  rest  of 
the  afternoon  experiencing  the  inherent  uselessness  of  the  Hebrew 
language. 

Sunday  night  is  lovers'  night;  a  night  for  pretty  speeches  and  soft 
answers;  a  night  for  communing  with  one's  Justine.  Eric  with  a  half- 
formed,  sickening  fear  in  his  heart  called  early.  Justine  had  a  headache, 
she  could  not  see  him.  The  housekeeper,  pitying  the  pain  in  the  youth- 
ful face,  found  a  huge  piece  of  cake  for  him;  her  remedy  for  all  ills. 
He  thanked  her  and  half-choked  over  it,  thinking  of  the  period  of  short 
dresses  and  bare  ankles,  when  they  had  eaten  such  panaceas  in  alternate 
bites.  And  a  slender  girl  upstairs  cried  into  a  tiny  handkerchief  and 
prayed  God  to  make  her  worthy — soon. 

Eric's  thoughts  were  in  a  maze  of  pain  and  sorrow,  but  something 
of  that  strength  of  character  that  had  shown  itself  in  his  childhood 
came  to  aid  him  now.  He  needed  it,  for  not  three  hundred  yards  from 
her  house  he  met  Dicky,  walking  toward  it. 

"I — I  want  to  talk  to  you,"  Eric  gulped  hoarsely,  plunging. 

"Honored,  I'm  sure.  Smoke?  Quite  right,  bad  habit."  Dick 
whistled  the  aria  from  "Lucia  di  Lammermoor." 

"I  want  to  tell  you — " 

"Repetition  is  also  bad.     You  said  that  before." 

Ail  Eric's  stumbling  left  him.  "You  know  what  I  want  to  tell 
you.      You  may  know  that  I'm  training  myself  for  the  ministry — " 

"My  dear  fellow,  interesting  as  that  may  be  to  your  mother," 
Dicky  made  a  deprecating  gesture,  showing  that  courtesy  itself  could 
not  demand  any  such  parental  interest  from  him. 

"Have  you  quite  finished?  Probably  I  should  thrash  you,  but 
to  those  of  us  who  are  following  Christ,  God  has  shown  a  better  way,  if 


140  The   HAVEItFORDIAN 

a  harder  way.  .  .  .  Ever  since  she  was  a  little  child  I  have  loved  Justine ; 
I  love  her  now.  She  was  all  that  I  had,  Dicky. — So  be  kind  to  her,  if 
not  for  my  sake,  for  her  sake.  She's  only  a  little  girl  even  now — to 
treat  tenderly."  Eric  tried  to  swallow  an  aching  lump  in  his  throat, 
gulped  vainly,  and  hurried  off  into  the  darkness,  taking  the  harder  way. 

Dicky  blew  a  particularly  intricate  smoke-ring  and  laughed  heartily. 

The  Reverend  Arthur  Barton  stared  fixedly  from  his  window. 
He  had  seen  many  things  from  that  window,  and  when  the  things  that 
he  saw  were  cheerless  he  would  lift  his  eyes  to  the  purple  hills  in  the 
north.  He  lifted  them  now.  But  in  his  mind  was  the  picture  of  a 
slender  girl  with  golden  hair  walking  arm-in-arm  with  another  figure 
quite  as  slender,  in  white  flannels ;  and  a  picture  of  a  strained  face  with 
tight-set  mouth  poring  hopelessly  over  Hebrew.  .  .  . 

That  night  the  minister  sought  out  Dicky,  and  told  him  the  story 
that  begins:  "And  in  the  one  city  there  lived  two  men:  the  one  rich, 
the  other  poor."  Dicky  listened  politely  if  sneeringly,  and  when  Rev- 
erend Barton  was  quite  finished  offered  to  accompany  him  back  as  he 
(Dicky)  was  intending  to  visit  a  little  girl  that  he  had  met. 

IV. 

Late  afternoon  in  Bliss.  Lengthening  shadows  everywhere,  brood- 
ing. 

Eric  waved  a  laughing  good-bye  to  Justine  from  the  livery  carriage. 
He  turned  around,  so  as  to  keep  the  girl  in  sight,  letting  the  reins  drop. 
Something  happened  to  a  huge  automboile  speeding  down  the  street. 
There  was  a  sudden  report,  a  crash,  and  the  horse  seeing  a  snorting 
careening  monster  rushing  at  it  ran  full  towards  the  car. 

A  hundred  yards  more,  seventy-five  and  the  two  vehicles  would 
meet.  A  girl  screamed  at  thought  of  the  result.  The  chauffeur  wrenched 
desperately  a  useless  steering-wheel.  Dicky,  tangled  somehow  in  the 
reins,  waved  again  to  the  girl  behind  him.  Fifty  yards,  twenty-five. 
A  boyish  figure  darted  out.  The  horse  felt  kind  hands  at  its  head, 
heard  gentle  words  whispered.  Eric  led,  dragged  the  horse  sharply 
to  the  right.  By  some  turn  of  luck  or  providence  the  helpless  machine 
stayed  to  its  right,  and  pursued  its  mad  course  onward.  Hearing  the 
glad  shout  the  Reverend  Arthur  Barton  finished  his  prayer  with  a 
heartfelt  gratitude  for  God's  quick  answer. 

V. 

Early  evening  in  Bliss.  Winking  lights  from  white  cottages  answered 
by  stars  twinkling  above. 

Eric  walked  toward  the  brook,  his  head  bowed  a  little,  as  one  bows 


The  Delights  of  Musing  141 

one's  head  when  one  is  lonely.  Past  her  home,  where  the  lights  shot 
beckoning  trails;  past  the  hotel.  There  Dicky,  coming  from  the  shad- 
ows, met  him. 

"I'd  like  to  speak  to  you  if  you'd  let  me,  Eric.  I'd  like  to  tell 
you  that  I  know  now  what  a  cad  I've  been.  I've  always  been  so  rich, 
so  damned  rich."  He  looked  helplessly  at  the  silent  figure  for  aid. 
None  there.  "So  I — well  I'm  going  away  to-night.  I  won't  come 
back.  It's  not  much  that  I'm  doing,  but  it's  all  I  can.  And  Eric — if 
you'd  let  me  call  you  by  your  first  name — would  you  be  a  little  kinder 
to  her,  if  not  for  my  sake  for  hers?  She  needs  kindness,  she's  no  more 
than  a  child.  I  know  you  will.  I  know  how  you  love  her,  but  some- 
times in  my  letter  moments  I  think,"  he  showed  a  twisted  replica  of 
his  former  smile,  "I  love  her  a  little  too." 

He  turned  off  hastily,  gulping  at  an  ache  in  his  throat  that  had 
not  been  there  after  the  day  on  which  he  had  first  learned  of  his  damned 
richness. 

The  little  stream  rippled  on,  unmindful  of  the  shattering  of  Eric's 
world,  of  his  sorrow.  The  summer  air  did  not  soothe  him;  the  weeping 
willows  brushing  his  head  were  cold  and  damp.  He  thought  of  the 
holy  little  hand  in  Dicky's. 

Cf)e  I3eljgf)t£(  of  Mnmq 

An  Ode 
By  Charles  Wharton  Stork 
How  choice  to  set  the  mind  at  ease 
And  think  precisely  what  we  please; 
Or — still  more  pleasant — not  to  think. 
But  smooth  Lethean  nectar  drink! 
What  joy  to  slip  the  leash  of  logic. 
Unnatural,  strict  and  pedagogic! 
For  who  would  plod  from  A  through  B 
And  C,  when  he  might  skip  to  Z? 
In  brief,  the  best  of  sense  and  reason 
Is  musing  in  and  out  of  season. 
How  can  ideas  that  really  matter 
Approach  us  'mid  the  hum  and  clatter 
Of  System's  wheels  and  cranks  and  pulleys. 
Whose  Purpose  o'er  the  workmen  bullies, 
And  tortures  like  a  Grand  Inquisitor 
Or  drives  away  each  careless  visitor. 


142  The  Haverfordian 

Poor  busy  man,  your  hapless  fate 

I  can't  enough  commiserate. 

So  many  years  of  getting,  spending. 

Of  wretched  borrowing,  thankless  lending, 

And  not  one  hour  of  clear-eyed  seeing, 

Still  less  a  quarter-hour  of  being! 

And  you,  too,  self-devoted  student, 

I  can't  believe  your  course  is  prudent. 

Consider, — when  you  must  consider — 

Can  Genius  come  while  you  forbid  her? 

No  ray  of  vision  cheers  the  blind. 

No  thought  can  pierce  the  self-closed  mind. 

But  if  your  soul  should  open  free 

As  clover  to  the  honey  bee 

Such  sweetness  thence  might  be  collected 

As  ne'er  was  culled  from  flowers  protected. 

When  Galileo  mused  alone,  n 

The  wondrous  firmament  bent  down ;  i^ 

The  stars  revealed  their  hidden  laws,  ; 

And  told  their  motions  and  their  cause.  •■ 

When  Dante  roamed  by  Arno's  stream  '• 

A  poet  led  him  in  a  dream 

(By  Mary's  grace  and  power  divine) 

Through  hell  to  heaven's  holiest  shrine. 

To  waiting  eyes,  to  listening  ears 

A  voice  will  speak,  a  form  appears, 

A  light  to  guide,  a  word  to  gladden 

Through  darksome  ways  and  doubts  that  madden. 

And  would 'st  thou,  friend,  true  wisdom  know, 

Be  idle,  and  the  gentle  flow 

Of  silence  shall  thy  spirit  lave, 

And  faces  of  the  good  and  brave 

Shall  beckon  thee ;  fair  Nature's  charm 

Shall  be  thy  amulet  from  harm; 

Nay,  heaven  itself  shall  whisper  thee 

And  God  shall  fill  thy  vacancy. 


By  Christopher  Roberts 

THE  modern  young  lady  is  very  light  weight,"  said  the  towering 
Countess  von  Lamazon  to  the  young  man  beside  her.  "Now 
there  is  Yarmela  Madjokova,  my  niece  from  Prague,  she  is 
different  from  the  fluffy  variety.  I  believe  you  men  would  like  to  keep 
intellect  a  masculine  specialty." 

"Not  at  all,"  was  the  retort,  "In  America,  we  go  in  strongly  for 
the  higher  education  of  women.  In  fact,  I  prefer  a  woman  with  a 
mind."  The  man  laughed  pleasantly  and  did  not  notice  that  the  beady 
eyes  of  the  Countess  sparkled,  betraying  her  hidden  thoughts. 

Lincoln  Sidney  was  a  lithe,  broad-shouldered  American  who  wore 
his  clothes  well.  Though  he  had  been  five  years  at  the  head  of  a  growing 
business,  he  still  had  the  ruddy  health  and  the  clear  eye  of  a  college 
athlete.  His  manner  was  engaging  and  frank,  and  he  was  quite  at  ease 
as  he  surveyed  the  gay  scene  of  one  of  the  Countess'  garden  parties  in 
full  swing.  He  had  come  to  the  von  Lamazon's  country  home  outside 
of  Vienna  to  arrange,  if  possible,  for  an  exclusive  rights  contract  with 
the  Madjokova  Tire  Company,  the  control  of  which  had  come  to  the 
Count  through  his  wife's  dot.  He  soon  found  out  that  it  was  with  the 
domineering  and  scheming  Countess  that  the  business  deal  would  have 
to  be  made. 

"I'm  so  sorry  I'm  so  late,"  said  a  soft  voice  near  the  table  at  which 
they  were  seated,  and  in  a  moment  Lincoln  was  being  introduced  to 
Yarmela,  the  adopted  niece  of  the  von  Lamazons.  A  girl  of  twenty- 
eight — that  terrible  age  when  enemies  are  beginning  to  whisper  pas6e — 
in  an  extremely  fashionable  frock  stood  before  him.  "She  designs  all 
her  owTi  clothes,"  the  Countess  had  taken  care  to  tell  him.  Her  clear 
skin  and  delicate  features  attracted  him.  He  saw  at  once  that  she  was 
a  charmer. 

"  I  am  delighted  to  meet  you  Mr.  Sidney,"  she  said,  "We  are  getting 
up  some  tennis  doubles.  Will  you  join  us?  My  brother  of  the  cavalry 
is  to  play."  Join  them — of  course  he  would;  and  they  threaded  the 
brilliant  crowd  of  officers  and  dandies,  passed  among  countless  numbers 
of  the  light  weight  modem  girls  with  their  pretty  complexions,  coquettish 
manners,  and  constant  laughter,  toward  the  pavillion  and  the  courts. 

Soon  he  was  talking  volubly  of  himself,  of  America,  of  the  trip,  of 
his  business.  Why  should  he  talk  shop  to  this  girl?  "She  certainly 
seems  to  be  interested,"  he  told  himself.  Yarmela  was  true  to  her 
type,  the  serious  subject  girl.     Yet  she  did  it  so  well,  got  him  to  talk 


144  The  Haverfordian 

about  himself  so  deftly,  that  he  was  being  drawn  into  her  net  half  cons- 
ciously. 

Her  eyes  were  continually  following  him.  They  had  an  unpleasant 
habit  of  coming  together  often  in  a  slight  squint,  as  though  their  owner 
was  planning  a  capture.  Like  all  people  whose  main  attribute  is  clever- 
ness, Yarmela  had  always  missed  out.  She  was  noted  for  adding  men's 
scalps  to  her  collection ;  yet  the  victims  always  escaped ;  and  her  foster 
parents,  the  von  Lamazons,  were  becoming  more  and  more  worried  over 
their  niece's  repeated  matrimonial  attempts  and  her  repeated  failures. 

Yarmela  proved  an  excellent  tennis  player,  and  Lincoln  found 
himself  spending  the  afternoon  and  evening  in  the  society  of  this  good- 
looking  girl.  "Her  mind  is  good,"  he  admitted.  She  was  an  adept 
at  making  intelligent,  leading  remarks  in  a  conversation.  She  assented, 
dissented,  and  nodded  at  just  the  right  moments,- — some  one  has  aptly 
called  this  art  the  science  of  grunts.     In  it,  Yarmela  was  without  peer. 

Lincoln  passed  several  pleasant  days,  for  he  knew  that  business  in 
Vienna  should  never  be  rushed.  The  Viennese  are  experts  in  enjoy- 
ment. The  aristocracy,  one  of  wealth  and  title  combined,  is  the  most 
delightful  in  the  world.  This  gay  and  pleasure-loving  people  do  business 
in  their  leisure  hours  and  are  leisurely  during  their  business  hours.  While 
negotiating  for  the  contract,  Lincoln  was  a  constant  guest  at  the  von 
Lamazons.  He  saw  Yarmela  often,  and  the  Countess  more  than  once 
pointedly  remarked,  "  I  do  wish  we  could  kfeep  the  control  of  the  business 
in  the  family."  Slight  as  his  experience  had  been  with  dowagers,  he 
realized  before  long  that  the  Countess  intended  his  contract  to  depend 
on  another  between  himself  and  Yarmela.  The  girl  was  certainly  doing 
her  best;  and,  the  worst  of  it  was,  she  was  succeeding.  He  felt  the 
ground  slipping  from  under  him.     A  strange  force  was  pulling  him  on. 

On  the  evening  of  the  Countess'  musical — that  annual  musical 
which  every  Viennese  lady  of  any  social  pretentions  has  to  give — Lincoln 
and  Yarmela  were  walking  in  the  garden  along  the  twisting  paths  bordered 
by  wonderful  white  roses,  whose  fragrance  burdened  the  late  June 
breeze.     Yarmela  was  speaking 

"Isn't  it  pleasant  in  this  stupid  convention-ridden  world,  isn't  it 
pleasant  to  meet  someone  with  an  unprejudiced,  enlightened  mind?" 

"Yes,"  rejoined  Lincoln.  "I  have  always  believed  in  a  sort  of 
chemical  attraction  between  people,  a  chemical  affinity,  a  natural  force, 
you  know."  Of  course  he  had  thought  of  this,  but  why  was  he  telling 
it  to  her? 

"I  have  felt  that  too,"  murmured  Yarmela.  "It's  a  curiously 
helpless  sensation,  isn't  it?" 


J 


The  Universal  Game  145 

Thc\'  walked  on  in  silence.  The  strains  of  a  Straus  waltz  came 
from  the  lighted  mansion.  The  two  stopped  at  a  bench  on  a  terrace. 
Far  below  them  some  peasants  were  strolling  in  the  footpaths  on  the 
way  to  the  village.  The  faint  sound  of  a  light  laugh  came  floating  up 
to  them.  There  was  a  tension  over  everything.  Lincoln  felt  the  in- 
toxication of  the  night.  A  magic  was  in  his  blood.  The  girl  was  beauti- 
ful, her  soft  dark  beauty  was  living  there  beside  him,  he  touched  her 
arm,  he — but  he  caught  a  glimpse  of  that  queer  look  in  her  eyes.  The 
spell  was  suddenly  broken. 

"Shall  we  go  in?"  he  said.  They  moved  silently  toward  the  lighted 
house.  The  music  had  stopped.  Lincoln  excused  himself  as  soon  as 
possible.  Alone  in  his  room  he  paced  the  floor.  Was  he  mad?  He,  a 
staid  American,  was  being  entangled  by  a  Becky  Sharp.  The  whole 
thing  was  like  a  dream.  His  ties  in  America!  His  home!  His  business! 
What  was  he  thinking  of?  "Oh,  what  an  idiot  I  am,"  he  muttered. 
"Hang  the  contract  anyway."  Acting  quickly,  he  wrote  a  letter  home 
and  began  to  pack  up  his  things. 

As  Lincoln  called  on  the  von  Lamazons  the  next  morning  with  the 
intention  of  saying  goodbye,  he  found  the  Countess  in  a  delightful 
mood.  She  was  a  keen  observer,  and  she  now  felt  certain  of  this  young 
maa. 

"Let  us  settle  the  contract,"  she  said  lightly;  and  the  matter,  long 
considered,  was  finally  arranged. 

A  great  weight  was  lifted  from  Lincoln's  mind.  He  would  tactfully 
make  a  clean  breast  of  it.  He  vaguely  heard  them  talking  of  plans 
for  the  next  few  days.  He  drew  a  letter  from  his  pocket.  Yes,  that 
was  the  best  way  of  telling  them  everything.  He  looked  at  Yarmela; 
for  a  moment  he  wavered,  but  her  eyes  were  turned  full  toward  him  with 
that  curious,  scheming  look  in  them.      Then — 

"  I  want  to  show  you  a  letter  from  my  daughter  written  in  German," 
he  said.  "She  is  only  eight  years  old;  it  was  probably  done  with  the 
help  of  her  mother." 

So  calmly  did  Lincoln  explode  this  bombshell  that  there  was  a 
dead  silence  for  a  moment. 

"But  where  is  your  wedding  ring?"  broke  in  the  Countess  sharply, 
not  realizing  how  crude  the  remark  sounded. 

"Oh,"  laughed  Lincoln,  "  In  America  only  the  wom.en  wear  wedding 
rings." 

Yarmela  had  recovered  herself  quickly,  perhaps  she  was  used  to 
such  occasions,  "Die  arme  Frauen,"  she  said  laconically. 


The  Haverfordian 


For  Lawn  and  Garage 

It  is  easy  to  use  Nonkink  Hose,  because  it  is  sO| 
smooth  and  light  and  flexible.  It  lasts  so  long,  and' 
is  so  free  from  leaks  that  it  adds  economy  to  your 
satisfaction  in  using  it.      18c  per  ft.  coupled. 

With  it,  let  us  supply  any  Nozzles,  Reels,  or 
Sprinklers  that  you  need. 

J.  E.  Rhoads  &  Sons 

12  N.  Third  Street,  Philadelphia 


I 


^be  €nti  of  a  Chapter 

By  J.  G.  C.  Le  Clercq 

Now  everything  between  us  two  is  over, 
Leave  me  that  I  may  for  a  spell  enjoy 
Peace  which  I  knew  not  when  I  was  your  lover 
And  your  decoy. 

I  tasted  shame,  proud  heart,  and  domination 
Under  your  yoke  of  love — And  yet — And  yet — 
I  wonder  if  your  eerie  fascination 
I  shall  forget. 

I  wonder  if- my  words  perhaps  sound  hollow; 
I  wonder  if — oh!   just  a  moment's  fad — 
You  bid  me  come,  I  wonder  would  I  follow 
Superbly  mad! 


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Drawing  Instruments, 

BOARDS,    TABLluS,     ARTISTS- 
MATERIALS,   DRAFTING    and 
ENGINEERING  SUPPLIES. 

Equipment  of  Art  and  Drawing  Rooms  a 
Specialty. 

F.  WEBER  &    CO:S   Water-proof 
India   Inf^s 

Black  and  Nine  Colors 

Special  Discount  to  StmlciUs. 


F.  WEBER  &  CO. 

1125  Chestnut  -Street, 


Philadelphia 


"WEBER"  stamped  on  your  supplies,  is  like  "STER- 
LING" on  Silver. 


Bell  Phone,  Ardmore  269-W 

RapJp,.'.       QU.\LITV  CANDIES 

Ddcuer  s,      OUR  own  make 


Special  Ortlers  for  Teas,  etc., 
attention. 


given  our  prompt 


26  E.  Lancaster  Avenue,      Ardmore 
Main  Store,    PHILADELPHIA 


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 


When  Patronizing  Advertisers  Kindly  Mention  The  Haverfokdian 


The  Haverfordian 


Smedley  &  Mehl 

Lumber 
and  Coal 

BUILDING  MATERIAL 


Phones,  Nos.  11 00  and  11 01 


ARDMORE 


TELEPHONE,  ARDMORE  163-J 

VERL  PUGH 

ELECTRICAL    CONTRACTOR 

ELECTRICAL   SUPPLIES 

8  Cricket  Ave.  Ardmore,  Pa. 

WILLIAM  SHEWELL  ELLIS 
Has  moved  his  Photographic  Studios 

to 
1612  Chestnut  Street,  Philadelphia 


I 


Merion  Title  and  Trust  Co.  of  Ardmore 

Incorporated  March  28,  1889. 

Capital  Paid §150,000  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 
Burglar  Proof  Vaults,  S3.00  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 


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 


LINCOLN 
HIGHWAY 

INI 


Rooms  with 
Private  Bath 


MODERN    APPOINTMENTS 

Every  Room  with  Outsid2  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. 


When  Patronizing  Advertisers  Kindly  Mention  The  Haverfordian 


The  Haverfordian 


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 

Benjamin  H.  Shoemaker 

205-207-209-2     N.  Fourth  St.  PHILADELPHIA 


REED  &  WEST 

Druggists 


ARDMORE 


Good  Hair  Cutting  is  an  art.    Our  men  all  know 

liow,  and  will  give  you  the  best  work  at  standard 

prices.      No  tipping  or  other  annoyances. 


13th  above  Chestnut,      Philadelphia 
Entire    Building 


T^his  is  \\\<i  iype 
(^  S^  Young /Ian 
.  who  arouses 
your  admi  ration - 
Ae  wears  our 

Clothes 


Jacob  Reed's  Sons 

Clothiers- 

Raberdashers 

Hatters 

1424  1426  Chestnut  St 
Philadolptiia. 


lou  run  no  risks  on 


TARTAN  BRANDS 


Canned  Goods 

Coffee 

Macaroni 

Olive  Oil 


Alfred  Lowry  &  Bro. 


PHILADELPHIA 


Both  Phones 

WILLIAM  A.  BENDER 

The  Best  and  Freshest 
BUTTER,  EGGS  AND  POULTRY 

sixth  Avenue.  Reading  Terminal  Market, 

Twelfth  and  Arch  Streets,  PHILADELPHIA 

C.    N.   DAVIS 

Dealer  in 

Automobile    Accessories, 

Oils   and    Greases 
314  W.  Lancaster  Avenue,        Ardmore,  Pa. 


When  Patronizing  Advertisers  Kindly  Mention  The  Haverfokdian 


The  Haverfordian 


The  Bryn  Mawr  Trust  Company 


Capital  Authorized,  $250,000 


Capital  Paid,  $135,000 


Allows  Interest  on  deposits.      Acts  as  Executor,  Administrator,  Trustee,  etc.      Insures  Tides  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 


DIRECTORS 

A.  A.  Hirst  Elbridge  McFarland  Wm.  C.  Powell,  M.  D. 

William  L.    Hirst  John  S.  Garrigues  H.  J.  M.  Cardeza 

J.  Randall   Williams  Jesse  B.    Matlack  Joseph   A.  Morris 


John  C.  Mellon 

W.  H.  Ramsey 
Phillip  A.   Hart 


ARDMORE  HARDWARE  CO. 

ARDMORE,  PA. 

Hardware,  Sporting  Goods, 

Housefurnishing 

HARRY  HARRISON 

DEPARTMENT  STORE 

Dry  Goods,  Notions,  Clothing  and  Shoes,  Ladies' 
Millinery  and  Trimmings 


Lancaster  Ave. 


Ardmore,  Pa. 


"Careful  Handling  and  Quality" 

Send  us  Your  Suitings  to  be 

Dry-Cleanea,   Scoured 
and    Pressed 

At   Reasonable  Rates 


Our  College  Agent 

Mr.  R.  J.  Battey 


Electric  Shoe  Repairing 

109  W.  LANCASTER  AVE. 

OUR  GUARANTEE  goes  with  Repairs.  The 
finest  shoe  repairing  done  quielily  while  you 
wait.  In  our  repairing  you  get  all  kinds  of 
comfort.  You'll  be  suited  in  the  kind  of  re- 
pairing we  do.  Let  us  repair  the  old  ones. 
We'll  show  you  wonderful  work. 

The  Greatest  Shoe  Repairing  in  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.  PhUadelphia 


INSURANCE 

Fire  or  Burglary  Insurance  on  stu- 
dents' personal  effects  while  at  college 
or  elsewhere. 

Tourists'  Floating  Insurance^  on  per- 
sonal effects  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  prop- 
erty or  for  injuries  to  persons. 

LONGACRE  &  EWING 
Bullitt  Bldg.,      141  So.  Fourth  Street 

PHILADELPHIA 

JOHN   JAMISON 

Wholesale    Produce  and 
Provision   Merchant 

Water  and  Market  Streets, 

Philadelphia 


I 


When  Patronizing  Advertisers  Kindly  Mention  The  Haverfordian 


5|aberforbian 


Contents; 


Haverford  1917-18 President  W.  W.  Comfort  157 

The  First  Day's  Practice Granville  E.  Toogood  159 

An  Incident  in  July J.  H.  SmitlJ  160 

Faded  Youth Russell  N.  Miller  162 

Pearls  of  Paradise H.  Brecht  163 

The  Prospect Richard  Wood  167 

Vers  Libre Cliristopher  Roberts  168 

"An  American  Somewhere  in  France,"  July  1917.  .E.  J.  Lester  170 

The  Sylph K.  Oliver  171 

Alumni 172 


(October 
1917 


The  Haverfordian 


FOUNDED  1865 


The  PROVIDENT 

Life  and  Trust  Company  of  Philadelphia 


OFFICERS 

Asa  S.  Wing,  President. 

J.  Barton  Townsend,  Vice-President 

John  Way,  Vice-President 

M.  Albert  Linton.  \'ioe- President 

J.  Roberts  Foulke,  Trust  Officer. 

David  G.  Alsop,  Actuary. 

Samuel  H.  Troth,  Treasurer. 

C.  Walter  Borton,  Secretary. 

Matthew  Walker,  Manager  Insurance  Dept. 

William  C.   Craige,  Assitant  Trust  Officer  and 

General  Solicitor. 
J.  Smith  Hart,  Insurance  Supervisor. 
William  S.  Ashbrook,  Agency  Secretary. 


DIRECTORS 

Asa  S.  Wing  Morris  R.  Bockius 

Robert  M.  Janney  Henry  H.  Collins 

Marriott  C.  Morris  Levi  L.  Rue 

Joseph  B.  Townsend,  Jr.  George  Wood 
John  B.  Morgan  Charles  H.  Harding 

Frederic  H.  Strawbridge  J.  Whitall  Nicholson 
John  Thompson  Emlen    Parker  S.  Williams 
George  H.  Frazier 


Northwest  corner  Fourth  and  Chestnut  Streets 

Safe  Deposit  Vaults 


We  print  "The  Haverfordian" 

Ardmore  Printing 

Westbrook  Publishing 

Company 

CHRONICLE     BUILDING 

Company 

Ardmore,  Pa. 

'                            Publijfiers   Exclusively   of 

John  S.  Trower 

School  and  College 

— ♦-— 

Periodicals 

Caterer  and 



Confectioner 

1312   Cherry  St.,  Philadelphia 

— ♦  — 

5706  MAIN  STREET 

Both  Phones 

Germanfown,  Phila. 

Keystone,  Race  2966            Bell,  Walnut  6499 

TELEPHONE 

When  Patronizing  Advertisers  Kindly  Mention  The  Haverfordian 


TheVh 


AVERFORDIAN 


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  co  t. 
£,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 

1 336-40  Cherry  Street,     Phila. 


BROWNING,  KING  &  CO. 

1524-1526  CHESTNUT  ATREET 
Philadelphia 


YOUNG   MEN'S   SUITS   AND 
TOP  COATS 

Evening   Clothes 


HATS 


HABERDASHERY 


EVERYTHING  FOR  THE  SCHOOL  ROOM 
Printing  and  Engraving  a  Specialty 


I 


Peckham,  Little  &   Co. 

SCHOOL  and  COLLEGE  SUPPLIES 

Commercial  Stationers 


59  EAST  ELEVENTH  STREET, 

New  York  City 

Telephone,  Stuyvesant  \  24S4 


Camping  Specialist 

Sporting : :  Goods^ 

of  Every  Description 
EDW.  K.  TRYON  CO., 

609  and  611  MARKET  STREET 
10  and  12  North  6th  Street 

Lukens  Steel  Co. 

MANUFACTURERS  OF 

STEEL 
PLATES 

For    Boilers,  Ships, 
Bridges,  Etc. 

First  to  make  Boiler  Plates  in  America 

A.  F.  HUSTON.  P,esident 

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 


J 


^J'^i^ut^       ,K^.        i    uZZ<_CjuI^ 


V'i^-ijL^^       / 


THE    HAVERFORDIAN 


EDITORS 
Walter  S.  Nevin,  1918,  Editor-in-Chief 


Russell  Miller,  1919 
Harold  Brecht,  1920 


A.  Douglas  Oliver,  1919 
J.  H.  Smith,  1920 


Christopher  Roberts,  1920 
BUSINESS  MANAGERS 
Walter  S.  Nevin,  1918,  Acting  Manager     E.  O.  Geckler,  1920,  Assistant  Manager 


Price,  per  year 


$1.00 


Single  copies 


$0.15 


The  H.werfordian  is  published  on  the  twetitieth  of  each  month  during  college  year. 
Its  purpose  is  to  foster  the  literary  spirit  among  the  undergraduates  to  provide  an  or- 
gan 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  in- 
tended for  insertion  should  reach  the  Editor  not  later  than  the  Iwenty-fifth  of  the  month 
preceding  the  date  of  issue. 

Entered  at  the  Haverford  Post-Office,  for  transmission  tlirough  the  mails  as  second-ciass  matter 


Vol.  XXXIX 


HAVERFORD,  PA.,  OCTOBER,  1917 


No.  5 


THE    HAVERFORDIAN 

Vol.  XXXIX.  H.WERKORD,  PA.,  OCTOBER,  1917  No.  5 

ij^atjcrforb  1917=18 

By  President  W.  W.  Comfort 


M' 


'UCH  of  national  interest  and  not  a  little  of  local  interest  has 
transpired  since  the  last  number  of  the  HAVERFORDIAN  was 
published.  Voluntary  enlistment  in  government  service,  fol- 
lowed by  the  draft,  has  struck  deep  into  the  constituency  of  the  College, 
and  many  homes  from  which  our  students  have  come  are  preoccupied 
now  with  events  across  the  seas.  In  all  branches  of  military  service 
and  in  many  organizations  for  the  alleviation  of  human  distress.  Haver- 
ford  is  well  represented  by  undergraduates  and  by  graduates  of  recent 
years.  England  and  France  never  seemed  so  near  to  us  as  they  do 
today.  Our  thoughts  follow  with  the  eyes  of  faith  the  friends  who  are 
somewhere  yonder  out  of  sight.  We  must  remember  these  brothers  of 
ours,  these  sons  of  a  common  Alma  Mater,  through  all  our  work  and 
play  this  year:    we  must  be  worthy  of  them. 

I  shall  not  be  suspected  of  uttering  an  apology  for  war  as  a  desirable 
or  necessary  institution  when  I  point  out  the  needed  lesson  of  self- 
sacrifice  which  it  is  today  teaching  us.  The  men  who,  like  these  Haver- 
fordians,  are  giving  their  country  their  service,  are  not  pledging  their 
efforts  out  of  lust  for  physical  strife.  In  many  cases  only  the  sternest 
sense  of  duty  is  drawing  them  from  their  dearest  ties  to  preserve  ideals 
without  which  they  imagine  life  would  not  be  worth  living.  We  must 
all  admire  the  impelling  motive  of  men  who  have  had  to  put  down 
every  instinctive  yearning  for  ease  and  comfort  in  order  to  follow  where 
duty  leads. 

To  us  who  are  in  College  this  year,  for  one  reason  or  another  this 
great  call  for  sacrifice  has  not  come  in  the  conventional  way.  We 
have  gathered  in  this  little  community  for  the  purpose  of  study  and 
preparation,  far  from  the  living  hell  of  European  battlegrounds,  in 
scenes  where  every  prospect  pleases  and  where  abundant  provision 
has  been  made  for  our  profitable  sojourn.  One  is  naturally  solicitous 
that  the  serious  lessons  mankind  is  learning  in  this  trial  should  not  pass 


158  The  Haverfordian 

unheeded  in  this  calm  retreat.  A  college  community  like  ours  must 
not  stand  for  folly  and  idle  frivolity,  but  for  serious  purpose  and  a 
dignified  sense  of  responsibility.  Young  men  everywhere  are  doing 
deeds  beyond  their  years.  Promotion  is  coming  fast,  as  the  ranks  are 
thinned  and  necessity  presses.  If  a  college  is  described  as  a  little  world, 
we  must  organize  our  little  world  on  the  basis  of  quick  promotion  for 
proved  efficiency,  and  prompt  dismissal  for  waywardness,  slackness,  and 
disability.  This  generation  of  Americans  will  be  better  for  this  war,  or 
it  will  be  infinitely  worse.  The  screws  must  be  tightened  up,  the  stand- 
ards raised.     In  this  day  boys  must  act  like  men,  and  not  men  like  boys. 

In  writing  these  lines  I  am  only  trying  to  state  what  every  Haver- 
fordian knows  to  be  true  when  he  quietly  examines  the  situation  and 
his  own  relation  to  it.  We  are  all  equally  responsible  for  sustaining  this 
note  of  high  seriousness;  and  I  say  we  must  "sustain"  this  note  because 
it  has  already  been  sounded  in  our  midst.  The  three  upper  classes  in 
College  passed  through  a  period  of  heart-searching  and  chastening 
activity  last  Spring  which  they  have  not  forgotten  and  which  they  should 
never  forget.  It  was  not  altogether  imagination  which  prompted  the 
remark  heard  at  the  last  Commencement,  that  the  senior  class  formed 
the  most  mature  and  serious  group  of  young  men  Haverford  ever  sent 
■out.  After  the  Emergency  Unit  had  done  its  work,  another  group  of 
jnen  came  upon  our  campus.  They  formed  the  first  American  Friends' 
Tleconstruction  Unit,  and  numbered  one  hundred.  They  came  from  all 
sections  of  the  country,  and  stayed  in  our  halls  and  on  our  lawns  for 
six  weeks.  They  came  to  us  in  no  trifling  mood,  and  they  left  for  France 
with  clear  eye  and  upright  bearing  which  spoke  their  determination  to 
acquit  themselves  like  men  where  their  duty  took  them.  It  was  exceed- 
ingly good  to  be  here  with  them  and  to  note  the  regularity,  seriousness, 
and  consecration  of  their  application  to  the  tasks  before  them.  They, 
•as  well  as  their  instructors,  have  left  behind  them  an  inspiration  which 
many  of  us  feel  and  which  you  all  must  discover  for  yourselves  this  year. 
JHaverford  College  must  be  the  better  for  having  housed  and  nourished 
as  her  own  sons  these  young  men  who  have  gone  to  carry  out  their  ideals 
of  practical  Christianity  in  a  stricken  land. 

In  this  sense,  the  opening  of  College  this  year  is  different  from  all 
convenings  of  the  student  body  which  have  preceded  it  in  the  years 
of  the  past.  In  another  sixteen  years  Haverford  will  round  out  a  cen- 
tury of  existence.  In  the  ranks  of  the  Alumni  the  students  of  today 
will  belong  to  the  war  generation.  Let  it  be  said  that  the  men  of  these 
war  years  laid  aside  all  nonsense  and  puerile  pranks  and  were  known 
ior  their  modest  gentlemanliness,  their  aptness  to  learn,  and  their  readi- 


The  First  Day's  Practice  159 

ness  to  accept  responsibility.  Numbers  mean  little  at  Haverford;  it 
is  quality  and  spirit  that  count  here.  It  is  always  better  in  the  College 
for  the  job  to  seek  the  man  than  for  the  man  to  seek  the  job.  There 
will  be  plenty  of  jobs  this  year,  plenty  of  vacant  posts  to  fill.  Many  of 
us,  professors  and  students  alike,  will  find  ourselves  standing  in  other 
men's  shoes — shoes  of  better  men  which  we  cannot  well  fill.  But  we 
must  all  so  live  that  when  a  job  in  hall  or  in  field  seeks  us  out  we  shall 
be  ready  to  pull  our  belt  a  little  tighter  and  say,  "Here  am  1 ;  if  I  can 
be  of  use,  call  on  me  to  the  limit  of  my  ability."  Any  man  who  cherishes 
this  spirit  of  helpfulness  and  acts  upon  it  will  make  a  good  Haverfordian. 
He  will  be  the  sort  we  want  here,  and  the  sort  that  is  always  wanted 
in  the  world. 


^\)t  Jfirsit  ©ap's!  practice 

{Bowing  to  the  shade  of  Gilbert) 
By  Granville  E.  Toogood 

Your  joints  are  stiff  and  your  back  is  sore; 
Your  nose  is  mashed  and  is  red  with  gore; 
Your  teeth  are  loose  and  your  eye  is  blued, 
And  thus  you  start  your  period  of  servitude. 

You  can't  run  fast  and  you  muff  the  ball; 

You  can't  fall  right  when  you're  told  to  fall. 

The  coach  yells  loud  with  disgust  imbued. 

And  then  you're  shown  your  error  in  its  magnitude. 

Your  feet  are  sick  and  your  legs  are  dead; 
The  sweat  rolls  off  and  your  face  is  red; 
Your  tongue  hangs  out  and  your  eyes  protrude. 
And  this  becomes  your  customary  attitude. 


^n  Sncibent  in  Jul? 

By  J.  H.  Smith 

THE  great  city  lay  seething  under  the  merciless  blaze  of  a  July 
sun.  People  walked  hither  and  thither,  jostling,  pushing, 
shouting — hurrying  some  place,  any  place,  to  escape  the  fury 
of  the  dancing  heat-waves.  Regardless  of  others,  men  and  women 
sought  some  refuge,  some  blessed  shade — and  there  was  none.  I,  like 
the  rest,  moved  on  in  the  sweltering,  struggling  traffic.  A  newsboy 
poked  an  extra  in  my  face  announcing  the  number  of  deaths  and  pros- 
trations. I  saw  a  team  trying  to  keep  up  with  the  rush  of  motor  traffic 
while  their  shameless  driver  lashed  their  heaving  lathered  sides  to 
greater  exertion.  The  sight  sickened  me  and  1  hurried  on.  An  ambu- 
lance, clanging  its  note  of  warning,  careened  down  the  street.  "My 
God,"  I  gasped,  "is  there  no  help  in  earth  or  heaven?"  The  roar  of 
the  street  only  answered. 

I  noticed  now,  for  the  first  time,  an  old  man  in  front  of  me.  His 
steps  were  very  slow  and  he  seemed  to  be  exhausted.  I  quickened  my 
pace,  thinking  I  might  help  him.  I  thought  1  heard  him  gasp.  A  big 
ugly  man  in  his  shirt  sleeves  stepped  between  us.  I  shoved  him  aside 
and  hurried  on,  but  it  was  too  late.  The  old  man  stopped,  swayed 
backwards,  caught  himself  and  then  fell  prone  on  his  face  against  the 
pavement.  I  knelt  beside  him.  "Is  there  no  help?"  I  repeated.  I 
looked  about  me.  There,  directly  opposite,  was  a  high  brick  wall,  over 
the  edge  of  which  appeared  the  green  branches  of  many  trees.  It  looked 
like  a  miniature  forest  wedged  in  between  the  blank  sides  of  the  sur- 
rounding skyscrapers.  1  lifted  the  old  man,  who  was  totally  unconscious, 
and  carried  him  to  a  little  door  at  one  end  of  the  wall.  1  knocked. 
No  answer.  I  beat  the  door  with  my  fist.  Presently  the  door  slowly 
swung  open  and  a  padre,  dressed  in  a  black,  monk's  costume,  beckoned 
me  to  enter.  1  scarcely  noticed  him  as  I  passed,  but  he  seemed  to  me 
to  have  the  most  serenely  peaceful  face  1  have  ever  seen.  Without 
speaking  he  closed  the  heavy  door  again — and  the  tumult  of  the  street 
suddenly  ceased!  All  was  quiet;  only  a  faint,  humming  monotone  of 
the  traffic  reached  my  ears.  I  was  in  a  garden!  The  air  was  laden 
with  oleanders.  At  the  direction  of  the  padre,  I  carried  the  old  man 
along  neat  paths  through  a  profusion  of  flowers  to  a  little  abbey,  over 
in  one  corner.  Vines  climbed  over  its  high  arches  and  the  dullness  of 
the  brick  seemed  to  melt  with  the  sombre  shade  of  the  trees  above. 
Only  small  patches  of  the  distant  blue  sky  could  be  seen  through  their 
dense  foliage. 


An  In'cident  in  July  161 

As  I  entered,  bearing  the  old  man,  a  hush  fell  upon  me.  All  was  so 
peaceful  and  cool  and  subdued.  1  laid  the  old  man  down  in  a  pew. 
Soon  the  monk  reappeared  with  some  cold  water  with  which  he  bathed 
the  old  man's  face.  1  could  not  speak,  1  could  not  break  the  awful 
silence  of  the  place.  1  sat  down  in  a  pew  to  rest.  Nothing  seemed  to 
stir.  The  smell  of  the  oleanders  reached  me  faintly.  1  bowed  my  head 
and  closed  my  eyes — such  peace,  it  must  be  a  new  world.  The  monk 
noiselessly  brushed  past  me  and  up  to  the  organ  at  the  back,  by  the 
stained  glass  windows. 

Softly  he  began  to  play,  awaking  the  strange,  smooth  notes  of  the 
prelude.  One  strain  joined  another,  until  the  confusion  of  harmonies, 
still  perfectly  blended,  soared  in  a  theme  so  fantastic,  so  elusive,  yet 
so  subdued  and  caressing,  that  1  was  drenched  with  the  beauty  of  it. 
The  golden  sounds  filled  the  abbey  and  thrilled  every  fibre  of  my  being. 
The  theme  rose  higher  and  higher  in  a  crescendo  so  masterful  that  1 
thought  I  must  cry  out,  it  gripped  me  so.  Then  gradually  the  harmonies 
subsided  like  receding  waves,  leaving  me  stunned  and  weakened.  The 
music  faded  out,  and  a  choir,  from  I  know  not  where,  began  singing  an 
old  English  anthem.  I  did  not  know  it  at  the  time,  but  the  singing  was 
for  the  old  man  who  had  passed  away,  borne  on  high  by  the  glory  of 
that  vibrant  music. 

A  sensation  of  tears  stole  over  me,  for  I  did  not  want  to  leave 
the  blessed  tranquillity  of  the  place.  The  singing  abruptly  ceased,  and 
the  padre  touched  me  on  the  shoulder  as  he  passed  by  me  in  the  aisle. 
I  arose  and  followed  him  to  the  door.  Orange  streaks  of  light  pierced 
through  the  foliage,  making  the  dust  hang  golden  and  motionless  in 
the  flower-laden  atmosphere. 

I  slowly  walked  through  the  garden  to  the  door  in  the  wall.  The 
padre  opened  it,  and  immediately  the  thunder  of  the  ill-smelling  street 
greeted  me.  I  turned  for  a  last  look  at  the  garden — but  the  door  was 
closed.  A  dirty  newsboy  shouted  at  me,  but  1  did  not  hear  him.  I 
was  thinking  of  the  old  man,  and  the  music,  and  the  oleanders. 


Jfabeb  |9outf) 

By  Russell  N.  Miller 

Last  night  as  I  sat  alone  in  my  room 
And  smoked  my  "good-night"  cigar, 
And  tried  to  dispel  the  shadows  of  gloom 
That  seemed  to  come  from  afar. 

And  hover  about,  as  I  sat  in  the  chair, — - 
Old  memories,  bitter-sweet. 
Phantom  faces,  lighter  than  air. 
Smiling  in  sad  retreat; — 

I  took  a  book  from  off  the  shelf. 
Within  whose  yellowed  leaves 
Oft  1  had  found,  alone  with  myself. 
Solace,  and  thought,  and  ease. 

And  clinging  to  the  musty  page. 

Dog-eared,  dusty,  and  worn. 

Was  a  crimson  flower,  withered  with  age. 

Fragile,  brittle,  and  torn. 

***** 

What  pink  breast,  or  whose  red  lips 
Had  kissed  this  faded  flower? 
Or  the  bee  had  taken  its  honeyed  sips 
In  what  rose-clambered  bower? 

What  fond  hopes  did  its  leaves  enfold? 
Dying,  with  what  desires? 
What  was  the  story  its  petals  told. 
Blushing  with  hidden  fires? 

What  soft  phrases,  whispered  low, 
About  its  fragrance  clung?   .   .   . 
I  cannot  tell — 1  only  know 
That  once,  long  ago,  I  was  young. 


pearls  of  ^arabise 

By  H.  Brechl 

CRET  KILDUFF  talked  like  those  paper-novel  heroes  that  you 
get  six  for  a  quarter,  or  thought  that  he  did.  Really  he  talked 
much  better.  1  mean  that  he  told  people  to  go  instead  of  con- 
cisely and  beautifully  commanding  them  to  shake  their  legs,  and  avowed 
himself  hopelessly  in  love  with  Mary  Annandale,  while  Turk  Brown 
went  with  her.  For  this  misuse  of  the  English  language  Cret  was  con- 
sidered harmlessly  insane;  he  himself  told  Mary  that  he  had  artistic 
temperament  in  his  cosmos,  which  confirmed  her  belief.  For  she  con- 
ceived the  last-named  entity  as  the  plural  of  a  kind  of  flower. 

,  According  to  the  fellows,  Turk  Brown  (son  of  Brown  and  Scodgins, 
Printers)  was  a  darn  nice  fellah,  and  according  to  the  girls  he  was  cute. 
Add  to  this  that  he  danced  like  a  dream  (forceful  female  simile),  while 
Cret  danced  with  all  the  stiffness  of  a  stove-handle,  and  you  know  why 
the  contest  for  Mary's  favor  was  going  against  Cret,  and  Turk  was 
almost  the  coveted  steady. 

Mary  Annandale  was  the  sweetest  little  girl  in  West  Philly,  and 
though  the  chronicler  may  affect  humor  regarding  the  two  heroes  of 
this  tale,  there  is  only  affection  for  its  heroine.  (Once — just  once — he 
went.  .  .  )  She  powdered  her  little  nose  most  excruciatingly  often, 
and  was  very  pretty  and  helpless  and  young,  being  but  seventeen.  She 
was  so  popular  that  no  one  ought  to  fall  in  love  with  her  (according  to 
the  steady  before  last),  and  so  adorable  that  no  one  could  help  it,  and 
it  is  unkind  but  essential  to  suggest,  as  explanation  of  Cret's  continuance 
in  the  race,  that  he  earned  two-per  more. 

AH  of  which  is  rather  a  failure  as  a  graceful  introduction  to  Eunice 
Roger's  swimming-party.  One  of  our  leading  men  had  answered  grate- 
fully that  he  would  be  delighted  to  attend,  and  the  other  had  said  non- 
chalantly that  "sure,  kid.  he'd  come.  "  (It  is  not  in  the  adverbs  that 
the  secret  of  popularity  is  hidden.) 

The  whole  thing  was  only  a  sham,  of  course,  to  enable  either  sex: 
to  see  exposed — but  it  is  Off  that  stuff  and  the  crowd  knew  that  to-night 
was  the  final  stage  in  the  struggle  of  what  Slats  Connell  would  have 
called  Artistic  Temperament  vs.  Cuteness  if  he  had  thought  of  it.  Only 
the  crowd  had  always  confused  temperament  with  temper  (as  did — and 
do — Turk  and  Maryj  and  had  no  doubt  as  to  the  outcome. 


164  The  Haverfordian 

Both  Turk  and  Cret  knew  that  affairs  were  very  crucial,  and  Turk 
was  very  indifferent  indeed,  while  Cret  rejected  Rose  of  My  Siloam  for 
Pearl  of  My  Paradise. 

Mary  sensed  that  a  decision  was  impending,  threatening,  and  in 
her  feminine  heart  of  hearts  she  knew  that  she  did  not  know — which. 
So  she  took  it  out  on  her  mother  (as  do  and  have  done  other  Marys 
from  time  immemorial),  and  she  envied  the  girl  next  door  who  never  had 
any  fellows  come  to  see  her,  for  about  the  time  it  took  to  powder  the 
extremity  above-mentioned. 

Turk  brought  Mary  to  the  place  where  the  party  was  going  to  come 
off.  Perhaps  because  of  the  walk,  and  perhaps  because  of  anticipation 
of  the  idiomatic  decapitation  that  I  have  mentioned,  Mary's  eyes  were 
so  starry  and  her  little  mouth  so  irresistibly  curving  that  Slats  Connell, 
who  had  a  reputation  for  wit  to  sustain,  remarked  that  betting  was 
superfluous.  Which  timely  and  well-pronounced  epigram  was  accorded 
the  reception   that  it  deserved. 

Nature  had  provided  a  suitable  setting.  The  sky  was  barred  with 
great  crimson  reaches  of  motionless  cloud,  aglow  from  the  setting  sun, 
which  spanned  the  vast  arch  of  the  sky  in  alternating  glories,  and  the 
air  was  very  still,  and  the  water  (it  was  an  amateur  lake  in  a  very  amateur 
park)  was  very  ripply  and  caressing.  So  young  hands  were  clasped, 
and  bright  eyes  promised  things  that  pure  lips  did  not  speak,  and  the 
sham  was  assured — but  we  forget,  and  everybody  had  just  a  howling 
good  time. 

Who  is  the  chronicler,  anyway,  to  profane  all  this  by  attempting 
to  describe  it,  while  the  red  radiances  waned  into  an  orange  that  will 
never  be  seen  nearer  earth,  and  deepened  into  what  Cret  called  ultra- 
violet? Could  he  describe,  if  he  would,  the  deeds  of  derring-do,  the 
lavish  tourneys,  the  fierce  tourneys,  while  young  arms  encircled  slight 
waists  and  silver  shoulders  cast  the  mystic  trail  of  sex  and  demonstrated 
the  utility  of  bathing-suits?  Could  he  describe  the  uproarious  laughter 
at  Slats'  wit,  at  your  own,  at  everybody's  (1  have  a  deep  admiration  for 
anyone  who  can  be  exalted  ass  enough  to  laugh  at  his  own  humor)  or 
(in  the  torment-chambers  of  the  Inquisition)  the  lithe  bodies  bent 
back,  back,  until  the  helpless  owners  (always  girls)  abjured  whatever 
they  had  to  abjure,  and  the  torture  was  hallowed  .  .  .  ?  Thus,  until  the 
moon  cast  a  mystic  trail  on  its  own  account  that  became  a  trail  of  dreams 
and  a  ladder  of  glory  to  this  youth  and  wet-haired  beauty  who  were 
finding  joy  in  existence,  and  forgetfulness — shall  we  say? — in  each 
other.  The  chronicler  can  only  declare,  from  his  heart,  that  "the 
fairest  flower  there"  was  the  Rose  of  Annandale,  whose  eyes  once  (but 


Pearls  of  Paradise  165 

once)  when   the  moon  was  Hkewise  very  high,  and  his  hopes   .    .    .   was 
she  who  extended  the  realms  of  flora  so  as  to  contain  cosmos. 


The  stars  above  denote  a  transition  to  the  time  when  Mary  was 
sitting  with  her  silken  knees  clasped  primly,  and  Turk  sprawled  at  her 
feet.  It  is  difficult  to  give  you  the  correct  idea  of  a  great  change  that 
was  taking  place  in  that  part  of  Turk  which  some  people  call  soul,  and 
some  heart,  and  the  very  learned  don't  name  at  all.  It  may  have  been 
the  peace  in  the  air,  or  the  youth  and  fragrance  of  the  girl  near  him,  or 
the  gleam  of  a  white  arm,  or  a  Natural  Reversion  to  Type  (natural  in  a 
printer's  son),  but  something  was  affecting  him  as  he  had  never  been 
affected  before.  For  ten  happy  minutes  that  we  shall  not  cheapen  by 
detailed  description,  neither  spoke,  but  all  the  while  the  tempest  was 
surging  in  Turk  that  he  could  not  find  words  to  voice. 

At  last,  when  the  dear  little  face  was  so  near  his  that  the  powder- 
laden  breath  was  brushing  his  cheek,  he  spoke  as  he  had  never  spoken 
before,  groping  desperately  for  words.  "Mary — Pearl  of  my  Paradise — " 
His  voice  broke,  surcharged  with  emotion. 

Mary  was  too  stunned  to  speak.  You  might  expect  this  from 
Cret,  but  Turk — Good-night! 

Turk  was  finding  words.  "Mary,  darling,  do  you  think  that  now, 
ever,  you  could  care?      Could  you — could  you  love  me  just  a  little  bit?  " 

Mary.  too.  had  rediscovered  her  voice.  "Oh,  Turk,  don't  be  such 
an  awful  nut!  ' 


The  above  stars  denote  many  things,  in  their  convenient,  star-like 
manner.  They  denote  Turk's  complete  discomfiture  and  departure; 
they  show  how  Cret  shook  off  the  feminine  filler-in  with  whom  he  had 
been  doing  penance;  they  denote  that  he  is  very  near  Mary  now,  and 
that  a  regeneration  is  taking  place  within  him  that  is  akin  to  that  one 
of  Turk's  that  we  made  such  a  botch  of  describing;  best  of  all,  they 
denote  that  the  white  hand  that  her  modesty  had  guarded  so  long  was 
being  doubly-guarded  now  in  his. 

Overhead  the  stars  were  coming  out,  in  the  infinite,  you  know; 
but  not  a  star  there  could  compare — can  compare — with  those  eyes  so 
near  his,  eyes  mocking  a  little,  perhaps,  but  very  tender.  Somewhere  a 
melancholy  owl  was  calling,  Tu-whit  tu-whoo-o-o-,  which  made  her 
shiver  and  snuggle  closer.  His  hand  was  lingering  on  the  bare  shoulder, 
silver  in   the  gathering   gloom,   and   the  wanton  winds  tossed  her  hair 


166  The  Haverfordian 

atout  his  face.  The  flood-tide  within  him  that  had  swept  away  all  his 
old  self  seethed  through  the  barriers,  and  he  spoke,  his  voice  heavy  with 
passion.      "Mary,  kin  I  be  your  genTman  frien'?" 

"Oooh,"  she  answered,  a  new  note  in  her  voice  that  typewriters 
cannot  approximate,  and  she  crept  very  close  indeed,  probably  because 
;the  owl  considered  (evidently)  her  answer  to  be  a  mate-call  for  him. 

Let  us  leave  them  thus,  with  the  scarlet  mouth  and  the  beckoning 
:mouth  very  near  his;  for  one  of  us  must  say  good-bye  to  the  Rose  of 
Annandale  for  ever. 

Truth  compels  me  to  add  that  at  almost  the  identical  moment  Turk 
-was  saying  the  identical  thing  to  one  of  the  other  sweetest  girls  in  West 
Philly,  whose  fellah  was  doing  his  penance  with  the  filler-in. 


(!i;fje  Prospect,  1917 

By  Richard  Wood 

The  dreary  voices  of  the  winter  winds 

Sigh  in  the  treetops,  and  the  cold  mists  drip 

Among  the  season-faded,  wash-cheeked  leaves 

That  hang  as  gloomy  spirits  of  a  time 

Long  past,  when  warmth  and  beauty  ruled  the  world. 

The  clammy  fingers  of  the  gathering  mist 

Clutch  at  my  heart,  my  spirit  is  depressed. 

Yet  merry  in  a  melancholy  way. 

I  stir  and  turn  in  restless  energy, 

Unuseful,  inconsistent,  ebbing  now, 

Leaving  me  empty,  weary,  desolate; 

Then  flowing  in  high  tide  of  savage  joy 

Which  glories  in  the  bleak  inclemency 

Without,  and  makes  me  gay  beneath  the  sere, 

Dull,  shrivelling  fingers  of  the  coming  night. 

And  so  1  face  the  time  that  lies  before. 

Impenetrable,  dark,  and  threatening, — 

A  time  when  doubts  and  questions  thickly  come 

To  cloud  the  clear  selection  of  my  path; 

Yet  in  the  spirit  of  the  brave  old  skald. 

Who,  when  misfortunes  rushed  upon  him  sore, 

Sang  of  misfortunes  still  more  terrible 

Endured  by  others  calmly  and  with  pride. 

So  I,  peering  into  the  gathering  mists. 

Do  bid  the  elements  a  stout  defiance. 

I  know  not,  and  1  care  not,  what  may  come. 

Whatever  comes,  1  gain:    from  fortune,  joy; 

And  better,  from  misfortune,  constancy 

To  choose  the  best  course  that  before  me  lies, 

And  follow  it,  no  matter  what  befall. 


Vtv^  Hihtt 

By  Christopher  Roberts 

LESS  conservatism,  more  radicalism;  less  orthodoxy,  more  hetero- 
doxy; less  conventionality,  more  freedom  from  restraint;  these 
are  some  of  the  needs  of  to-day.  It  is,  therefore,  a  very  healthy 
sign  that  there  is  an  increase  in  futuristic  poetry.  The  expression  of  a 
thought  as  it  comes  to  anyone,  whether  it  fits  into  the  conventional 
system  or  not,  is  a  good  thing.  The  great  aim  has  been  to  find  a  simple 
vehicle  of  thought-expression  that  can  be  universally  used.  The  rules 
must  be  flexible  in  the  extreme;  hence  there  are  no  rules.  Note  the 
following,  which  I  dashed  off  in  an  idle  moment: 

THE  DEATH  OF  Z— 
It  was  evening; 
Morning  came. 
Afternoon  did  not  come. 
But  it  was  breathing  hard — 
Ah! 
But  the  great  drawback  to  the  futuristic  poet  is  that  he  toils  in  the 
vanguard  of  mankind,  where  it  is  chill  and  there  is  little  applause  from 
the    conservative   classes,    rightly    called    the    backbone   of    a    spineless 
society.     He  works  for  the  millions  yet  unborn,    for  a  scant  fame  that, 
though  certain,  can  only  come  long  after  his  coffin  has  been  safely  lowered 
into  the  grave.      He  labors  where  the  ground  is  rugged  and  the  under- 
brush thick,  labors  on  in  spite  of  the  sneers  of  countless  little  minds. 
Only  one  inspired   with   the  radicalism  of  great  truths  can   transcend 
these  difficulties. 

I  would  suggest,  therefore,  a  compromise.  All  teachers  must 
modify  their  true  theories  in  recognition  of  the  popular  inertia  to  change. 
The  futuristic  poet  must  be,  above  all,  sane.  Good  advice  to  agitators 
is  to  be  calm,  to  be  courteous.  The  best  drummer  in  Boston  could  not 
sell  a  bale  of  hay  to  a  bull  at  half  price  if  he  carried  the  sample  in  a  red 
wrapper.  So  I  would  advise  the  modern  poet  to  be  temperate,  to  follow 
the  example  of  Master's  Spoon  River  Anthology,  and  to  write  free  verse 
after  the  following  order: 

THE  SCULPTOR 
I  was  the  sculptor  at  Ardmore, 

And  when  they  wanted  a  statue  of  Truth  for  the  square, 
1,  unwitting,  took  the  order. 


Vers  Libre  169 

But  vain  and  futile  is  an  attempt  to  create  what  has  not  existed; 
I  sought  and  sought,  but  Truth  ne'er  showed  herself  to  me. 
So  we  go  through  life,  dodging,  never  facing. 
Art?     There  is  none. 

It  took  one  minute  to  create  the  above,  and  a  half-minute  to  write 
it.  Think  of  the  countless,  priceless  gems  of  thought  you  could  tear 
off  in  one  day.  After  you  think,  reader,  that  you  have  written  enough 
lines  to  a  poem  like  the  above,  stop.  Then  poise  your  pen  in  air,  click 
your  mind  into  a  mental  vacuum,  open  suddenly  the  floodgates  of 
intellect  once  more,  and  append  to  your  poem  the  first  phrase  that 
comes  to  you.  This  method  insures  the  co-operation  of  the  Deity,  or 
chance,  or  some  other  extraneous  agency.  It  gives  your  poem  the 
opposite  of  a  denouement; — that  is,  a  tying  process  at  the  end  which 
leaves  the  reader  bewildered.      Once  again   1   will  illustrate: 

HOLDING  DEY 

The  bullet  entered  and  darkness  came; 

1  sank,  as  quickly  sinks  the  sun  in  northern  lands. 

A  soldier  to  the  wars,  1  could  expect  a  death  in  combat — 

But  to  be  shot  by  Henry  Goddard's  rifle! 

1  loved  my  country — 

Yes! 

Even  as  a  pig  loves  its  sty. 

Do  not  be  afraid  to  use  figures  of  speech,  however  imaginative, 
however  realistic.  There  are  sure  to  be  some  people  uninitiated  enough 
to  be  fooled.  Bear  these  few  things  in  mind  and  fame  is  yours.  In 
closing,  1  give  two  more  examples: 

HENRY  GODDARD 

The  time  of  man  slips  on. 

The  dial's  shadow  in  the  summer  sun  creeps  slowly. 

Lengthening  out. 

And  faster  as  the  last  rays  ebb. 

My  life  was  spent  ere  yet  'twas  done. 

O  men  of  little  faith, 

Beware  what  senile  age  portends. 

My  sons  forsook  me,  following  gold  and  power; 

O  God,  Thy  name  is  legion! 


170  The  Haverfordian 

TICKS 

The  white  page  is  before  me. 

The  black  letters  sting  my  vision; 

Like  venomous  ants  they  sting, 

Not  so  their  meaning,  which  is  as  honey. 

The  end  has  come;    the  paper  is  finished. 

Let's  go  down  to  Red's. 


I 


^n  American  "^ometofjere  in  Jfrance"— 

fulp,  1917  i 

By  E.  J.  Lester 

Brave  soul,  who  from  thy  native  shore  hast  started. 

Responsive  to  the  cry  of  bleeding  France 

For  aid  lest  Liberty  should  prove  a  trance 

Which  those  of  future  years  shall  find  departed. 

Suppressed  by  Hun  and  Teuton  demon-hearted: 

With  scarce  a  hope  self-glory  to  enhance. 

Thy  earnest  purpose  is  but  to  advance 

Storm-tossed  Democracy  through  seas  uncharted. 

All,  all  thou  left  at  Freedom's  stricken  call 

That  mortals  prize  this  side  the  Great  Beyond: 

Home,  friends,  thy  craft,  and  sweetheart's  tear-dimmed  face, 

To  be  perchance  among  the  first  to  fall 

Beneath  thy  country's  flag.     The  world  around 

There  dwells  no  man  who  could  thy  loss  replace. 


By  K.  Oliver 

A  sylph  am  I,  a  shade,  an  idle  dream, 
An  airy  dilettante,  a  stray  moonbeam, 
And  light  as  perfume  that  the  breezes  blow, 
Adown  the  path  from  heaven  to  earth  I  go. 

1  bid  the  grey,  dank  mists  of  even  rise, 
And  float  abroad  unseen  of  mortal  eyes. 
The  weary  soul  my  presence  doth  perceive, 
And  round  it  spells  of  love  and  hope  I  weave. 

In  rainbow  spray  of  waterfalls  I  dip. 
And  dewdrops  from  the  half-blown  musk-rose  sip. 
1  dance  with  foam-flecks  on  the  ruffled  bay. 
And  o'er  it  with  the  glancing  sunbeams  play. 

1  stray  through  gardens  at  the  twilight  hour, 
By  mossy  nook,  and  honeysuckle  bower. 
Where'er  fond  lovers  wander  hand  in  hand, 
Down  woodland  lane,  or  o'er  the  bright  sea-sand. 

There  follow  1.     And  when  the  shadows  fall 
1  stand  beside  the  hearth,  in  cot  or  hall. 
The  weary  brain  to  soothe  with  gentle  sleep 
And  tender  watch  above  the  cradle  keep. 

But  oft  as  homeward  turns  my  winged  flight, 
A  soul  I  bear  aloft  to  realms  of  light. 
And  songs  1  sing,  in  accents  sweet  and  low. 
As  up  the  path  from  earth  to  heaven  I  go. 


JLUMNI 


The  first  question  that  the  grad- 
uate of  Haverford  College  will  ask 
is,  "What  are  my  classmates  doing 
now?"  The  following  notes  are 
but  a  partial  answer  to  that  ques- 
tion. We  can  but  give  to  you 
what  comes  to  us  from  various 
sources.  In  order  to  help  us,  and, 
through  us,  help  the  Alumni  to 
know  the  service  that  Haver- 
fordians  are  rendering  thier  coun- 
try, it  is  necessary  for  the  individu- 
al Alumnus  to  send  us  any  piece 
of  information  he  may  have  at  his 
command. 

The  job  of  getting  out  Alumni 
Notes  is  one  of  the  most  difficult 
ones  in  College,  and  if  you  would 
only  drop  us  a  postal  when  any- 
thing of  interest  comes  to  your 
attention,  you  would  be  "doing 
your  bit"  for  your  College,  saving 
the  Alumni  Editor  from  a  pre- 
mature old  age,  and  making  this 
sheet  of  interest  to  your  fellow 
graduates. 

We  have  attempted  to  make  out 
a  list  of  the  Haverfordians  now 
engaged  in  service.  You  can  see 
how  feeble  the  attempt  was.  But 
to  make  this  list  complete,  to  fill 
up  the  honor  roll  with  your  friends 
and  fellow  classmates,  you  must, 
as  the  old  rallying-cry  puts  it,  be 
one  of  the  "good  men  and  true" 
who  come  to  the  aid  of  their  party. 


RECONSTRUCTION  UNIT   IN 
FRANCE 

Dr.  James  A.  Babbitt,  '96,  field 
director  of  the  Unit 

Lester  Ralston  Thomas,  '13,  as- 
sistant to  Dr.  Babbitt 

Arthur  Lindley  Bowerman,    '12 

Charles   F.    Brown,    '17 

J.  Howard  Buzby,  '17 

G.  Cheston  Carey,  '15 

J.  Arthur  Cooper,  '16 

William    S.    Crowther,    '93 

F.    H.    Farquar,    '12 

Albert  Garrigues,   '16 

Joseph  H.  Haines,  '98 

R.  J.  M.  Hobbs,  'II 

Weston   Howland,   '17 

Hugh    Exton   McKinstry,    '17 

Francis    Murray,    ex-' I  7 

J.   Hallowell   Parker,   '12 

Francis  P.  Sharpless,  '  1 6 

William  Webb,  '13 

W.  H.  B.  Whitall,  '14 
APPOINTMENTS   AT   TRAIN- 
ING CAMPS 

James  Sprague  Ellison,  '16,  1st 
Lieutenant 

Wm.  Lloyd  Baily,  '17,  2nd  Lieu- 
tenant, sent  to  Texas 

DeWitt  Crowell  Clement,  '17, 
2nd  Lieutenant,  sent  to  Camp 
Meade 

Wm.  Clark  Little,  '17,  2nd  Lieu- 
tenant, sent  to  Texas 

Robt.  Boyd  Miller,  '17,  2nd 
Lieutenant 


Alumni 


173 


Ml 


J.    E. 

PHILADELPHIA 

13  North  Third  Street 

BALTIMORE  AGENCY' 

37   South   Charles  Street 


«  A  MICHIGAN  CORPORATION  are  well 
I  ^  ^  pleased  with  the  38-inch  3-ply  Rhoads 
driving  belt  shown  above.  It  is  one  of  an 
installation  of  large  belts  that  have  run  with 
notable  trueness  and  balance,  and  with  remark- 
ably little  stretch.  Another  of  these,  a  20-inch 
double,  has  been  pronounced  by  several  men 
the  straightest  belt  they  ever  saw. 

Such  belts  do  credit  to  your  plant  and   pro- 
^^^^^^^    mote  production. 

RHOADS    &    SONS 

NEW  YORK  CHICAGO 


10%  Beekman  Street 


Xit  West  Randolph  Streat 


FACTORY  AND  TANNERY 

Wilmington,  Delaware 


FIRST    CITY    TROOP 
Willard  M.  R.  Crosinan,  '17 
M.  Alexander  Laverty,  '17 
John  W.  Alexander,  '18 
Louis  Lusson,  '  1 8 
J.  W.  Sharp.  3rd,  '18 
Percy  Stokes  Thornton,  '18 
L.  Kent  Kean,  '1  9 
BASE    HOSPITAL    NO.    34 
William   T.   Hannum,    '16 
Edward  Fell  Lukens,  Jr.,  '16 
Fred  Morris,  '1  7 
George  Donald  Chandler,  '17 
BASE    HOSPITAL    NO.     10 
Herbert    Lawrence    Jones,    '17 
Lawrence  Marshall  Ramsey,  '17 
John  Whitman  Zerega,   '17 
Robert  Bratton  Greer,   '18 
J.  G.  C.  LeClercq,  '18 


Robert  W.   Moore,   '18 
Wiliard  B.  Moore,  '18 
Morris  Shotwell  Shipley,  Jr.,  '18 
David   Ralston  Stief,   ex-' 18 
Samuel  Hudson  Chapman,  '19 
Nathaniel   Hathaway,   Jr.,   '19 
William  Alexander  Hoffman,  '19 
Charles  Hartshorne,  '19 
Jerrold  Scudder  Cochran,  '20 
Harold  Maurice  Grigg,  '20 
Ferris  Leggett  Price,   '20 

OTHER   BRANCHES  OF  SER- 
VICE 
Henry    Earle    Knowlton,    '16,    is 

in  the  Navy. 

Horace   Beale   Brodhead,    '17,   is 

a    member    of    the    U.    S.    Marine 

Corps. 

Albert    Winton    Hall,    '17,    and 


We  will  rent  you  a  late  model 

Underwood  Typewriter 

3  Months  for  $5.00 

and  apply  the  first  rental 
payment  on  the  purchase 
price  if  you  desire  to  buy 
the  machine. 

MARCUS  &  CO. 

STATIONERS— TYPEWRITERS 
1303  Market  St.,  Philadelphia 


174 


The  Haverfordian 


Edward    Harold    Lobaugh     are   in 
the  Signal  Service. 

Henry  Aldan  Johnson,  '16,  is  in 
the  U.  S.  Naval  Reserve. 

Frank  Wing  Gary,  '16;  William 
Jenks  Wright,  '18,  and  J.  Stewart 
Huston,  '19,  are  in  France,  engaged 
in  ambulance  work. 

Henry  McClellan  Hallett,  2nd, 
and  Oliver  Parry  Tatum,  both  of 
1918,  are  in  Augusta,  Georgia, 
training  with  the  National  Guard 
Medical  Corps. 

Kenneth  Stuart  Oliver,  '19,  is 
stationed  at  Dunkirk  with  the 
British  Friends'   Ambulance. 

Edward  Arthur  Grillon  Por- 
ter, '18,  has  sailed  for  Italy  with 
the  First  British  Red  Cross  Am- 
bulance to  Italy. 

'66 
We  are  in  receipt  of  a  pamphlet 
entitled,   "The  Early  Life  of  Pro- 
fessor Elliott,"  by  George  C.  Keid- 
el.  Ph.  D.      Dr.  Elliott  was  the  late 
Professor   of   Romance   Languages 
at  the  Johns  Hopkins  University. 
'82 
George  A.  Barton  has  published 
a  book  entitled,   "Religions  of  the 
World."     This  is  from  the  Chicago 
University  Press. 
'88 
Howell  S.  England  has  announc- 
ed the  change  of  his  law  offices    to 
1  1 40-44    Penobscot    Building,    De- 
troit. 

•94 
On  June  sixth,  Samuel  Wheeler 
Morris  married  Mrs.  Barbara  War- 
den Strawbridge  at  the  Church  of 
the  Redeemer,  Bryn  Mawr,  Pa. 
'95 
John     B.     Leeds     has      recently 
published    a    book    entitled,    "The 
Household     Budget."        A    special 
inquiry    has    been    made'  into    the 
amount    and    value    of    household 


Army  and  Navy 


GOODS 


Complete  Camp  Equipment 


Free  Catalogue 


B.  B.  ABRAHAM  &  CO. 


505  Market  Street 
FIRST  AID 

in 

All  Drug  Supplies 

CANDY  PERFUMES 

STATIONERY 

CIGARS     CUT  GLASS      KODAKS 

C.  G.  WARNER,  P.  D. 

Pharmacist  HAVERFORD,  PA. 


Alumni 


175 


work.  The  studies  cover  incomes 
from  $1 .200  to  $3,000,  with  especial 
attention  being  given  to  $1,800 
and  $2,400  budgets,  which  are 
worked  out  with  considerable  de- 
tail. 

'01 

Dr.  A.  Lovett  Dewees  was  mar- 
ried to  Miss  Margaret  Dakin,  on 
September  fifteenth,  at  Natick, 
Mass.  At  home  after  the  first  of 
November,  Walnut  Lane,  Haver- 
ford,  Pa. 

•03 

A   daughter   was   born   on   June 
14th  to  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Henry  Joel 
Cadbury,  and  named  Elizabeth. 
•03 

The  engagement  is  announced 
of  Miss  Mary  Frances  Fisher, 
daughter  of  Dr.  and  Mrs.  Henry 
M.  Fisher,  of  Jenkintown,  Fa.,  to 
James  B.  Drinker.  At  present 
Mr.  Drinker  is  in  the  313th  Regi- 
ment at  Camp  Meade. 
•04 

E.  T.  Snipes  has  announced  his 
engagement  to  Miss  Jane  C.  Moon, 
of  Morrisville,  Pa. 
•04 

Howard  Haines  Brinton  is  the 
acting  president  of  Guilford  Col- 
lege. 

•09 

A.  Lowry,  Jr.,  is  in  charge  of  the 
Y.    M.    C.    A.    work    for    German 
prisoners  in  France. 
•09 

Gerald  A.  Deacon  married  Miss 
Marjorie  Macdonald  on  July  twen- 
ty-fifth, at  Germantown.  The 
ceremony  was  performed  by  the 
Rev.  Walter  C.  Sandt,  of  the  same 
class.  At  home  after  October  first,, 
5910  Pulaski  Avenue,  German- 
town. 

•io 

Charles  Mitchell  Froelicher  mar- 


ESTABLISHED    !864 


Buy  from  Makers— Save  Money 


Wardrobe  Trunks 


$14  to  $75 


TR.WELLING   BAGS  .^^ND  SUIT  CASES  OF 
FINEST  MATERIALS  .-^T  MODERATE  PRICES 

Ladies'  Hand  and  Overnight  Bags 

CENTRAL  TRUNK  FACTORY 
908  Chestnut  Street 


BRADBURN  &  NIGRO 

Cor,  13th  and  Sansom  Streets 
F.  H.  YOH  PHILADELPHIA 


MEN'S  GARMENTS  of  BETTER  KIND 

Made  to  Measure 

$25  to  $50 

Get  acquainted  with 

THE  JRDMORE 

^A  TIONAL 

BANK 

ARDMORE,  PA. 

Our  Vacation  Club  is  a 
Splendid  Idea. 

3%  Saving  Account  2%  Checking  Accounts 


176 


The  Haverfordian 


ried  Miss  Frances  Hummler  on  the 
sixteenth  of  June,  at  New  York 
City. 

'II 

William  Davis  Hartshorne,  Jr., 
was  married  to  Miss  Edith  Ligon 
on  August  thirtieth,  at  Seclusival, 
Nelson  County,  Virginia.  At 
home,  "Seclusival,"  Shipman,  Vir- 
ginia,  after  September  fifth. 

Levi  Arnold  Port  is  an  assistant 
professor  of  French  at  Haverford 
College. 

Lucius  Rogers  Shero  has  been 
appointed  head  of  the  Latin  de- 
partment of  MacGallister  Univer- 
sity. 

•|2 

Mark  Balderson  is  dean  of  Guil- 
ford College. 

J.  A.  Cope  married  Miss  Edith 
L.  Cary  in  August,  at  Glenn  Falls, 
New  York. 

'13 

Joseph  Tatnall  was  married  to 
Miss  Rosalyn  Christine  Smith 
Brandt,  on  September  twenty- 
fifth,  at  Ganahgote,  New  York. 
At  home  after  November  fifteenth, 
3459  Chestnut  Street,  Philadel- 
phia. 

'14 

Thomas  R.  Kelly  announces  his 
engagement  to  Miss  Lael  Macy,  of 
Newington,  Conn. 

Harold  M.  Lane  is  at  Camp 
Meade. 

Walter  Gregory  Bowerman  has 
sailed  for  France  to  join  the  Re- 
construction Unit. 

Harold    S.    Miller   has    been    ap- 
pointed   pastor    of    the    55th    and 
5th   Avenue   Presbyterian    Church 
of  Brooklyn,  N.  Y. 
'15 

Walter  Elwood  Vail  is  an  in- 
structor in  Chemistry  at  Haver- 
ford College. 


Headquarters  for  Everything 
IVlusical 

Banjos.      Ukuleles, 
Mandolins,    Violins 
Mandolutes.  Gui- 
tars, Cornets,  etc. 

Pianos  and 
Player- 
Pianos 

Victrolas  and  Victor  Records 

Popular.  Classical  and  Operatic  Sheet  Music 

WEYMANN 

1108  Chestnut  Street,      Philadelphia 


Aside  from  its  careful  work  in  filling  pre- 
scriptions 

Haverford  Pharmacy 

has  become  known  as  a  place  where  many 
of  the  solid  comforts  of  life  may  be  ob- 
tained. One  worth  mentioning  is  the  fa- 
mous Lotion  for  sunburn,  chapped  hands 
and  face,  and  other  irritations  of  the  skin. 
Decline,  gently  but  firmly,  any  other  said 
to  be  "just  as  good." 

WILSON  L.  HARBAUGH. 


Protection  is  the  Best  Policy 
The  Best  Policy  is  the  Best 
Protection 


Write  or  call  on 


Richard  S.  Dewees  & 

John  K.  Garrigues 


for  information. 


SPECIAL  AGENTS  FOR 

The  Provident  Life  and  Trust  Co. 

4th  and  Chestnut  Sts.,     Philadelphia 


Alumm 


177 


Eugene  Morris  Pharo  was  mar- 
ried    to    Miss    Mary     Reed     Mac- 
pherson  on  June  thirtieth,  at  Tren- 
ton, New  Jersey. 
•15 

Walter  Carroll  Brinton  has  sailed 
for  France  to  join  the  Reconstruc- 
tion Unit. 

'16 

We  congratulate  Edgar  Chalfant 
Bye.  a  former  editor  of  the  HAVER- 
FORDIAN,  on  his  marriage  to  Miss 
Clar>,a  Agnes  Williamson  on  July 
seventh,  at  Media,  Pa.  At  home 
after  October  first,  255  Center 
Street,  "Jamestown,  "  Lehighton, 
Pa. 

Thomas    Steere    has    joined    the 
Reconstruction  Unit  in   France. 
Ex-' 16 

Henry  Drinker  Downing  has 
joined  the  Reconstruction  Unit  in 
France. 

•17 

Harvey  Klock  has  entered  Johns 
Hopkins  University  as  a  medical 
student. 

John  William  Spaeth,  Jr.,  is 
studying  at  Harvard  University. 

Edward  Mitchell  Weston  is  a 
teaching  fellow  at  Haverford  Col- 
lege. 

Edward  Roland  Snader,  Jr.,  is 
taking  medical  work  at  the  Uni- 
versity of  Pennsylvania. 

Donald  Hinshaw  Painter  is  teach- 
ing mathematics  in  Dayton  High 
School. 

"18 

Joseph  Marchant  Hayman,  Jr., 
is  studying  medicine  at  the  Uni- 
versity of  Pennsylvania. 

THE   MAIN   LINE    SHOE    COMPANY 


G.  ROSSI.  Manager 

ARDMORE, 


PA. 


Branch  No.  I  :  306  W.  Lancaster  Ave..   Ardmore 
Branch  No.  2:     208  Darby  Road.  Llanerch 


Pictures  Framed 

to  order,  and  in  an  artistic 
manner,  and  at  reasonable 
prices. 

J.  E.  BARKMAN, 

24  W.  Lancaster  Avenue 

Ardmore,  Pa. 

Pictures,    Stationery,    Gifts 


Joseph  C.  Ferguson,  Jr. 

6-8-10   South  Fifteenth  Street 

Optical  anb 
$f)otograpi)ic  #oob£^ 

OF  EVERY  DESCRIPTION 
Below  Market  Street 

Bryn  Mawr  Motor  Co.,  Inc. 

Main  Line  Agents 

BUICK 
AUTOMOBILES 

Branch    of 

HALE  MOTOR  CO.  Wayne,  Pa. 

For  that 

Thirsty  Thirst 

DRINK 

HIRES 


The  Haverfordian 


Plate  Glass 


Window  Glass 


Skylight  and  Floor  Glass.  Rolled  Cathedral,  beautiful  lints.  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 

205-207-209-211  N.  Fourth  St.  PHILADELPHIA 


REED  &  WEST 

Druggists 


ARDMORE 


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 


[j  S/^Young/lan 
.who  arouses 
your  admi  ration - 
ie  Wears  our 

Clothes 


Jacob  Reed's  Sons 

•Clothiers- 
Rabeidashcrs 
•Hatters- 

M241426  Chestnut  St 
Philadelphia. 


You  run  no  risks  on 


TARTAN  BRANDS 


Canned  Goods 

Coffee 

Macaroni 

Tea 

Olive  Oil 


Alfred  Lowry  &  Bro. 


PHILADELPHIA 


Both  Phones 

WILLIAM  A.  BENDER 

The  Best  and  Freshest 
BUTTER,  EGGS  AND  POULTRY 

Sixth  Avenue,  Reading  Terminal  Marlcet, 

Twelfth  and  Arch  Streets,  PHILADELPHIA 

C.   N.    DAVIS 

Dealer  in 

Automobile     Accessories,, 

Oils   and    Greases 
314  W.  Lancaster  Avenue,        Ardmore,  Pa. 


When  I'aironizing  Advertisers  Kindly  Muntion  The  Haverfokdian 


The  Haverfordian 


The  Bryn  Mawr  Trust  Company 


Capital  Authorized,  $250,000 


Capital  Paid,  $135,000 


Allows  interest  on  deposits.      Acts  as  Executor,  Administrator,  Trustee,  etc.      Insures   Tides  to  Real  Estate. 
Loans  Money  on  Mortgages  or  Collateral.      Boxes  (or   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.  Gamgues  H.  J.  M.  Cardeza 

Jesse  B.    Madack  Joseph    A.  Morris 


John  C.  Mellon 
W.  H.  Ramsey 
Phillip  A.   Hart 


ARDMORE  HARDWARE  CO. 
'     ARDMORE,  PA. 

Hardware,  Sporting  Goods, 

Housefurnishing 

HARRY  HARRISON 

DEPARTMENT  STORE 

Diy  Goods.  Notions,  Clothing  and  Shoes,  Ladies' 
Millinery  and  Trimmings 


Lancaster  Ave. 


Ardmore,  Pa. 


"Careful  Handling  and  Quality" 

Send  us  Your  Suitings  to  be 

Dry-Cleaned,   Scoured 
and    Pressed 

At  Reasonable  Rates 


Our  College  Agent 

Mr.  R.  J.  Battey 


Electric  Shoe  Repairing 

109  W.  LANCASTER  AVE. 

OUE  GU.4R.\NTEE  goes  with  Repairs.  The 
finest  shoe  repairing  done  quiol<iy  while  you 
wait.  In  our  repairing  you  get  aii  l<inds  of 
eomfort.  You'li  be  suited  in  the  liind  of  re- 
pairing we  do.  Let  us  repair  the  old  ones. 
We'll  show  you  wonderful  work. 

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THE 

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NOVEMBER,  1917 


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Vol.  XXXIX 


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The  H.werfordian  is  published  on  the  twentieth  of  each  month  during  college  year. 
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Entered  at  the  Haverford  Post-Office.  for  transmission  through  the  mails  as  second-class  matter 


Vol.  XXXIX 


1IA\ERF0RD,  FA.,  NOVEMBER,  1917 


No.  6 


3n  t!L\)i&  Mmt 

Under  the  Indian  Y.  M.  C.  A.  in  Mesopotamia .  .  .  L.  A.  Post  189 

Jealousy S.  C.  Van  Sickle  195 

Eldorado H.  W.  Breciit  203 

Autumn A.  Douglas  Oliver  207 

First  Love J .  H.  Smith  208 

A  Letter  From  France Dr.  James  A.  Babbitt  211 

Obituary Richard  Mott  Jones  214 

Alumni  Notes 215 


THE    HAVERFORDIAN 


\'ol,.  XXXIX.  1IA\'I:RK()RD.  PA,  X(I\KMBI;R.   I'M?  Xo.  6 

Winiitv  t\)t  inbian  §.  M.  C.  ^.  in  iWcgopotamia 

By  L.  A.  Post 

IT  is  difficult,  as  I  sit  on  this  green  hill,  looking  out  across  the  valley 
to  the  forested  heights  beyond,  to  carry  my  thoughts  back  to  a 
land  that  is  without  elevation  and  without  greenery,  truly  a  land 
that  is  desolate.  For  throughout  Mesopotamia  from  Bagdad,  four 
hundred  miles  to  the  sea,  there  is  not  one  natural  hill,  and  although  the 
soil  is  as  fertile  as  any  in  the  world,  yet  for  lack  of  water  much  of  the 
country  is  an  unrelieved  waste.  From  May  to  November  the  sky  is  as 
unvarying  as  the  earth  and  no  clouds  temper  the  sun's  rays.  Here  it  is 
that  nature  has  brought  together  all  the  conditions  of  heat  until  she  has 
produced  a  veritable  inferno,  where  the  official  temperature  may  be  as 
high  as  one  hundred  and  thirty  degrees  in  the  shade,  and  from  May  to 
October  the  days  of  less  than  one  hundred  degrees  can  be  counted  on  the 
fingers.  This  forsaken  land  has  been  the  scene  of  desperate  struggles 
since  the  war  began.  There  the  British  soldier  still  swelters  in  the  heat 
of  summer,  wallows  in  the  mud  of  winter,  dodges  the  floods  of  spring- 
time, and  is  thankful  for  a  truce  with  nature  that  he  may  take  up  arms 
against  the  Turk. 

To  spread  a  leaven  of  good  cheer  through  this  mass  of  desolation, 
the  Y.  M.  C.  A.  had  called  for  men,  and  four  of  us  had  met  in  Bombay  on 
our  way  to  the  work  .  We  were  anything  but  reassured  by  the  growing 
tales  of  heat,  insects,  starvation  and  disease;  nor  did  the  eight-day 
voyage  to  Basra  tend  to  make  us  more  cheerful.  Our  ship  was  loaded 
down  with  horses,  men  and  guns.  The  guns  and  horses  were  first  fastened 
in  their  places,  then  the  men  were  distributed  among  them.  The  guns 
were  inoffensive;  of  the  presence  of  the  horses  we  were  inevitably  re- 
minded as  we  passed  into  the  Persian  Gulf  with  its  sickening  heat. 
Some  of  the  horses  died.  The  men,  being  tougher,  in  spite  of  the  scanty 
and  distasteful  diet,  survived.  A  refreshing  view  of  the  River  of  Arabia 
(Shat-el-Arab)  at  length  greeted  us.  Both  banks  are  verdant  with 
palms  as  far  as  Basra  and  forty  miles  beyond.     The  refreshing  appearance 


190  The  Haverfordian 

of  the  country,  however,  soon  loses  its  effect.  A  night  of  sleepless  tor- 
ment by  sandflies,  a  day  of  penetrating,  irritating  dust  that  fills  eyes  and 
nose,  a  few  meals  of  tinned  food  liberally  diluted  with  flies  and  sand, 
while  the  tea  is  made  with  chlorinated  water  and  condensed  milk, — 
these  damp  one's  first  fine  careless  rapture. 

In  no  war  zone  has  the  Y.  M.  C.  A.  been  so  needed  and  welcomed 
as  in  Mesopotamia,  because  there  has  been  no  theatre  of  war  where  the 
country  itself  is  so  entirely  barren  of  resources.  Yet  the  Y.  M.  C.  A. 
has  been  able  to  do  correspondingly  little  to  fill  the  gap,  on  account  of 
difficulties  of  personnel  and  transportation.  In  England  and  France  an 
elaborate  organization  is  prepared  to  give  most  minute  attention  to  the 
soldier.  In  Mesopotamia  one  secretary  for  the  most  part  in  each  camp 
is  all  things  to  all  men.  He  must  first  provide  for  the  physical  needs 
of  the  men,  and,  in  the  absence  of  properly  regulated  canteens,  arrange 
with  the  help  of  an  orderly  or  two  to  sell  cigarettes,  biscuits,  tinned 
goods  and  a  few  other  articles  in  the  Y.  M.  C.  A.  hut  or  tent.  Here  the 
soldier  is  sure  of  getting  value  for  his  money.  The  Arab  is  by  nature  a 
predatory  dweller  in  the  desert.  When  he  changes  his  quarters  to  the 
town,  he  is  still  predatory.  In  the  early  days  of  the  British  occupation, 
corners  were  created  that  multiplied  the  price  of  tobacco  by  five  or  even 
ten.  Government  canteens  have  now  been  established  at  most  points,, 
and  they  relieve  the  Y.  M.  C.  A.  greatly.  Hot  tea  is,  however,  still  a 
great  item  in  Y.  M.  C.  A.  work.  The  tea  line  of  an  afternoon  used  to 
seem  interminable  as  it  filed  by  for  hour  after  hour  while  the  secretary  or 
an  orderly  industriously  ladled  into  the  men's  canteens  the  mixture  that 
Abdul  the  Ethiopian  brought  in  by  bucketfuls  from  behind  the  scenes. 
One  Sunday  three  thousand  men  disembarked  straight  from  England. 
They  had  just  been  paid  in  English  money,  but  their  riches  were  of  no 
use,  for  the  Arab  coffee  shops  refused  to  accept  any  but  rupee  money. 
Fortunately,  we  at  the  Y.  M.  C.  A.  had  about  six  hundred  dollars'  worth 
of  change  and  a  large  reserve  of  supplies.  Another  secretary  was  with 
me,  and  both  of  us  had  hoped  for  a  restful  Sunday  afternoon.  Instead, 
we  took  our  places  behind  the  bar  and  attempted  to  serve  the  clamoring 
crowd.  It  soon  became  plain  that  our  bar  would  be  carried  by  storm  and 
our  goods  plundered  if  we  tried  to  serve  everyone  at  once.  Fortunately, 
the  English  soldier  is  well  disciplined,  and  with  the  help  of  an  obliging 
sergeant  we  soon  had  everyone  in  line  and  were  doing  a  rushing  business, 
passing  tins  of  pineapples  and  biscuits  over  the  counter  as  fast  as  our 
two  orderlies  could  open  cases  for  us.  At  the  end  of  an  hour  and  a  half 
there  were  neither  supplies  nor  change  left  and  the  line  had  at  last 
dwindled  away.     For  the  men  just  out,  the  large  hut  with  its  magazines 


Under  the  Indian  V.  M.  C.  A.  in  Mesopotamia  191 

and  writing  materials  was  a  godsend.  I  heard  one  new  arrival  say: 
"This  here  Y.  M.  C.  A.  is  too  good  to  be  true.  "  There  were  also  a 
piano  and  a  billiard  table,  and  each  of  these  had  its  dense  circle  of  patrons. 
There  were  many  difficulties  in  the  way  of  a  secretary  sent  to  es- 
tablish a  new  center.  Materials  of  all  sorts  were  scarce  and  to  be  ob- 
tained only  from  the  government.  Lumber  in  particular  came  only 
from  India,  and  was  usually  urgently  needed  for  military  use.  Musical 
instruments  had  to  come  from  India,  and  one  might  be  badly  held  up 
for  weeks  while  a  tuning  key  or  a  supply  of  billiard  chalk  was  coming 
from  Bombay.  An  inexperienced  man  might  also  find  housekeeping  a 
great  additional  burden.  Simple  life  in  a  tent  may  be  very  complicated 
if  you  have  to  show  an  Indian  servant  of  the  sort  that  is  willing  to  go 
abroad  how  to  serve  meals,  where  all  appliances  are  extremely  primitive 
or  wanting  altogether.  One  gets  not  to  mind  dishonesty  in  a  servant  if 
he  will  be  only  clean  and  active.  Even  cleanliness  and  activity  are  only 
partially  attained  by  the  most  assiduous  prodding. 

What  has  been  mentioned  so  far  is  only  the  foundation  of  the  Y.  M. 
C.  A.  secretary's  activity,  the  part  he  will  train  his  orderlies  to  do  for 
him,  if  he  has  any  and  if  they  are  reliable.  There  should  be  some  sort  of 
recreation  provided  almost  every  evening.  In  Mesopotamia  we  had 
lantern  lectures,  cinema  shows,  concerts  and  Sunday  evening  song 
services,  that  were  attended  by  hundreds  or  even  thousands.  Most  of 
the  year  meetings  could  be  held  out-of-doors  under  a  sky  blazing  with 
stars.  During  the  winter  in  Amara,  where  we  held  concerts  in  a  large 
brick  building  built  for  us  by  the  government,  every  seat  was  sometimes 
taken  three  hours  before  the  performance  was  scheduled  to  begin.  In 
addition  to  such  functions,  perhaps  the  best  work  done  by  the  Y.  M. 
C.  A.  was  the  personal  comfort  or  assistance  given  by  secretaries  to  men 
in  trouble  or  ignorant  of  ways  and  means.  We  sometimes  took  pains  to 
give  out  library  books  in  person  for  the  sake  of  getting  to  know  men  and 
their  wants.  Altogether  the  Y.  M.  C.  A.  has  in  a  large  measure  alleviat- 
ed the  very  hard  lot  of  the  soldier  in  the  land  where  the  name  of  the 
Garden  of  Eden  remains — and  nothing  more. 

After  four  months  in  dirty,  malarious,  sophisticated  Basra,  we 
earned  our  promotion  to  the  more  healthful,  primitive  region  up-river 
and  had  the  interesting  river  trip  to  Amara.  We  camped  out  on  the 
deck  of  a  flat-bottomed  steamer  from  the  Thames,  and  lived  picnic 
fashion  for  five  days,  while  we  were  going  the  ninety  miles  to  Amara. 
The  scenes  on  the  shore  were  interesting.  There  was  Kurnah,  the  tra- 
ditional site  of  the  Garden  of  Eden,  of  which  the  Tommy  learnedly  and 
wisely  remarked:    "No  wonder  the  disciples  forsook  it  and  fled.  '      There 


192  The  Haverfordian 

is  Ezra's  tomb,  with  its  blue-tiled  dome  and  Jewish  pilgrims.  Above 
all,  there  are  agricultural  villages  of  reed  huts,  whose  half-naked  in- 
habitants run  along  beside  the  steamer  as  it  passes  close  to  the  banks 
and  sell  eggs  and  fowls  at  ridiculously  low  prices.  Sometimes  they  had 
excellent  wild  ducks  that  they  had  snared,  and  then  we  had  a  feast. 
Moreover,  the  navigation  itself  is  very  interesting  above  Kurnah;  for 
the  Tigris  here  is  so  diminished  by  the  loss  of  water  into  forgotten  irri- 
gation canals  that  there  is  not  depth  of  water  for  a  loaded  steamer,  and 
it  is  necessary  to  put  the  load  on  barges,  which  the  steamer  tows,  one  on 
each  side.  In  the  narrow  bends  the  steamer  cannot  turn  by  paddling 
and  the  crew  has  to  drive  in  a  stake  ashore,  well  ahead  around  the  out- 
side of  the  bend,  so  that  the  bow  of  the  steamer  can  be  pulled  about  with 
rope  and  windlass.  Here,  too,  we  waited  hours  in  the  daytime  for  ships 
coming  down.  They  have  the  right  of  way  and  there  are  long  stretches 
where  two  boats  cannot  pass.  In  addition  to  these  delays,  we  spent 
every  night  at  anchor,  with  a  guard  set  to  warn  us  of  raiding  Arabs. 
It  was  the  difficulty  of  getting  supplies  past  this  part  of  the  river  that 
caused  many  of  the  hardships  of  troops  at  the  front  a  year  ago.  They 
were  living  on  tinned  beef  and  army  biscuits,  twenty-five  to  a  small 
tent  with  a  temperature  never  less  than  ninety  for  weeks — sometimes 
above  one  hundred  and  thirty-five.  No  wonder  they  were  invalided  to 
India  by  thousands! 

Hospital  life  is  an  essential  part  of  Mesopotamian  existence.  All 
guides  to  the  country  have  a  chapter  on  hospital  etiquette.  Whatever 
deficiencies  there  may  have  been  in  the  early  days,  the  equipment  and 
staff  of  the  three  hospitals  of  which  I  had  personal  experience  left  little 
to  be  desired.  At  any  rate  they  were  fitted  out  in  a  way  that  seemed 
most  luxurious,  with  brick  floors,  fans  and  ice.  Malaria,  typhoid, 
dysentery  and  cholera  were  the  worst  illnesses.  I  met  an  Irishman  who 
had  survived  cholera  and  dysentery  in  immediate  succession!  Jaundice 
w^as  a  very  common  feature  in  the  convalescent  home.  Jaundice  patients 
are  an  interesting  psychological  study.  They  live  in  a  world  of  the 
imagination  and  have  no  desire  to  act,  not  even  to  eat.  They  sit  about, 
dreaming  of  home,  ten  thousand  miles  away  perhaps,  and  if  you  attempt 
to  awake  one  of  them  to  a  discussion  of  real  things,  he  answers  brusquely 
and  escapes  again  to  his  imaginary  world.  One  thinks  of  "a  party  in  a 
parlor  taking  tea,  all  silent  and  all  damned."  During  my  third  trip  to 
the  hospital  1  was  able  to  talk  to  men  who  had  been  wounded  in  the  fight 
for  Kut  and  who  were  rejoicing  at  the  unexpected  prospect  of  the  fall  of 
Bagdad.  One  Scotch  captain  told  a  tale  as  romantic  almost  as  any  of 
Cervantes.     The  night  before  the  last  attack  on  the.Sanna-i-yat  position. 


Under  the  Indian  Y.  M.  C  A.  ix  Mesoi-otamia  193 

he  and  a  companion  had  stolen  out  with  an  armful  of  bombs  to  recon- 
noitre. When  they  had  completed  their  investigations  and  were  begin- 
ning to  throw  their  bombs,  a  Turkish  machine-gun  broke  loose  at  them 
and  sent  a  bullet  through  the  wrist  of  the  captain  which  was  upraised  in 
the  act  of  throwing  a  bomb.  The  bomb  dropped  and  exploded,  wounding 
him  in  the  leg.  He  had  avoided  a  fatal  result  by  kicking  the  bomb  aside 
as  it  dropped.  He  was  now  wounded  again  and  fainted.  Coming  to, 
he  found  himself  in  a  Turkish  trench.  Making  his  wants  known  to  an 
officer  in  French,  he  insisted  on  being  carried  back  on  a  stretcher.  He 
received  the  scantiest  attention  and  was  finally  placed  in  a  cabin  on  board 
the  Basra,  a  Turkish  steamer  on  the  river  above  Kut.  Meanwhile  the 
British  had  thrown  a  bridge  across  at  Kut  and  had  forced  the  Turks  to 
retire  with  all  speed  from  Sanna-i-yat.  The  Basra  started  upstream 
amid  great  confusion,  and  was  soon  overtaken  by  one  of  the  audacious 
little  British  gunboats.  Our  captain  was  resting  in  his  cabin  when  a 
shell  passed  through,  exploding  beyond.  He  roused  himself  by  a  supreme 
effort  and.  going  on  deck,  ordered  the  Basra  run  aground  and  the  white 
flag  raised.  He  had  to  find  an  interpreter  to  give  his  order  to  the  pilot, 
but  for  some  reason  he  was  obeyed  and  the  Basra  surrendered  with  a 
load  of  Turkish  regulars,  including  many  officers,  German  machine- 
gunners,  British  prisoners,  and  supplies  of  all  sorts.  The  Basra  made  her 
first  trip  down  the  river  loaded  with  Turkish  prisoners,  and  a  hearty 
cheer  we  gave  her  as  she  passed  the  hospital.  She  spent  an  afternoon  at 
Amara  to  give  the  natives  a  chance  to  see  the  actual  results  of  British 
prowess.  The  Arabs  were  very  glum  that  day,  and  still  glummer  a  week 
later,  when  the  city  of  the  caliphs  fell  for  the  first  time  into  the  hands  of 
unbelievers.  The  Jews  and  Armenians,  however,  hoisted  gay  flags 
before  their  shops  and  wore  such  smiles  on  their  faces  as  I  suppose  had 
not  dared  to  appear  since  the  Arabs  first  arrived,  nearly  thirteen  hundred 
years  ago.  The  various  races  may  despise  one  another,  but  after  all  the 
religious   bond   creates   the  deepest   hostility. 

In  Amara  we  lived  in  a  house  of  sun-dried  brick.  The  roof  was  of 
mud  spread  on  matting  which  rested  on  flat  poles.  Here  we  slept  after 
the  weather  began  to  grow  hot  in  March.  Once  or  twice  we  were  driven 
indoors  by  showers,  but  in  general  the  roof  is  the  most  comfortable  part 
of  an  eastern  house  on  a  hot  night.  In  winter  the  flat  roof  proved  in- 
adequate. The  mud  had  cracked  as  it  dried,  and  torrents  of  water 
poured  through  when  the  rains  came.  We  would  sit  and  shiver  about 
the  dinner  table  while  the  rain  beat  down  above  and  streams  of  water 
splashed  about  us  into  tubs  and  pails  set  under  the  leaks  to  catch  it. 
Fortunately,   there  was  very  little  rain  last  winter.      Otherwise  a  rapid 


194  The  Haverfordian 

advance  on  Bagdad  would  have  been  impossible.  Even  an  hour's  rain 
turns  the  alluvial  soil  into  a  morass  into  which  it  is  easy  to  sink  but 
from  which  it  is  almost  impossible  to  extricate  oneself.  Transport 
became  almost  impossible,  and  marching  was  a  real  feat.  By  the  end  of 
March  in  a  dry  year  the  heat  begins  to  be  uncomfortable,  and  before 
the  end  of  April  the  steady  succession  of  hundred-degree  days  sets  in, 
not  to  be  broken  until  October.  Ordinarily,  the  floods  should  come  at 
this  time  to  hinder  operations  and  furnish  a  breeding-place  for  myriads  of 
mosquitoes.  This  year  the  absence  of  rain  was  again  fortunate,  for  it 
meant  no  flood  and  few  mosquitoes. 

With  the  coming  of  hot  weather  begins  the  busy  season  for  the 
hospitals.  The  doctors  are  wiser  now  than  they  were  last  year  and  have 
sent  many  men  to  India  to  recuperate  before  they  actually  broke  down. 
Among  the  number  invalided  home  were  two  of  our  original  four.  We 
avoided  the  narrows  by  going  down  to  Kurnah  by  the  new  metre-gauge 
railway.  We  climbed  on  to  a  flat  truck  about  ten  o'clock  one  night, 
spread  out  our  beds  and  went  to  sleep.  We  awoke  next  morning  to 
find  ourselves  still  jolting  along.  We  found  the  stops  frequent  and  pro- 
tracted, and  took  advantage  of  them  to  make  our  toilet  by  the  river. 
Altogether  it  took  nine  hours  for  the  sixty  miles  to  Kurnah,  and  it  was 
thirty  in  all  before  we  had  done  the  additional  forty  by  steamer  to  Basra. 
Here  we  caught  a  steamer  for  Bombay,  and  three  months  later  we 
arrived  in  New  York  Harbor,  unscathed  by  submarines  and  rather 
surprised  to  find  the  lethargy  of  the  east  dropping  off  in  great  flakes  as 
the  enthusiasm  of  America  came  back  to  us. 


By  S.  C.  Van  Sickle 

OLD  Jacob  AUerton  came  to  his  deathbed  bewailing  his  lack  of  a 
son.  For  the  first  time  in  two  hundred  arid  fifty  years  was 
there  to  be  a  departure  from  the  traditions  of  the  family. 
Ever  since  Jonathan  Allerton,  arriving  in  Summerton  with  the  first 
settlers  in  1636,  had  built  his  unpretentious  log  cabin  on  the  site  of  the 
present  great  colonial  mansion,  the  estate,  together  with  the  ever  in- 
creasing fortune,  had  descended  from  father  to  eldest  son:  and  all  these 
Allertons  had  been  great  men  in  the  history  of  the  town.  But  now, 
there  being  no  son,  house  and  fortune  fell  to  the  lot  of  two  daughters, — 
the  last  of  the  race.  They  received  joint  possession  of  the  old  home,  and, 
according  to  the  terms  of  the  will,  the  fortune  was  divided  equally 
between  them,  with  the  provision  that  the  principal  should  not  be 
touched,  and  that,  should  either  of  the  two  die  without  issue,  the  entire 
fortune  should  pass  to  the  descendants  of  the  other. 

Thus  it  was  settled,  and  the  two  started  housekeeping  together, 
but  not  as  peacefully  as  might  have  been  supposed.  Louise  was  the 
elder  by  three  years,  and  between  Louise  and  her  sister  May  there 
existed  an  enmity  as  old  as  their  memory.  It  often  happens  in  a  family 
of  only  two  children  that  a  petty  jealousy  will  creep  up  between  the  young 
ones,  only  to  be  outgrown  with  childhood.  But  these  two  never  over- 
came the  small  differences  of  youth.  It  somehow  came  about  that  they 
were  always  being  compared  and  judged,  one  by  the  other.  They  were 
always  in  competition.  They  competed  for  the  favor  of  their  parents; 
competed  in  school,  in  the  passionate  love  affairs  of  the  early  teens,  and 
in  society.  Finally,  this  will  seemed  to  have  been  cast  between  them  as  a 
prophecy  that  one  was  to  remain  childless  and  to  give  up  her  share  of 
the  fortune  to  her  sister's  children.  For  this  reason  the  two  young  women 
began  to  think  seriously  of  marriage. 

The  Allerton  "Mansion,  "  as  it  was  called  by  the  people  of  the  town 
in  the  early  eighties,  was  situated  on  Main  Street  just  three  blocks 
above  the  busiest  part  of  the  city.  It  was  generally  conceded  to  be 
the  oldest,  proudest,  and  most  beautiful  home  of  which  Summerton 
boasted.  Surrounded  by  several  acres  of  well-kept  lawn,  great  century- 
old  oak  and  maple  trees,  delightfully  gay  little  flowerbeds,  and  luxuriant 
shrubbery,  the  great  white  structure  had  the  air  of  being  quite  apart 
from  all  the  wrangle  and  tumult  of  the  city.  The  gabled  roofs,  great 
chimneys,   and  massive  pillars  shouldered  their  way  proudly  above  the 


195  The  Haverfordian 

shrubbery,  and  through  the  shrubbery  the  green  shuttered  windows, 
twinkling  in  the  light  of  the  sun,  seemed  to  invite  repose  upon  the  broad, 
tastefully  appointed  porches. 

Here  were  centered  all  the  gayest  events  of  the  remarkably  gay 
season  of  1  884.  It  happened  in  this  year  that  the  little  society  of  Summer- 
ton  was  blessed  by  two  very  noteworthy  personages.  The  first  of  these 
was  a  rising  young  captain  stationed  at  the  Summerton  Arsenal,  a  very 
dashing  and  handsome  young  man.  The  second,  an  Italian  count,  who 
for  some  unknown  reason  deigned  to  spend  the  entire  season  in  these 
provincial  surroundings,  was  an  exceedingly  romantic  character,  a  man 
full  of  mystery  and  attraction  for  women. 

Though  native  suitors  were  not  lacking,  the  two  young  ladies  would 
have  none  of  them.  Within  four  months  of  her  father's  death,  Louise 
became  engaged  to  the  captain,  and  married  him  three  months  later. 
The  favored  young  man  thereupon  ceased  to  rise  in  the  service  and  pro- 
ceeded to  live  very  comfortably  upon  his  wife's  more  than  ample  income. 
He  lived  his  life  too  rapidly,  however,  and  was  done  with  it  in  less  than 
ten  years,  leaving  behind  him  a  single  son. 

May  was  greatly  flattered  to  receive  the  proposal  of  no  less  a  per- 
sonage than  the  Italian  count.  But  she  did  not  snap  up  her  prize  quick- 
ly enough.  She  was  more  fanciful  and  adventurous  than  her  sister. 
She  was  lost  in  the  heavenly  joy  and  excitement  of  this  stage  of  her 
existence.  In  the  afternoon  she  dashed  gayly  about  on  horseback, - 
attended  by  a  cavalcade  of  young  men;  in  the  evening  she  danced  her 
feet  off  with  an  army  of  them;  and  all  the  time  she  flirted  outrageously 
with  every  young  gentleman  that  came  her  way;  thus  keeping  her 
little  Italian  in  an  agony  of  suspense  and  at  the  top  notch  of  his  produc- 
tion of  love  poetry. 

But  this  dangling  at  the  end  of  May's  string  proved  unhealthful 
for  the  count.  His  one  pitifully  small  wardrobe  soon  became  frayed 
and  shiny.  He  played  his  part  manfully,  however,  until  numerous 
creditors  began  digging  up  rumors  of  a  very  nebulous  past.  Then  it 
was  that  he  departed  rather  hastily  and,  though  searched  for  long  and 
faithfully  by  the  police,  was  never  heard  of  more. 

For  six  months  May,  refusing  to  believe  all  the  horrible  stories 
about  her  count,  mourned  for  him  as  for  one  dead.  But  at  the  end  of 
that  time  she  again  appeared  in  ballrooms  and  in  the  saddle,  as  deter- 
mined as  ever  to  have  a  husband.  One  night,  while  dancing,  she  turned 
her  ankle  and  fell  in  a  heap  upon  the  ballroom  floor.  It  seemee  incredible, 
but  she  had  broken  her  leg.  Many  weeks  passed  before  she  left  her  bed, 
and  then  she  returned  to  a  very  sad  world,  indeed. 


Jkai.oisy  197 

"Your  bones  are  very  brittle,  "  the  doctor  had  said;  "they  are 
gradually  turning  to  chalk.  It  is  only  a  question  of  time  before  they  will 
all  be  chalk.      If  you  marry,  your  children  will  inherit  the  disease." 

Later  that  day  her  maid  informed  her  that  her  sister  had  given 
birth  to  a  child, — a  boy. 

"Mother  and  child  are  both  doing  very  well.  Miss,"  she  added. 

"Oh!"  said  May.     And  that  was  all. 

During  the  long,  dull  hours  that  immediately  followed,  she  read  up 
the  symptoms  of  this  disease,  which  was  to  rob  her  of  all  happiness,  in  a 
medical  book.  It  was  accompanied,  she  found,  by  a  swelling  of  the 
joints,  a  great  increase  of  fat.  and  a  tenderness  of  the  skin.  In  the  more 
advanced  stages  it  was  painful.  If  she  lay  abed  long  or  reclined  in  com- 
fortable chairs,  her  joints  would  become  stiff  and  crippled. 

She  laid  the  book  aside  and  brooded  long, — upon  the  emptiness  of 
her  future  life,  upon  the  new  happiness  that  had  come  to  her  sister. 
She  did  not  cry,  though  her  eyes  became  red  and  hot,  her  throat  swelled, 
and  her  breathing  became  labored  and  difficult.  Perhaps  tears  would 
have  helped  her,  but  they  would  not  come.  Only  a  bitter,  over- 
whelming jealousy  grew  up  within  her.  Its  venom  spread  throughout 
her  system,  making  her  pulses  beat  fiercely.  By  the  end  of  an  hour  she 
looked  old,  haggard,  and  infinitely  tired. 

Thus  the  implied  prophecy  of  the  will  had  come  true. 

:)c  :^  4:  ^  4=  4^  ^ 

Thirty  years  brought  about  little  if  any  change  in  the  relations 
between  the  sisters.  But  at  the  end  of  this  time  Miss  May,  as  she  was 
now  called  by  all  who  knew  her,  was  nearing  the  last  stages  of  her  disease. 
She  was  very  fat  now.  Only  her  slender  neck,  small  head,  and  dainty 
hands  gave  evidence  that  she  had  once  been  a  slender  and  graceful  girl. 
As  she  often  said  (referring  to  her  diminutive  height  and  expansive 
girth),  she  looked  very  much  like  an  inverted  turnip.  Her  hair  was 
snowy  white,  as  was  her  skin.  Her  features  had  become  sharp,  and  hard 
lines  had  formed  about  mouth  and  eyes. 

The  doctors  marveled  that  she  had  not  become  a  hopeless  cripple 
and  died  years  before.  It  was  only  by  a  constant  battle  with  her  disease 
that  she  had  been  able  to  hold  it  at  arms  length.  Few  knew  how  bitter 
and  truceless  had  been  that  battle  with  death.  For  thirty  years  this 
woman,  so  fond-of  the  frivolous  and  gay,  of  horseback  riding,  of  dancing, 
and  of  good  food,  had  subjected  herself  to  the  most  rigid  of  diets  and 
had  denied  herself  every  pleasure.  The  medical  book  had  warned  her 
against  joint-stiffening  ease.  For  this  reason  she  forced  herself  to  stay 
awake   until   the  small   hours  of   the   morning,   and   left   her  bed   before 


198  The  Haverfordian 

dawn.  She  never  sat  upon  a  comfortable  chair,  but  only  perched  for 
short  intervals  upon  hard  little  stools  without  backs.  At  first  she  had 
taken  long  walks,  but  as  her  strength  failed  and  her  weight  increased, 
even  this  became  impossible.  Only  late  at  night  was  she  sometimes 
seen  hobbling  slowly  and  painfully  around  the  white  picket  fence  that 
inclosed  the  estate. 

During  this  time  she  had  taken  entire  charge  of  the  household 
affairs.  She  made  her  lifework  that  of  ruling  over  four  well-trained 
servants,  who  lived  in  perpetual  terror  of  their  hobbling,  ungainly  little 
tyrant  of  a  mistress.  Her  days  were  spent  in  spying  out  dust  and  cob- 
webs in  the  remotest  corners,  in  discovering  flaws  in  the  methods  or 
products  of  cooking.  For  each  such  discovery  the  servants  suffered. 
At  night,  long  after  all  others  were  in  bed,  she  figured  up  the  household 
accounts  and  planned  the  work  for  the  next  day.  Then  she  would 
read;  but  only  light  literature  or  such  as  agreed  with  principles  which 
she  or  her  mother  and  father  before  her  had  accepted  as  true.  She 
had  become  eccentric,  narrow,  conservative,  a  lover  of  things  as  they 
used  to  be. 

This  was  especially  noticeab'e  in  her  conduct  of  household  affairs. 
She  kept  the  standards  of  her  father  and  mother  always  before  her  and 
never  swerved  from  the  example  they  had  set.  If  a  chair  had  to  be 
re-covered,  it  was  always  done  with  goods  of  the  same  kind.  Every 
stick  of  furniture  was  arranged  just  as  mother  and  father  had  liked  it. 
Heavy  plush  draperies,  which  had  once  been  in  style,  still  darkened 
the  windows  of  library  and  parlor.  Old  law  books  with  crumbling 
leather  backs,  books  that  had  not  been  opened  for  a  generation,  still 
retained  their  places  upon  the  great  ceiling-high  cases  built  into  the 
walls  of  the  library.  For  two  whole  years  she  searched  for  paper  of  a 
hideous  dark-red  to  match  that  which  had  always  disfigured  the  walls  of 
the  dining-room.  At  length  some  imported  from  France  at  five  dollars 
a  roll  proved  to  be  of  almost  exactly  the  same  shade  when  put  on  wrong 
side  out. 

In  all  this  fussing  and  minute  attention  to  details,  she  had  gradually 
developed  a  passion  of  love  for  the  old  historic  mansion:  an  affection 
such  as  a  mother  might  have  spent  upon  a  child.  She  was  its  slave, 
body  and  soul.  At  night  she  often  wandered  from  room  to  room,  survey- 
ing their  walls,  the  carvings  of  the  woodwork,  the  old  pictures,  and 
the  antique  furniture.  From  time  to  time  she  passed  her  hand  caress- 
ingly over  the  polished  surface  of  a  mahogany  sideboard,  or  let  it  rest 
gently  upon  the  back  of  a  chair  in  which  her  father  had  sat.  She  needed 
no  light  to  find  her  way  about:    she  knew  the  house  as  well  as  she  knew 


jFAi.orsv  199 

herself.  Each  room  had  an  identity  to  her;  each  had  feeUng  and  could 
speak  to  her.  These  night  rambles  warmed  her  heart  strangely  and 
gave  her  a  sense  of  cheerfulness. 

No  one  suspected  her  of  this  depth  of  feeling  even  for  inanimate 
objects.  The  servants  heard  her  in  her  nocturnal  wanderings,  but 
thought,  or  at  least  said,  nothing  about  it.  The  world  accepted  her  as 
odd  and  eccentric.  On  account  of  her  illness  and  the  emptiness  of  her 
life,  she  was  forgiven  for  much  of  her  pettishness,  obstinacy,  greed, 
and  for  the  spiteful  gossip  in  which  she  delighted.  Moreover,  there 
was  something  admirable  in  the  little  woman's  plucky,  taciturn  struggle 
for  life,  and  in  her  laughing  allusions  to  her  illness  and  to  the  bitterest 
disappointments  of  her  life.      Miss  May  was  brave,  if  nothing  else. 

Louise,  though  her  hair  was  sprinkled  with  white,  still  retained  her 
slim,  almost  girlish,  grace  of  figure.  Her  face  was  less  lined  with  suffer- 
ing than  that  of  her  sister,  and  the  hard  lines  about  eyes  and  mouth, 
the  marks  of  petty  jealousy,  were  less  pronounced,  for  she  could  rise 
above  the  passions  that  completely  ruled  her  sister, — and  then  she  had 
her  son  Arthur,  whom  she  adored. 

Arthur's  boyhood  had  not  been  a  very  happy  one.  He  did  not 
remember  much  about  his  father  except  that  he  was  sometimes  brutal. 
Of  home  life  he  had  had  only  the  barest  taste.  Aunt  May  had  con- 
trived in  one  way  or  another  to  make  the  boy  very  uncomfortable  at 
home,  and,  as  it  never  occurred  to  his  mother  to  give  the  house  up  to 
May  and  make  a  home  for  her  boy  elsewhere,  Arthur  had  been  sent 
away  to  school  at  an  early  age.  His  vacations  were  spent  with  his 
mother  at  seaside  resorts  or  in  travel  abroad.  At  present  he  was  thirty 
years  of  age,  rather  effeminate,  rather  insignificant,  well-educated,  and 
an  architect  of  excellent  training  and  no  practice.  He  had  set  up  a 
beautiful  studio  in  New  York,  and  once  or  twice  had  almost  got  a  con- 
tract, but  each  time  his  mother,  who  was  "really  worried  to  death  for 
fear  that  the  poor  dear  boy  would  overwork  and  become  ill,"  had  dragged 
him  off  for  a  tour  around  the  world,  in  spite  of  the  loud  scoffing  of  Aunt 
May,  who  was  for  letting  the  boy  "dig  his  own  turnips  and  make  a  man 
of  himself.  " 

Just  as  housekeeping  had  become  May's  lifework,  so  traveling 
had  become  the  occupation  of  the  elder  sister.  Indeed,  she  had  been 
so  far  and  seen  so  much  that  she  could  entertain  her  visitors  for  a  whole 
evening  by  recounting  to  them  all  the  wonderful  experiences  she  had 
had.  This  always  exasperated  May  beyond  control,  for  she  considered 
it  vulgar,  though  she  herself  was  a  wonderful  monologuist  on  the  sub- 
jects of   housekeeping   and   current   gossip.      This   gift   for   conversation 


200  The  Havekfoedian 

which  the  two  sisters  had  in  common  often  involved  them  in  bloody 
combats  for  the  possession  of  the  floor.  At  such  times  Miss  May's 
mature  command  of  scathing  repartee,  combined  with  a  childish  sense 
of  dignity,  usually  made  her  victorious.  Then  tears  of  anger  and  morti- 
fication would  rise  to  Louise's  eyes  and  she  would  depart,  greatly  to 
May's  delight  and  to  the  embarrassment  of  the  guests.  Those  who 
were  wise  never  called  upon  the  two  at  once. 

When  the  Great  War  broke  out  and  it  became  impossible  for  mother 
and  son  to  go  traveling,  Arthur  actually  did  find  time  to  complete  a 
plan.  The  more  he  worked,  the  more  excited  he  got.  His  little 
mustache  quivered  with  emotion,  and  he  so  far  forgot  his  carefully 
polished  veneer  of  blase,  as  to  slap  himself  upon  the  knee,  not  once  but 
repeatedly.  His  plan  was  for  the  remodeling  of  the  interior  of  the  Aller- 
ton  house. 

As  soon  as  his  blueprints  were  completed,  he  rushed  off  to  Summer- 
ton  to  show  them  to  his  mother.  Louise  was  soon  as  interested  and 
enthusiastic  as  her  son. 

With  blueprints  in  hand,  Arthur  flitted  from  library  to  hall,  from 
hall  to  dining-room,  and  back  again,  all  the  time  explaining  what  was 
to  be  dene: 

"The  ceiling  is  too  low,  don't  you  see?  We  shall  have  to  raise  it. 
Then  we  will  widen  the  hall,  extend  the  porch  out  behind,  and  put  in 
some  double  glass  doors.  We  will  pull  that  nasty  paper  out  of  the 
dining-room  and  put  in  another  window.  That  will  give  tone  and 
light,  mother.     That's  what  we  need — tone  and  light." 

"It's  those  horrible  draperies  of  May's  that  make  things  so  dark, 
Arthur." 

"Ugh!  Those  things  will  have  to  come  out.  Then  we  will  put 
these  two  rooms  into  one.  We  will  introduce  electric  light  and  steam 
heat,  and  then 

But  the  enthusiastic  architect  got  no  further.  The  curtains  of  the 
door  connecting  parlor  and  library  were  flung  aside  as  by  a  whirlwind, 
and  in  rushed  May,  hobbling  fearfully,  her  great  bulk  swaying  danger- 
ously from  side  to  side.  She  seized  hold  of  the  table  in  the  middle  of 
the  room  and  clung  to  it,  spluttering  and  gasping  for  breath. 

"Tear  up  my  house!"  she  shrieked.  "You  shall  not!  What 
right  have  you,  Louise?  It  is  as  much  mine  as  yours.  More  mine! 
All  the  time  you  have  been  away  1  have  watched  over  it  and  taken  care 
of  it  just  as  if  it  had  been  a  baby.     You  shall  not,  1  say!" 

Arthur  made  a  disgusted  gesture  to  his  mother,  as  much  as  to  say. 


Jkalousy  201 

"I  told  you  so,"  and  left  the  room.  Aunt  May's  tantrums  always  did 
make  him  nervous. 

"Oh!  Act  like  a  grown-up  for  once,  won't  you.  May!  No  one  is 
going  to  do  anything  to  the  old  house  as  long  as  you  are  in  it!"  And 
Louise  followed  her  son. 

So  that  was  it!  They  were  calmly  waiting  for  her  to  die.  She 
experienced  something  of  the  feeling  of  a  beast  of  prey  that  has  been 
run  to  cover.  The  flush  of  rage  died  out  of  her  cheeks;  she  sank  down 
upon  her  stool, — gasping,  giddy.  The  loved  features  of  this  house, 
which  had  taken  the  place  of  a  child  in  her  empty,  sordid,  little  life, 
were  to  be  cut  into  and  tortured  out  of  shape  as  soon  as  she,  its  sole 
protector,  was  out  of  the  way.  All  the  venom  of  a  lifetime  of  jealousy 
flowed  together  and  bore  her  down  by  its  weight.  She  hated  her  sister! 
She  hated  Arthur! 

When  she  again  staggered  to  her  feet  she  felt  suddenly  older  and 
weaker,  and  her  joints  were  stiffer  than  ever  before.  Too  ill  to  carry 
on  her  battle  against  death,  she  went  to  bed  early  that  night  for  the 
first  time  in  thirty  years.  In  a  tearless  agony  of  mind  and  body  she 
tossed  the  livelong  night.  But  before  the  first  rays  of  dawn  gleamed 
over  the  housetops  her  mind  was  made  up.  She  would  go  on  with  her 
fight!     She  would  outlive  her  sister! 

She  forced  herself  to  a  sitting  posture  on  the  edge  of  the  bed  and 
tried  to  get  upon  her  feet.  But  in  vain!  The  agony  was  more  than 
she  could  bear.  She  sank  back  upon  the  bed,  chilled  to  the  very  heart. 
Her  hair  tingled  at  the  roots  and  great  drops  of  perspiration  dripped 
from  her.  The  awful  dread  to  which  she  was  no  stranger,  gripped  her. 
The  last  stage  of  her  disease  had  come.  Death  would  not  linger  long 
now.  Arthur  would  have  her  fortune.  The  house  would  be  his  to 
do  with  as  he  would. 

The  dark  of  night  was  just  giving  way  to  the  dull  grey  of  early  morn- 
ing when  all  Summerton  was  wakened  by  the  hoarse  bellow  of  the  town 
fire  whistle,  by  the  rumble  of  heavy  wheels,  the  loud  beat  of  powerful 
motors,  and  the  shrill,  panther-like  whine  of  fire  trucks.  Those  who 
lived  near  enough,  guided  by  the  glare  in  the  sky,  rushed  to  the  scene 
of  the  fire.  The  whole  Allerton  house  seemed  to  be  enveloped  in  one 
great  sheet  of  flame,  above  which  dense  clouds  of  smoke  swirled  heaven- 
ward. Long  jets  of  water  were  being  directed  against  the  blazing 
walls,  seemingly  with  no  effect,  and  the  upturned  faces  of  the  gaping 
crowd  shone  out  more  and  more  luridly  as  the  flames  leaped  higher. 


202 


The  Haverfordian 


All  but  forgotten  in  the  excitement  of  the  moment,  Miss  May  lay 
in  a  neighboring  house.  She  was  frightfully  burned  and  quite  dead. 
In  one  hand  she  still  grasped  the  neck  of  a  shattered  alcohol  bottle,  and 
on  her  face  there  was  a  smile. 


■ 


Cldorabo 

By  H.  W.  Brecht 

DID  he  come  to-day  for  your  picture?" 
"Ja,  my    leetle  friendt.      To-day,  in  the  magnificent  limou- 
sine, with  a  leetle  boy  about  as  oldt  as  you." 

"He  was  a  straight  little  boy,  wasn't  he,  Friedrich?  He  could 
walk,  couldn't  he?" 

"Ja,  very  straight,  andt  he  could  walk.  But  he  had  not  the  noble- 
ness to  face  that  thou  hast,  andt  his  eyes  had  only  the  things  of  this 
worldt  seen.  The  goodt  Gott  gives  it  not  to  everyone  topierce  the  veil, 
and  only  a  few  like  you,  Harry,  have  beyond  the  Eldorado  seen." 

The  sightless  eyes  of  the  little  sufferer  on  the  bed  had  grown  lumi- 
nous with  an  unearthly  light.  "Oh,  yes,  Friedrich,  tell  me  about  the 
picture,  and  tell  me  about  the  man  who  bought  it,  and  tell  me — oh,  tell 
me  lots,  please!  " 

Friedrich  turned  his  grey  head  away  a  moment  before  he  began. 
"Nun,  they  came  yet  in  the  big  touring-car — " 

"You  said  it  was  a  limousine." 

"Ach!  so  it  was.  I  was  so  excited,  Harry;  andt  at  my  age  the  ex- 
citement iss  not  goodt.  And  Monsieur  Savacal  thrust  his  head  in  my 
room  in  the  oldt  way — we  haff  not  spoken  since  the  war  began — Mon- 
sieur Savacal  said;    'I  am  glad,  for  your  sake.' 

"That  sounds  just  like  him,  "  acclaimed  Harry  happily. 

"Monsieur  Savacal  had  chust  left,  andt  the  man  andt  his  leetle 
boy  yet  came  into  my  room,  andt  the  father  threw  his  hands  up  the 
picture  to  see,  andt  the  boy  clapped  his — so.  " 

"No  wonder  he  did!  If  only  I  could  see  it!  Tell  me  about  it, 
and  don't  forget  to  tell  me  the  way  the  fountain  murmurs  this  time, 
will   you,    Friedrich?" 

"Chust  a  secondt,  my  friendt.  I  must  first  tell  you  of  how  polite 
the  Crown  Prince  was — ach,  poor  dog,  the  boys — " 

"The  boys  what?  "  demanded  Harry  quickly. 

"The  boys  feed  him  so  much  that  he  is  getting  fat  and  lazy  once. 
Andt  he  was  very  polite  this  afternoon,  andt  let  the  leetle  boy  pet  him 
the  way  he  lets  you — andt  then  the  father  gave  me  gold,  much  gold — 
andt  I   told  him  who  named  the  picture.  " 

"Did  you   really,   Friedrich?" 

"Ja,  ja,  andt  he  was  much  pleased,  andt  he  said  that  1  some  candy 
buy  should  for  a  leetle  friendt  who  could  of  such  a  goodt  name  think." 


204  The  Haverfordian 

The  worn  voice  was  marvelously  tender  as  he  put  a  soiled  bag  in  the 
boy's  hand.  "Andt  I  bought  for  mineself  a  grandt  coat — as  the  mother 
gave  me  in  the  oldt  country — Himmel,  I  squander  my  money  in  my 
oldt  age!  " 

"Let  me  feel  it." 

"1  have  it  not  now  on,"  he  answered,  hastily  drawing  the  non- 
descript, shabby  garment  that  he  wore  out  of  the  feeble  reach.  "  I 
have  it  in  my  closet  hung — such  a  coat,  with  shining  buttons — so,  so 
sporty  iss  it!" 

They  both  laughed  at  his  pronunciation;  the  gentle  laughter  not 
far  from  tears. 

A  small  hand  closed  affectionately  on  the  old  German's  strangely 
slender  ones.      "Now  tell  me  about  your  'Eldorado.    "' 

Friedrich's  bent  figure  straightened  a  bit,  and  the  weight  of  sadness 
and  weariness  that  bowed  it  seemed  lightened.  "Our  Eldorado,  Harry. 
Ach  Himmel!  it  is  the  picture  supreme,  the  masterpiece.  "  Unconscious- 
ly he  talked  in  his  own  language;  German  that  purred  and  leaped  in 
his  emotion. 

"The  sun  sets,  flame  and  burnished  gold,  and  the  kind  of  clouds 
that  are  not  seen  on  earth,  Harry,  are  torn  with  arrows  of  immortal 
light — are  heavy  with  beaten  silver,  and  pinked  with  crimson.  That  is 
the  background,  all  of  heaven;  a  heaven  that  sobers  itself  in  sienna 
to  the  left,  and  revels  in  purple  and  riots  and  revels  in  red." 

"And  the  vast  castle — " 

"The  vast  castle  to  the  right,  wrought  of  whiter  marble  than  you 
or — than  1  have  ever  seen,  who  studied  in  the  shadow  of  Carrara.  Its 
fluted  columns  are  carved  by  all  the  great  sculptors  that  have  died  and 
left  the  earth  long  ago:  Phidias,  and  Praxiteles,  and  Michael  Angelo, 
and  a  hundred  others  who  have  lived  always  in  the  clouds  to  which 
the  inspiration  of  those  three  raised  them  now  and  then. 

"You  see  this  castle  of  unsullied  white  against  the  ivory  and  scarlet 
of  the  sunset,  against  a  background  of  mounting  fire,  and  green  trees 
of  the  shapes  that  grow  only  in  Eldorado  shelter  the  castle  of  a  thousand 
pillars,  and  its  battlements  rear  up  to  lose  themselves  in  the  silver 
battlements  of  the  clouds." 

"God's  castles,"  said  the  child  reverently.  "And  the  fountain — 
you  always  forget  the  fountain,   Friedrich." 

"It  is  a  merry,  happy-go-lucky  sort  of  fountain,  throwing  itself  up 
to  the  embrace  of  the  wind.  But  I  cannot  tell  you  what  it  says,  because 
1    do   not   understand." 

"1  know,  "  said  Harry. 


I 


Ei.noRADo  2()S 

"You  are  favored.  Harry.  The  fountain  swells  into  a  brook  that 
out-gleams  its  channel  of  pure  gold,  and  it  murmurs  good-naturedly 
around  a  great  sapphire  that  strives  to  bar  it  from  the  river  of  the  dead — 
the  great,  gentle  river,  over  which  the  weeping  willows  bend  as  they 
whisper  their  melancholy  stories.  It  is  as  swift  as  it  is  silent,  and  here 
the  radiant  horizon,  all  rose  and  silver,  bares  its  bosom  to  the  lighted 
water.  A  boat  is  on  the  river,  moving  with  no  oars  or  sails,  and  only 
a  cross  on  the  bow.      In  the — " 

"Ah  yes!  '  clasping  his  hands  in  weak  rapture,  "tell  me  who  is  in 
the  boat." 

"I  know  only  one;  a  boy  with  golden  hair  that  is  like  the  yellow 
strands  the  sinking  sun  limns  in  the  fleeces  of  cloud,  with  dark,  splendid 
eyes,  more  wonderful  than  the  sunlight  on  the  deep  river.  He  stands 
very  straight,  looking  away  from  the  glorious  castle  and  waving  to 
some  one  on  the  other  shore — but  you  cannot  see  who  he  is  waving  to." 
With  the  rapt  look  of  one  who  is  seeing  already  his  Eldorado,  the 
cripple's  lit  face  looked  upward  to  where  the  stained  paper  crumbled 
from  the  ceiling.  Friedrich  gently  disengaged  the  incongruously  slender 
fingers,  and  groped  with  them  in  his  worn  pocket-book.  He  drew  out 
all  it  contained — a  bit  of  gold  that  rang  on  the  table.  Then  he  went 
out.  with  the  weird,  broken  gait  of  one  who  suffers  from  rheumatism. 

Eldorado  Street  baked  under  the  glare  of  the  summer  sun.  and  the 
fetid  odor  that  arises  from  many  people  reeked  up  to  mingle  with  their 
chatter,  no  less  foul.  The  sun  was  pitiless  in  mocking  the  tawdry 
attempts  at  finery  that  hinted  of  a  prosperity  that  would  never  return, 
and  its  glare  seemed  to  linger  with  a  sardonic  light  on  the  patches  of 
Friedrich's  clothes,  his  ruins  of  shoes,  his  clean,  shapeless  hat. 

At  his  appearance  the  children  of  Eldorado  Street  flocked  around 
him  in  a  tantalizing,  heartless  ring,  and  young  lips  that  are  popularly 
conceived  to  prattle  of  marbles  and  dolls  hurled  obscene  epithets  at  him. 
I  had  better  repeat  only  two  or  three.  "Dirty  German."  "Baby-Killer." 
and  "Child-Killer." 

The  light  that  the  glory  of  the  wonderful  land  that  he  had  described 
had  shed  upon  his  countenance  was  quite  faded  now.  and  his  oddly 
dull,  hopeless  eyes  contracted  with  the  pain  of  his  sensitive  soul.  But 
he  said  nothing,  only  strove  to  make  his  crippled  feet  move  faster,  while 
some  rosebuds  from  Wild   Rose  Alley  increased  his  tormentors. 

Missiles  mingled  with  the  threats,  and  a  well-aimed  one  knocked 
his  hat  into  the  slime  that  paved  Eldorado  Street.  Amid  the  shrieks 
of  acclaim  that  arose  to  greet  this  victory,  he  turned  round  and  spoke. 


206  The  Haverfordian 

His  words  were  engulfed  in  the  tumult,  but  those  standing  near  were 
ssen  to  laugh  at  his  pronunciation. 

He  did  not  stop  to  pick  up  his  hat,  but,  forcing  himself  into  a  pitiful, 
staggering  sort  of  run,  he  gained  the  inside  of  a  tumbledown  tenement 
that  excelled  even  its  neighbors  in  ramshackleness.  After  a  weary 
climb  of  four  flights  of  stairs,  he  paused  uncertainly  before  a  door,  as 
if  in  doubt  whether  to  go  in.  For  a  long  time  his  broken  figure  waited 
there,  his  hungry  nostrils  sniffing  unconsciously  the  greasy  smell  of 
cooking  food,  but  though  his  body  was  there,  one  may  hope  it  was 
vouchsafed  that  his  soul  poise  itself  somewhere  else.  .  .  .  He  knocked, 
his  mouth  working,  and  a  polite  voice  sounded: 

"Come  in." 

"  Herr  Savacal,  I  came  only — " 

"Monsieur,  if  you  have  any  communication  for  me,  write  it."  The 
calm  voice — it  seemed  to  Friedrich — was  more  cruel  because  of  its 
courtesy,  and  the  Frenchman  turned  again  to  a  lonely  paper. 

Friedrich  turned  and  pursued  his  faltering  way  to  the  next  floor, 
saying  only:  "The  Crown  Prince  will  have  grown  tired  of  waiting, 
poor  dog."  He  repeated  the  last  two  words  again  and  again,  as  old 
men  do,  and  shortly  he  was  home. 

On  the  floor  at  his  feet  was  the  body  of  a  little  dog,  bruised  and  torn, 
very  stiff  and  cold,  about  its  neck  a  scrawled  piece  of  dirty  paper. 

Mechanically  Friedrich  bent  to  his  knees  and  fumbled  in  his  pockets 
for  his  glasses.  But  his  fingers,  brushing  the  still  body,  were  stained 
with  blood,  and  he  shrank  back.  As  though  to  hide  his  face,  he  rose 
painfully  and  turned  to  the  wall  what  seemed  to  be  a  scarlet  daub  at  a 
sunset. 

His  face  was  grave  when  he  was  on  his  knees  again,  and  his  hope- 
less eyes  were  very  leaden  as  he  lifted  them.  "My  leetle  Harry,  forgif 
me  for  going  first." 

Presently  a  red  pool,  noiseless  and  sluggish,  obscured  the  scrawl 
on  the  soiled  paper. 


Autumn 

By  A.  Douglas  Oliver 

Autumn,  you  old  campaigner  grey, 
Loser  to  each  past-hurried  year. 
Great-hearted,  mighty,  warrior  king. 
Imperious  foe  of  haggard  fear; 

The  millioned  years  roll  up,  but  still 
When  rich  October  warmly  smiles. 
Each  time  again  you  laughmg  charge, 
Regardless  of  her  winsome  wiles. 

Again  to  howling,  harrier  winds. 
Like  dim,  rich  flags  of  blazoned  earls, 
Your  colors  float  along  your  lists 
As  pageant  splendor  slow  unfurls. 

Gold-hearted  yellow,  rich  blood-red. 
Dull  green  and  bronze  they  hang 
Beneath  the  deep,  untroubled  sky. 
While  knavish  gusts  go  frisking  by 
With  madcap  heels  and  tauntings  sly 
Of  winter's  surly  fangs. 

But  pale  and  tattered  soon  they  fall; 
The  north  wind  shrieks  your  wild  recall; 
Sadly  you  leave  the  brown  hills  sear; 
Dark  and  chill  is  the  dying  year. 

A  mighty  paean  of  vauntings  high 
The  four  winds  blare  across  the  sky. 

Yet  when  you  hear  October  sing. 
Reincarnated,  up  you  spring. 
Oh,  great  heart,  what  if  only  1 
Could  catch  your  rushing  spirit  high! 

L'EnVoi 
To  never  yield  to  churlish  care — 
To  seek  shy  beauty  everywhere — 
To  laughing  face  each  bitter  blast — 
To  live  life  richly  to  the  last. 


Jfirfiit  Hobe 

By  J.  H.  Smith 

IF,  when  you  reach  the  top  of  Sunset  Hill,  which  (I  am  sure  you  will 
agree)  overlooks  one  of  the  most  beautiful  valleys  in  all  Connecti- 
cut, you  turn  sharply  to  the  right  near  the  big  elm  tree,  you 
will  find  yourself  at  the  entrance  to  Miss  Christine  Dobbs'  estate.  I  say 
estate — it  really  consists  of  only  twenty  acres — because  the  natives 
always  speak  of  it  as  "Miss  Christy's  estate."  Once  upon  a  time  it 
covered  all  of  Sunset  Hill,  but  nothing  is  left  of  it  now  except  the  little 
place  about  Miss  Christine's  cottage  and  the  very  dignified  name.  If 
you  go  down  the  neat,  canopied  walk,  bordered  with  countless  pansies. 
you  will  see  the  cottage,  snuggled  in  among  the  protecting  elms,  and 
covered — literally  covered — with  all  sorts  of  flowering  vines. 

If  you  raise  the  knocker  on  the  door  and  rap,  ever  so  softly,  it  will 
soon  open,  and  there,  dressed  in  a  quaint  black  dress,  will  be  Miss  Christy 
herself.  She  will  drop  you  the  prettiest  little  curtesy,  that  will  carry 
you  back  fifty  years  in  your  imagination,  and  ask  you  in  a  wee,  timorous 
voice  to  please  accept  her  hospitality.  There  is  no  refusing  Miss  Christy, 
so  you  will  be  seated  in  a  Windsor  chair  before  a  cheery  fire,  with  old 
warming-pans  and  older  bootjacks  and  grandfather  clocks  and  great- 
grandfather mirrors  all  about  you.  Everything  is  so  old-fashioned  that 
you  will  begin  to  wonder  whether  the  world  has  advanced  so  far  after 
all,  and  whether  it  is  at  all  improbable  that  Lafayette  or  Jefferson 
might  soon  appear  and  make  the  good  citizens  of  Sunset  Hill  fairly  glow 
with  pride  for  decades  afterwards.  You  will  be  interrupted  in  your 
observations  by  the  reappearance  of  Miss  Christy,  who  has  gone  to  get 
you  a  bite  to  eat.  Her  snow-white  curls  fairly  spring  up  and  down 
as  she  steps  lightly  up  to  you  and  gives  you  a  cup  of  tea  and  a  jam-tart. 
You  may  have  harbored  some  illusion  to  the  effect  that  your  own  mother 
knew  how  to  make  jam-tarts.  Whether  you  did  or  not,  you  reject  the 
idea  now.  These  tarts  appall  you  with  their  lusciousness.  You  try 
to  talk  pleasantly  to  Miss  Christy,  but  the  delectability  of  these  pastries 
absorbs  your  whole  attention.  You  will  completely  relax — such  refine- 
ment, such  gentleness  and  unmodernness  delight  your  very  soul.  I 
will  leave  you  there,  my  friend,  in  your  comfort,  asking  Miss  Christy  to 
please  excuse  you  if  you  "must  take  another  tart — they  are  so  good.  " 

One  morning  Miss   Christy   received   a  strange  letter.       Now   Miss 
Christy  was  absolutely  alone  in  the  world,  and  there  was  no  one  who 


First  Love  209 

should  write  to  her,  which  would  make  the  letter  queer  in  itself.  But 
this  letter,  in  addition,  was  plastered  with  stamps  and  censor  seals,  and 
it  had  a  foreign  postmark  on  it.  Without  an  idea  in  her  head,  she 
opened  it  and  read  the  following: — 

Paris,  July  1st, 
No.  I  2  Fusilleers. 
My  dear  Lady  Christine  :- 

No  doubt  this  letter  would  seem  strange  to  you,  but  I  will  explain. 
1  am  a  soldier  of  France  all  alone  with  no  relatives.  When  my  comrades 
receive  letters  from  their  families  and  marraines.  a  sensation  of  tears 
creeps  over  me  and  1  would  feel  homesick  for  a  home  which  1  have  not. 
To-day,  immediately  previous  to  this  writing,  I  found  a  little  scrap 
of  American  newspaper  with  solely  these  words:  "Miss  Christine  Dobbs 
(here  the  writing  is  obliterated)  her  house  at  Sunset  Hill,  Woodstock, 
Conn."  Despite  it  made  no  sense,  I  determined  to  write  you  this. 
Please,  Lady  Christine,  be  my  marraine.  1  am  sure  you  are  good  and 
beautiful  and  young.      A  thousand  pardons. 

Paul  Villiers. 

Miss  Christy  said  not  a  word  after  reading  this,  but  slowly  folded 
the  letter  and  sat  very  still  with  an  expression  of  infinite  sadness  and 
longing  in  her  eyes.  Then  her  face  brightened  and  she  suddenly  ex- 
claimed, "1  will.  I  will  be  his  marraine  end  he  shall  be  my  filleul.  It 
is  the  way  I  can  do  my  bit."  She  scurried  over  to  the  writing  desk  and, 
with  much  ado  and  excitement  and  palpitation  of  the  heart,  wrote  her 
first  love-letter. 

It  was  nearly  a  month  before  Miss  Christy  heard  from  Paul  again. 
She  opened  the  seal  and  read  the  following: 

My  dear  Christine: — 

1  had  exceeding  great  pleasure  at  your  letter.  All  seems  so  much 
easier  to  bear  now.  You  call  me  your  "Dear  Paul"  asif  we  were  always 
friends.  (Censored.)  I  will  soon  "go  over  the  top,"  as  you  Americans 
say.  (Censored.)  1  shall  think  of  you  always,  my  Christine.  Please 
send  me  your  photograph  to  cheer  me  further.  I  will  come  and  pay 
to  you  a  visit  when  the  war  ends.      With  love, 

Paul. 

It  would  be  hard  to  describe  Miss  Christy's  expression  on  reading 
this.      She  cried  a  little  over  the  censored  parts — just  a  little  bit.      Then 


210  The  Haverfordian  • 

she  packed  up  a  miniature  of  herself,  taken  when  she  was  eighteen, 
together  with  a  long  letter.  She  was  too  much  of  a  sport  to  back  down 
now;  but  what  if  he  really  should  come  to  America!  She  dismissed 
the  idea  from  her  head  as  being  the  worst  catastrophe  imaginable. 

Nearly  two  months  and  a  half  passed  before  she  got  another  letter, 
and  that  letter  was  not  from  Paul,  but  from  the  French  War  Office! 
Merely  for  safety's  sake,  she  sat  down  and  composed  herself  before 
opening  it.      Imagine  her  feelings  on  reading  this: 

October  12,  Paris. 
Dear  Madame: — 

We  regret  to  inform  you  that  your  fiance  has  been  grievously 
wounded  in  a  recent  attack.      He  is  now  on  furlough. 

M.    DUBUCQUE, 

Fr.  War  Off. 

Miss  Christy  would  have  fainted  had  not  a  timid  knock  on  the  door 
roused  her  to  her  senses.  She  slowly  raised  herself  from  the  chair. 
Again  the  knock.  She  reached  the  door  and  swung  it  open.  There 
was  a  boy,  supported  on  crutches,  holding  a  miniature  in  one  hand. 
"Christine!"  he  exclaimed  eagerly,  and  then,  as  if  he  had  been  struck 
in  the  face,  he  stepped  backwards.  He  looked  at  the  miniature  and 
then  at  Miss  Christy.  He  slowly  turned  to  go.  "1  have  had  a  such 
bad  time  reaching  you,  too,  "  he  murmured.  It  was  a  beautiful  dream 
shattered.  Suddenly  his  face  lit  up  and,  taking  a  step  forward,  he  said, 
bowing,  "If  I  cannot  marry  you,  my  Lady  Christine,  1  will  be  your 
son."  And  he  kissed  Miss  Christy  the  way  any  boy  returning  from 
the  war  would  kiss  his  mother. 


If,  when  you  reach  the  top  of  Sunset  Hill,  you  pause  for  a  moment 
at  the  entrance  to  Miss  Christine  Dobbs'  estate  and  look  down  the 
flowered  path,  you  will  see  her  sitting  in  a  chair  on  the  lawn,  with  her 
son  on  the  grass  close  beside  her.  She  will  be  reading  to  him  and  strok- 
ing his  head;  and  he,  more  likely  than  not,  will  be  eating  delectable 
jam  tarts. 


^  Xcttcr  from  Jfrance 

We  reprint  from  the  Havcrford  News: 
DR.  BABBITT  WRITES  OF  FIRST  WORK  IN  PARIS 

Hotel  du  Bon  Lafontaine, 

64  Rue  de  Saint  Peres, 
Paris.  Sept.  20.  1917. 

We  seem  to  have  dropped  into  a  field  of  wonderful  opportunity 
for  consecrated  work.  Instead  of  going  with  my  bands  of  lads  direct 
to  Ornans,  we  found  a  telegram  at  the  boat  dock  calling  us  on  to  Paris, 
and  I  can  see  how  difficult  outfitting,  assignments  and  all  would  have 
been  if  made  anywhere  but  at  Paris. 

The  English  Friends  with  Henry  Scattergood  met  us  at  the  end 
of  the  anxious  voyage,  and  we  felt  at  home  at  once.  So  many  things 
have  happened  that  I  can  scarce  begin.  We  felt  on  Saturday  night 
that  we  had  been  here  a  month.  The  first  day  we  spent  in  getting 
settled,  scattered  about  in  small  hotels  (twenty-five  of  us  here),  and  in 
the  afternoon  we  went  in  squads  to  Scattergood's  office  to  meet  Edmond 
Harvey,  Secretary  Shewell,  file  personal  history  cards,  and  make  out 
Red  Cross  application  blanks.  In  the  evening  the  Friends  had  arranged 
a  splendid  reception  at  the  Red  Cross  headquarters;  stereopticon 
pictures  demonstrated  all  the  general  scope  of  the  field  work,  and  we 
were  addressed  by  Scattergood,  Edmond  Harvey,  Mr.  Folks,  head 
of  Civil  Reconstruction  Staff  of  the  Red  Cross,  and  I  was  called  on  to 
speak  briefly.  Miss  Margaret  Fry  spoke  in  connection  with  her  pic- 
tures. 

On  Sunday,  the  Gannetts,  Henry  Scattergood  and  myself  joined 
Mr.  Kellogg,  of  the  "Survey,"  and  several  of  his  friends  for  a  visit  to 
Versailles,  and  in  the  afternoon  most  of  our  boys  visited  the  same  place. 
The  grounds  were  full  of  soldiers,  both  well  and  crippled,  visiting  this 
glorious  beauty  spot  of  France,  and  the  day  gave  our  boys  a  wonderful 
composite  picture  of  the  real  situation  here. 

In  the  evening  we  all  attended  a  Friends'  Meeting  at  the  head- 
quarters.     The  spirit  was  finely  sincere  and  beautiful. 

The  days  since  have  been  very  full.  On  Monday,  most  of  the 
men  were  measured  for  appropriate  dark  gray  suits  with  A.  R.  C.  on 
the  shoulder,  and  the  English  Friends'  symbol  and  Red  Cross  elsewhere. 


212  The  Haverfordian 

Outfit  will  include  heavy  winter  shoes  and  warm  coat.  On  Tuesday 
we  had  an  important  meeting  in  Scattergood's  office  with  Edmond 
Harvey,  Scattergood,  Secretary  Shewell,  Chiefs  West  of  Golancourt 
and  Brooks  of  Dole,  Treasurer  Elliott,  McKinstry,  Joe  Haines  and 
myself  around  the  table,  and  decided  on  the  assignments  for  those  here 
on  the  ground. 

I  understand  1  am  to  be  called  officially  General  Field  Director  of 
the  Friends'  Unit,  with  likelihood  of  undertaking  important  organiza- 
tion of  civil,  medical  and  surgical  work  with  Dr.  Clark  a  little  later, 
near  the  Verdun  front. 

Co-operation  Is  Complete 

The  co-operation,  as  indicated  in  the  letter  to  Mr.  Folk,  is  complete, 
and  is  one  of  marvelous  strength.  Before  1  go  any  farther,  let  me  say 
of  Henry  Scattergood  that  I  don't  think  anybody  in  the  world  could 
have  exceeded  his  successful  tact  and  diplomacy  in  handling  this  difficult 
amalgamation  of  three  groups.  Red  Cross  official  body,  English  and 
American  Friends'  Units.  He  has  been  untiring,  sincere,  a  good  fellow 
always,  sympathetic,  careful,  and  tactful.  1  think  his  service  to  the 
Friends  simply  wonderful,  and  personally  hope  that  you  will  not  let 
him  leave  the  work  in  the  hands  of  Mr.  Evans  and  myself  until  he 
thinks  it  time  for  him  to  safely  go.  1  doubt  if  anybody  else  could  have 
secured  the  cordial  entree  with  the  Red  Cross,  and  we  shall  be  long 
in    fully    realizing    its    importance. 

We  have  been  busy  getting  Cartes  d'ldentite,  Carnet  privileges, 
etc.  Six  of  our  men,  Howland,  Whitall,  Goff,  Cholerton,  Smith,  and 
Speer,  have  gone  down  to  Bourges  to  help  erect  a  Red  Cross  hospital 
there  while  waiting  for  assignments,  and  we  are  busier  than  seems 
possible  in  cleaning  up  important  details.  Look  for  arrival  of  next 
group  to-morrow  or  Saturday  and  will  try  to  see  that  they  are  given  the 
same  cordial  entree  into   the  Anglo-American  Society. 

Our  daily  program  consists  of  setting-up  drill  at  7.00,  breakfast 
at  7.30,  assembly  and  sick  roll  at  8.00,  French  study  from  9.00  to  I  1 .00, 
lunch  at  12.30.  Afternoon,  tour  of  sightseeing  to  cover  at  least  five 
miles  in  walking.  Evening  is  left  at  the  option  of  squad  leaders  with 
understanding  that  all  retire  at  ten  unless  special  arrangements  be  made. 
It  is  probable  that  the  first  group  of  about  twenty  will  go  down  to  Ornans 
and  Dole  next  Tuesday.  1  shall  run  down  and  get  them  started.  L.  R. 
Thomas  may  be  assigned  there,  but  more  likely  to  Gruny  with  the 
general  emergency  repair  work. 

The  general  morale  of  the  men  is  perfect  now;    of  course  they  are 


A  Lettkr  from  P"ranck  213 

getting  anxious  to  begin  work,  but  realize  the  necessary  formalities, 
and  1  doubt  not  a  fairly  large  number  would  enjoy  Paris  in  a  sane  fashion 
quite  indefinitely. 

On  Tuesday  evening,  Mrs.  Herbert  Adams  Gibbons,  wife  of  the 
famous  author  of  "Paris  Reborn,"  gave  our  boys  a  delightful  talk  at 
the  Wesleyan  Church,  on  ways  of  properly  meeting  and  working  with 
the  French  people.  She  has  been  at  the  head  of  a  movement  to  clothe 
about  four  thousand  babies,  and  knew  her  field.  Yesterday  she  served 
tea  in  her  delightful  home  on  Rue  de  Montparnasse,  to  our  lads,  and 
encouraged  them  much  in  her  clear  portrayal  of  the  reserve. 

Our  organization  seems  to  be  standing  the  test.  The  Office  group, 
particularly  McKinstry  and  Sharpless,  have  rendered  splendid  service. 
Titcomb,  Chambers,  and  Miss  Iredale,  heading  the  French  instruction, 
are  working  untiringly.  Our  squad  leaders,  Betts,  Titcomb,  Taggart, 
Russell,  Hussey,  and  Laity,  have  proven  genuine  leaders.  Altogether 
my  report  is  optimistic  in  the  extreme.  Not  one  of  us  would  exchange 
opportunity  for  service.  And  we  only  hope  our  course  is  meeting  the 
approbation  of  the  committee. 

Clinical  thermometers  are  very  expensive  here,  and  yet  they  break 
easily.  Won't  you  have  Miss  Super  purchase  half  a  dozen  and  send 
them  over  at  the  first  opportunity? 

With  Henry  Scattergood  I  fully  concur  as  to  plan  of  procedure  in 
sending  new  men.  Select,  slowly  and  carefully,  especially  trained 
men.  Get  them  in  good  yhysical  shape.  Urge  them  to  push  the 
study  of  French.  Then  send  them  right  over,  as  we  will  complete 
service  education  here. 

With  most  sincere  and  grateful  appreciation  of  the  co-operation  of 
yourself  and  other  members  of  the  committee,   1   remain. 

Most  faithfully, 

James  A.  Babbitt. 


0hit\iaxv 


Richard  Mott  Jones,  '67,  died  in  the  University  Hospital, 
Philadelphia,  the  first  day  of  August,  after  an  illness  of  many 
weeks.  His  death  removes  one  of  the  most  distinguished  of 
Haverford's  graduates.  He  was  born  in  South  China,  Maine, 
June  29th,  1843,  son  of  the  famous  Quaker  ministers  and 
missionaries,  Eli  and  Sibyl  Jones.  In  1875,  he  was  made 
Head  Master  of  the  William  Penn  Charter  School,  Philadel- 
phia, which  position  he  occupied  continuously  and  with  eminent 
success  until  the  time  of  his  death.  He  was  a  born  leader  of 
boys  and  he  entered  with  sympathetic  appreciation  and  enthusi- 
asm into  the  life  and  work  and  play  of  his  students.  He  was 
just  and  fair,  though  strict,  in  his  ideals  of  discipline,  and  he 
aspired  to  help  every  Penn  Charter  boy  to  attain  the  best  that 
was  in  him.  He  prepared  many  students  for  Haverford  and 
always  loved  and  honored  his  Alma  Mater.  He  was  made  a 
mianager  of  Haverford  in  1892,  and  continued  to  serve  the 
College  in  this  capacity  for  many  years.  He  was  during  a  large 
part  of  his  mature  life  totally  deaf,  but  he  never  allowed  this 
physical  handicap  to  interfere  with  his  career,  nor  did  it  affect 
the  fine  quality  of  his  spirit.  He  was  a  man  of  rich  and  happy 
humor,  tireless  energy,  inspiring  personality,  boundless  en- 
thusiasm, absolute  integrity,  and  lofty  idealism.  He  always  felt 
that  he  owed  much  to  Haverford  and  he  endeavored  to  pay  back 
his  debt  with  full  interest. 


am 


JLUMNI 


1872 
John  E.  Forsythe,  former  prin- 
cipal of  tfie  Forsythe  School.  Phila- 
delphia, and  Richard  M.  Gum- 
mere,  02,  have  written  a  "Junior 
Latin  Book"  which  is  published 
by  the  Christopher  Sower  Com- 
pany. 

1889 
Thomas   Evans   was   married    to 
Miss  Sarah  Wood  Wagner  in  Ger- 
mantown     on     Saturday.     October 
thirteenth. 

1892 
Stanley     Rhoads     Yarnall     was 
married  on  August  ninth  to  Miss 
Susan  A.  Roberts,  of  Downington, 
Pennsylvania. 

1897 
A  book  has  been   published   by 
Edward     Thomas     on     "Chemical 
Patents    and    Allied    Patent    Prob- 
lems '  (John  Bryne  &  Co.,  Wash.) 

1900 
Edward    D.    Freeman,    who    has 
been   practicing  law  in   New  York 
for   several   years,   is   a   captain   in 
the  regular  army. 

•02 
Edward  W.   Evans,  secretary  of 
the    Fellowship    of    Reconciliation, 
is  attending  Dr.  Sharpless's  lecture 


course  in  the  Wistar  Brown  Grad- 
uate School. 

An  English  translation  by  Dr. 
Richard  M.  Gummere  of  "Seneca 
and  Lucilium  Epistulae  Morales " 
has  been  published  by  the  Loeb 
Classical  Library. 

A  collection  of  Swedish  lyrics 
translated  by  Charles  W.  Stork 
has  been  published  by  the  Ameri- 
can Scandinavian  Foundation. 

•03 

Rev.  Otto  E.  Duerr  is  minister 
of  the  First  Unitarian  Church  of 
Laconia,   New  Hampshire. 

Carey  V.  Hodgson  is  a  captain  in 
the  Engineers^  Officers^  Reserve 
Corps. 

Israel  S.  Tilney  is  on  a  Red 
Cross  mission  in  France. 

H.  M.  Trueblood  has  an  article 
reprinted  from  the  Proceedings  of 
the  American  Academy  of  Arts  and 
Sciences  on  "The  Joule-Thomson 
Effect  in  Superheated  Steam:  An 
Experimental  Study  in  Heat  Leak- 
age.•'  This  is  a  part  of  the  investi- 
gation on  light  and  heat  made  and 
published  with  aid  from  the  Rum- 
ford  fund. 

Dr.  Joseph  K.  Worthington  is  a 
captain  in  the  Medical  Officers^ 
Reserve  Corps  in  the  U.  S.  Base 
Hospital  No.  32. 


216 


The  Haverfokdian 


i 


KLM^: 


^Hri 


A  MICHIGAN  CORPORATION  are  well 
■'^  pleased  with  the  38-inch  3 -ply  Rhoads 
driving  belt  shown  above.  It  is  one  of  an 
installation  of  large  belts  that  have  run  with 
notable  trueness  and  balance,  and  with  remark- 
ably little  stretch.  Another  of  these,  a  20-inch 
double,  has  been  pronounced  by  several  men 
the  straightest  belt  they  ever  saw. 

Such  belts  do  credit  to  your  plant  and  pro- 
mote production. 


J.    E.    RHOADS    &    SONS 

PHIL.iDELPHIA  NEW  YOKK  CHICAGO 

12  North  Third  Street  102  Beekman  Street  .332  West  Randolph  Street 

BAJLTIMOKE  AGENCY  FACTORY  AND  TANNERY 

37   South  Charles  Street  Wilmington,  Delaware 


'07 

Samuel  J.  Gummere  has  a  daugh- 
ter named  Barbara,  who  was  born 
in  September.  Mr.  Gummere  has 
just  received  leave  of  absence  from 
the  Pennsylvania  Railroad  Com- 
pany to  work  on  the  committee  on 
personnel  and  classification  of  the 
army. 

'08 

A  son,  C.  Thornton  Brown,  Jr., 
was  born  to  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Carroll 
T.   Brown  on   October  eleventh. 

"The  Adirondacks,  "  a  book  by 
Thomas  W.  Longstreth,  illustrated 
with  photographs  and  maps,  is 
published  by  the  Century  Com- 
pany. 


J.  Carey  Thomas  has  published 
a  book  entitled,  "Seven  Sonnets 
and  Other  Poems."  This  is  from 
the   Gorham   Press,    Boston. 

•10 

Nelson  Edwards  was  married 
this  summer  to  Miss  Elizabeth  Al- 
linson,    of    Haverford. 

There  is  a  different  sort  of 
story  in  Christopher  Morley's 
book"  Parnassus  on  Wheels," 
published  by  Doubleday,  Page 
and  Company,  September  14th. 

This  is  the  story  of  a  man  who 
loved  books.  He  loved  them  so  in- 
tensely that  they  were  a  sort  of 
religion  to  him  and  in  a  wonderfully 
equipped  wagon,  almost  as  unique 


We  will  rent  you  a  late  model 

Underwood  Typewriter 

3  Month,s  for  $5.00 

and  apply  the  fi'-st  rental 
payment  on  the  purchase 
price  if  you  desire  to  buy 
the  machine. 

MARCUS  &  CO. 

STATIONERS— TYPEWRITERS 
1303  Market  St.,  Philadelphia 


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217 


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CANDY  PERFUMES 

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CIGARS     CUT  GLASS      KODAKS 

C.  G.  WARNER,  P.  D. 

Pharmacist  HAVERFORD,  PA. 


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as  that  of  Mrs.  Jarley  of  waxwork 
fame,  he  traveled  about  the  coun- 
try preaching  his  gospel  of  good 
books  to  all  who  would  listen. 
But  romance  knocked  at  the  door 
of  his  covered  wagon  and  com- 
pletes a  story,  rare  in  its  humor, 
flashing  with  bits  of  satire  and 
happy   bits  of   philosophy. 

•11 

The  engagement  of  James  Ash- 
brook  to  Miss  Elsa  Norton  is  an- 
nounced. Mr.  Ashbrook  is  an  en- 
sign in  the  paymaster's  depart- 
ment of  the  U.  S.  S.   Kansas. 

William  D.  Hartshorne,  Jr.,  was 
married  on  August  twenty-ninth  to 
Miss  E.  Corine  Ligon,  of  Virginia. 
He  is  now  a  private  in  Company  A, 
31  tth  Infantry,  stationed  at  Camp 
Dix,  New  Jersey. 

Alan  S.  Young  is  a  salesman  in 
the  Baltimore  branch  of  the  Auto- 
car Company.  He  and  his  wife  are 
living  at  301  Walnut  Avenue, 
Rognal    Heights,    Baltimore. 

'13 

F.  A.  Curtis  is  at  Camp  Sheri- 
dan, Ala.,  with  Battery  D,  1st 
Field    Artillery   of   Ohio. 

Two  pamphlets  by  Norris  F.  Hall 
have  been  printed  from  the  Journal 
of  the  American  Chemical  Society. 
They  are  entitled  "The  Drainage 
of  Crystals"  and  "On  Periodicity 
among  the  Radioactive  Elements." 
Another,  written  in  conjunction 
with  Theodore  W.  Richards,  treats 
of  "An  Attempt  to  Separate  the 
Isotopic  Forms  of  Lead  by  Frac- 
tional Crystallization." 

A  son  was  born  to  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
L.  H.  Mendenhall,  of  Banes,  Ori- 
ente,  Cuba,  on  September  twelfth, 
and  named  John  Orville. 

W.    C.    Longstreth    is    a    second 


218 


The  Haverfordian 


lieutenant  in  the  army  and  is  now 
at  training  camp. 

Harry  C.  Offerman  received  the 
degree  of  B.  D.  last  June  from  the 
Mt.  Airy  Theological  Seminary. 

Joseph  Tatnall  was  married  on 
September  twenty-fifth  to  Miss 
Rosalyne    Cristine    Smith. 

'14 

Harold  S.  Miller  took  the  degree 
of  B.  D.  at  the  Mt.  Airy  Theologi- 
cal Seminary  last  June. 

Douglas  Waples  and  his  wife  are 
in  the  army  canteen  work  of  the 
American  Red  Cross  in  France. 

•15 

Edward  N.  Crosman  was  one  of 
the  candidates  who  won  a  compe- 
tition for  positions  in  the  navy  as 
ensigns  out  of  the  large  number  of 
applicants  which  took  the  examina- 
tions. 

An  article  by  Emmett  R.  Dunn 
on  the  "Salamanders  of  the  Genera 
Desmognathus  and  Leurognathus" 
has  recently  been  reprinted  from 
the  Proceedings  of  the  United  States 
National  Museum. 

Yoshio  Nitobe  was  married  in 
Tokio  on  September  twenty-ninth 
to  Miss  Koto  Nitobe. 

'16 
Oliver  Winslow,  who  has  for  the 
last  two  years  been  a  student  in 
the  engineering  schools  at  Johns 
Hopkins  University,  was  elected 
president  of  his  class  at  a  recent 
election.  Of  the  original  one  hun- 
dred men  who  started  the  four 
years  together  in  the  senior  class, 
only  twenty  are  left,  but  under- 
classmen completing  their  course 
in  three  years  are  expected  to 
augment  this  number  to  thirty- 
five. 


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Banjos,       Ukuleles, 
Mandolins,    Violins 
Mandolutes,  Gui- 
tars. Cornets,  etc. 

Pianos  and 
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Popular.  Classical  and   Operatic   Sheet   Music 

WiYMANN 

1108  Chestnut  Street,      Philadelphia 


Aside  from  its  careful  work  in  filling  pre- 
scriptions 

Haverford  Pharmacy 

has  become  known  as  a  place  where  many 
of  the  solid  comforts  of  life  may  be  ob- 
tained. One  worth  mentioning  is  the  fa- 
mous Lotion  for  sunburn,  chapped  hands 
and  face,  and  other  irritations  of  the  skin. 
Decline,  gently  but  firmly,  any  other  said 
to  be  "just  as  good." 

WILSON  L.  HARBAUGH. 


Protection   is  the  Best  Policy 
The  Best  Policy  is  the  Best 
Protection 


Write  or  call  on 

Richard  S.  Dewees  & 

John  K.  Garrigues 

for  information. 


SPECIAL  AGENTS  FOR 

The   Provident  Life  and  Trust  Co. 

4th  and  Chestnut  .Sts.,      Philadelphia 


W.  L.  Baily,  Jr.,  is  second  lieu- 
tenant in  the  Twenty-First  Field 
Artillery,  U.  S.  Regular  Army,  in 
training  camp  at  Camp  Funston, 
Leon    Springs,    Texas. 

A.  W.  Barker  and  E.  M.  Weston 
are  Teaching  Fellows  at  Haverford 
for  1917-1918. 

Horace  B.  Brodhead  is  a  corporal 
on  the  Headquarters  Staff  of  the 
103rd  Ammunition  Train,  now  at 
Camp    Hancock,    Georgia. 

Charles  F.  Brown.  J.  H.  Buzby, 
Weston  Howland.  H.  F.  McKins- 
try  and  R.  D.  Metcalfe  are  all  in 
France  as  members  of  the  American 
Friends'  Reconstruction  Unit  which 
trained  at  Haverford  in  July  and 
August.  Their  headquarters  ad- 
dress is  Hotel  Brittanique,  20 
Avenue   Victoria,   Paris,   France. 

Ernest  L.  Brown  is  engaged  in 
similar  work  as  a  member  of  the 
English  Friends'  War  Victims'  Re- 
lief. 

Wjlliam  H.  Chamberlin  has  ta- 
ken a  position  for  the  coming  year 
as  assistant  to  the  magazine  editor 
of   the  Philadelphia  Press. 

George  D.  Chandler  and  F.  H. 
Morris  are  enrolled  as  members  of 
U.  S.  Base  Hospital  34,  and  are 
ready  for  service  in  France  at  a 
moment's  call. 

DeWitt  C.  Clement,  William  C. 
Little,  and  Robert  B.  Miller  are 
second  lieutenants  in  the  U.  S. 
Reserves,  and  are  now  on  duty  at 
Annapolis  Junction.   Maryland. 

William  M.  R.  Crosman  and 
M.  A.  Laverty  are  members  of  the 
First  Troop,  1st  Pennsylvania  Cav- 
alry, now  at  Camp  Hancock, 
Georgia. 

William  M.  Darlington  took  a 
course  in  navigation  at  the  Uni- 
versity of  Pennsylvania  during  the 


220 


The  Haverjfordian 


summer,  preparatory  to  qualifying 
for  service  in  the  prospective  mer- 
chant marine. 

Joseph  W.  Greene,  Jr.,  was  a 
member  of  the  Harvard  R.  O.  T.  C, 
which  disbanded  late  in  August;  he 
is  for  the  present  in  his  father's 
plant  at  Wickford,  R.  I. 

A.  W.  Hall  is  enrolled  in  the 
U.  S.  Reserve  Signal  Corps,  but  up 
until  recently  had  not  been  called 
into  active   training  for  service. 

H.  L.  Jones,  L.  M.  Ramsey  and 
J.  W.  Zerega  are  members  of  U.  S. 
Base  Hospital  10,  which  sailed  for 
France  early  in  May. 

F.  O.  Marshall  is  a  student  in 
the  new  Moses  Brown  Graduate 
School   at   Haverford. 

Edward  T.  Price,  after  training 
in  the  Harvard  R.  O.  T.  C.,  was 
given  an  appointment  to  the  gov- 
ernment's Second  Officers'  Train- 
ing Camp  at  Plattsburg,  N.  Y. 
In  the  course  of  the  field  exercises 
of  the  Harvard  camp,  held  at 
Barre,  Mass.,  Price  won  the  880- 
yards  event  by  a  sensational  sprint, 
beating  out  the  captain  of  the 
Harvard  Freshmen  track  team 
and  a  track  athlete  from  Yale, 
who  finished  second  and  third 
respectively. 

F.  R.  Snader,  Jr.,  has  entered 
upon  his  first  year  at  the  Hahne- 
mann   Medical    College. 

J.  W.  Spaeth,  Jr.,  is  pursuing 
graduate  work  at  Harvard  Uni- 
versity, where  he  is  enrolled  in  the 
newly  organized  Harvard  Regi- 
ment. R.  O.  T.  C. 

J.  C.  Strawbridge,  2nd,  is  in 
business  with  his  father  in  Phila- 
delphia. 

C.  D.  Van  Dam  is  teaching 
English  at  the  Gilam  Country 
School,    Baltimore,    Md. 


Pictures  Framed 

to  order,  and  in  an  artistic 
manner,  and  at  reasonable 
prices. 

J.  E.  BARKMAN, 

24  W.  Lancaster  Avenue 
Ardmore,  Pa. 

Pictures,    Stationery,    Gifts 

Joseph  C.  Ferguson,  Jr. 

6-8-10    South  Fifteenth  Street 

Optical  anb 
^})otograp!)ic  #oobs! 

OF  EVERY   DESCRIPTION 
Below  Market  Street 

Bryn  Mawr  Motor  Co.,  Inc. 

Main  Line  Agents 

BUICK 
AUTOMOBILES 

Branch   of 

HALE  MOTOR  CO.  Wayne,  Pa. 

For  that 

Thirsty  Thirst 

DRINK 

HIRES 


Alumni 


f  J£.  1 


Loring  Van  Dam  is  working  in 
Philadelphia. 

Harold    Q.     York    has    taken    a 
position  as  traveling  salesman  of  a 
promising  mechanical  device. 
Ex-' 1 7 

F.  K.  Murray  is  in  France  as  a 
member  of  the  American  Friends' 
Reconstruction  Unit. 

N.  F.  Paxson  has  entered  upon 
his  third  year  at  the  Hahnemann 
Medical  College. 

'15 

Mr.  Donald  G.  Baird  has  re- 
signed his  position  as  instructor  in 
English  to  join  the  First  City 
Troop. 

Ex-' 1 8 

J.  M.  Crosman  and  J.  A.  Hisey 
have  been  given  positions  in  the 
Headquarters     Detachment,     who 


will  be  a  picked  group  of  one  hun- 
dred and  forty  men,  and  who  will 
be  closely  attached  to  the  staff  in 
charge. 

Ex-'20 

P.  Howard,  '20,  left  College  to 
join  the  campaign  of  the  Pocket 
Testament  League  among  the  con- 
centration camps  all  over  the 
country. 

Harry  Morris,  '20,  has  gone  to 
Johns  Hopkins.  He  hopes  to  be 
back  at  Haverford  at  mid-year's. 

The  Haverford  College  Alumni 
Association  of  New  York  held  their 
first  meeting  of  the  year  on  Octo- 
ber sixteenth. 

J.  Allen  Hisey  and  John  Marshall 
Crosman  are  at  Camp  Meade,  while 
Stephen  Curtis  is  at  Camp  Dix. 


'ir 


THE  MAIN   LINE    SHOE    COMPANY 

G.  ROSSI,  Manager 

ARDMORE,  -  PA. 

Branch  No.  I  :  306  W.  Lancaster  Ave..  Ardmore 
Branch  No.  2:     208  Darby  Road,  Llanerch 


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Windo^v  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 

205-207-209-211  N.  Fourth  St.  PHILADELPHIA 


REED  &  WEST 

Druggists 


ARDMORE 


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 


Tnis'is  ine  iype 
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your  admiration- 
Ae  Wears  our 

Clothes 


Jacob  Reeds  Sons 


■Clothiers- 
fiaberdashers 
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Philadelphia. 


You  run  no  risks  on 


TARTAN  BRANDS 


Canned  Goods 

Coffee 

Macaroni 

Tea 

Olive  Oil 


Alfred  Lowry  &  Bro. 


PHILADELPHIA 


Both  Phones 

WILLIAM  A.  BENDER 

The  Best  and  Freshest 
BUTTER,  EGGS  AND  POULTRY 

Sixth  Avenue,  Reading  Terminal  Market, 

Twelfth  and  Arch  Streets,  PHILADELPHIA 

C.   N.   DAVIS 

Dealer  in 

Automobile     Accessories, 

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W 


HEN    Pa-IRO.VIZING   ADVERTISERS    KiNDLY    MENT[0N   ThE    HAVERFORDIAN 


The  Haverfordian 


Pyle,  Imbs 
b  Basbieri 

TAILOH^ 

<*<    too.   «« 
MEN  AND  BCnSS 


1119  WALNUT  .ST., 
PHILiASELPHlA, 


/^UR  early  buying  of  woolens  for  Fall  and 
^^  Winter  has  given  us  a  wonderfully  large 
stock  of  the  desirable  things  and  at  the  same 
time,  we  received  advantages  in  prices  which 
we  are  quite  willing  to  share  with  our 
customers. 

Your  wants  are  successfully  satisfied  here 
as  we  specialize  in  clothes  for  young  men. 

Wc  suggest  a  call  and  you  will  be  made 
to  feel  at  home  whether  you  purchase  or  not. 


PYLE,  INNES  ^  BARBIERI 

Leading  College   Tailors  1115  Walnut  Stret 

P.  S.     Orders  for  Army  and  Navy  uniforms  correctly  executed  at  short  notice. 

The  Stein-Bloch  Smart  Clothes 
Hart,  Schaffner  &  Marx  Clothini 

HIGH  CLASS  CUSTOM   TAILORING 
For  Men  and  Young  Men 

Strawbridge  &  Clothier 

Headquarters  for 

EVERYTHING  THAT  MEN  WEAR 
Everything  for  Athletic  Sports 


When  PATKONrziNG  Advektiskus  K'indi.y  Mkntion  Tiiic  IIaveutokdian 


THE    HAVERFORDIAN 


EDITORS 
Russell  N.  Miller,  1919,  Editor-in-Chief 

A.  Douglas  Oliver,  1919  Christopher  Roberts,  1920 

Harold  Brecht,  1920  J.  H.  Smith,  1920 

BUSINESS  MANAGER 
Edwin  O.  Geclieler,  1920 

Price,  per  year $1.00  Single  copies $0.15 

The  Haverfordian  is  published  on  the  twentieth  of  each  month  during  college  yeap. 
Its  purpose  is  to  foster  the  literary  spirit  among  the  undergraduates,  to  provide  an  or- 
gan 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  in- 
tended for  insertion  should  reach  the  Editor  not  later  than  the  twenty-fifth  of  the  month 
preceding  the  date  of  issue. 

Entered  at  the  Haverford  Post-Office,  for  transmission  through  the  mails  a3  second-class  matter 

Vol.  XXXIX  HAVERFORD,  PA.,  JANUARY,  1918  No.  7 


3fn  WW  3£is!ue 


A  Hero  of  Peace Charles  Wharton  Stork  225 

How  to  Build  Without  Expense H.  Hartman  226 

History  Repeats  Itself T.  B.  Barlow  227 

Departure R.  N.  Miller  228 

The  Tale  of  a  Dub H.  W.  Brecht  229 

Away  from   You A.  Douglas  Oliver  234 

Ocean  Fishing Samuel  Albert  Nock  235 

Regret Jacques  Le  Clercq  237 

When  Knights  Were  Bold G.  E.  Toogood-  238 

Fiddle  and  I Joseph  Hopkinson  Smith  242 

The  Editor's  Reflections 245 

A  Letter  from  France 248 

Alumni  Notes 250 


THE    HAVERFORDIAN 


Vol.  XXXIX.  H.WERFORD.  P.\..  J.^NLURY,  1918  No.  7 


^  llero  of  ^eace 

By  Charles  Wharton  Stork^ 

In  Memory  of  My  Classmate,  Caspar  Wistar  (Haverford,  1902),  Medical 

Missionary. 

Died  of  Typhus  Fever  in  Guatemala,  March,  1917. 
Not  on  the  field  of  glory  did  he  fall, 

And  by  his  grave  no  banner  stands, 
k  Only  white  flowers  from  the  toil-worn  hands 

Of  swarthy  peons  rested  on  his  pall 
Not  once  but  twelve  long  years  he  heard  the  call 

Of  duty,  and  obeyed  its  clear  commands; 

He  lived  a  lonely  life  in  alien  lands. 
And  gave  to  strangers  what  he  had,  his  all. 

He  did  not  seek  for  glory,  would  not  care — 

Plain  Quaker  fellow — for  a  monument. 
But  shall  we  honor  only  those  that  dare 

To  die  on  fields  where  blood  for  blood  is  spent? 
Will  God,  you  think,  hold  dearer  him  who  gave 
His  life  to  kill  than  him  who  died  to  save? 


I 


ilottj  to  Puilb  ISIitfjout  expense 

By  H.  Hartman 

ONE  hundred  years  ago,  many  people  would  have  laughed  at  the 
mention  of  pecuniary  expenditures  for  purposes  of  building. 
In  those  days,  the  men  shouldered  their  axes  and  disappeared 
into  the  woods  and  forests.  Day  after  day,  choppings  and  crashings 
would  follow;  when  they  had  felled  and  trimmed  enough  trees  for  their 
dwelling,  they  would  gather  the  logs.  Immediately,  they  would  begin 
to  place  them  one  upon  the  other  until,  in  a  very  short  time,  a  comforta- 
ble shelter  and  protection  was  completed.  What  was  the  expense  at- 
tached to  such  an  operation?  Nothing,  according  to  the  hasty  judgment 
of  the  average  man.  In  fact,  however,  much  hard  labor  was  the  price 
paid  for  such  structures.  Let  me  tell  you,  without  delaying  longer, 
how  to  build  without  expense.  Yes,  yes,  even  without  the  price  of 
toiling. 

Our  forefathers  would  prepare  and  constuct  buildings  regardless 
of  the  weather  and  their  ease.  To  raise  a  structure  without  expense, 
all  conditions  must  be  suitable.  Whosoever  has  these  favorable  requi- 
sites simultaneously,  it  will  be  easy  for  him  to  construct  a  most  magnifi- 
cent edifice  without  labor  and  without  price. 

Are  you  anxious  to  learn  how  this  wonderful  work  can  be  performed? 
Wait  just  one  minute. — Think.  Haven't  you  the  slightest  idea?  Well, 
I  shall  relieve  your  anxiety;  perhaps  you  can  use  this  new  art  this  even- 
.Jng. 

Do  you  think  such  a  construction  is  performed  by  a  very  ingenious 
feat  of  magic?  No,  no;  you  are  quite  mistaken.  Procure  for  tools  and 
materials:  a  perfect  spring  evening;  a  spot  where  nature  can  speak  to 
you  most  emphatically;  a  quiet  state  of  mind  and  body;  a  good  cigar 
or  a  well-conquered  pipe; — get  all  these,  1  say,  and  then  you  can  begin 
to  build. 

You  ask  how  these  implements  are  to  be  applied?  You  must  work 
out  your  own  method  by  which  you  can  most  effectively  use  the  furnished 
materials.  The  size,  style,  and  grandeur  of  your  castle  depend  upon  your 
personality. 

Yes,  it  does  seem  strange  that  castles  can  be  built  without  any 
expense.  How  often  have  you  and  I  erected  many  such  edifices  in  two 
hours,  when  we  have  had  the  requisites!  These  castles  are  built  without 
expense;  but,  without  warning,  they  crumble  and  are  blown  to  pieces 
in  an  instant. 


^istorp  Eepeats!  Itatlt 

By  T.  B.  Barlow 

OH.  HOW  luxurious  you  bachelors  are!"  observed  Kate  as  she  sat 
down  in  a  very  comfortable  and  capacious  armchair. 
Joe  put  the  kettle  on  the  fire  and  nervously  flicked  the  dust 
off  his  best  tea-set.  "Well,  Kate,"  he  exp'ained,  "when  we  are  up  at 
the  "Varsity,  you  know,  we  all  want  to  enjoy  ourselves,  and  we  have 
no  nice  sisters  or  anybody  else's  sister  to  look  after  us  and  so  we  must 
look  after  ourselves." 

Joe  Bradly  was  entertaining  Miss  Kate  Sommers  to  tea  in  his  rooms 
at  Christ's,  Cambridge.  She  was  visiting  in  the  neighbourhood,  and  her 
fiance  had  taken  the  opportunity  of  arranging  a  tete-a-tete  tea. 

Kate  lay  back  in  the  chair  and  surveyed  the  room,  as  her  future 
lord  and  master  cut  thin  bread-and-butter  and  made  cucumber  sand- 
wiches. 

"What  nice  large  curtains  those  are!"  she  observed.  "I  do  so  like 
that  pink  and  white  design  on  them.  It  is  rather  like  the  one  on  my 
frock,  I  think." 

"Yes,"  he  flustered.  "Have  a  cucumber  sandwich  with  some 
marmalade  on  it!" 

Two  loud  raps  sounded  sharply  on  the  door.  Joe  immediately 
darted  to  it  and  shot  the  bolts,  top  and  bottom.  He  turned  hastily  to 
Kate:  "I  say,  just  stand  behind  that  curtain  a  minute  while  I  get  rid  of 
this  idiot  outside.  Do  go,  there's  a  dear.  "  He  confusedly  shoved 
her  out  of  sight.  He  jerked  the  kettle  off  the  fire  and  spilled  half  the 
water,  so  that  the  fire  began  a  series  of  hisses.  He  then  covered  the  tea- 
tray  with  a  newspaper.  It  had  taken  a  full  minute  to  make  these  secre- 
tions, and  in  the  meantime  the  visitor  had  repeated  his  knocks. 

Joe  opened  the  door.  There  stood  in  front  of  him  an  old  man  of 
about  sixty-five.  He  had  a  gnarled  ash  stick  of  unusual  thickness; 
it  had  evidently  been  responsible  for  the  noise  on  the  door. 

The  visitor  hobbled  past  him  into  the  room.  The  stick  doubled 
under  his  weight.     Then,  turning  round,  he  announced: 

"Anthony  Fawkes  is  my  name,  sir.  Fifty  years  ago  I  had  these 
rooms,  and  as  I  was  in  Cambridge  this  afternoon  I  thought  that  I'd  like 
to  visit  them  again.    I  suppose  that  you  have  no  objections,  sir?" 

"Er — er — no,  sir,  no,  sir,  certainly  not — er — are  they  much  changed 
since  your  day,  sir?" 

"Well,  now,  let  me  see — Ah,  the  same  old  table  is  still  here,  and 


228  The  Haverfoiidian 

the  carpet,  I  believe.  The  wallpaper  is  changed,  and  so  is  the  lamp- 
shade. But  I  would  know  that  same  old  cushion,  and  the  same  old 
footstool — ah,  yes,  how  well  I  remember  them!  The  old  rooms  seem 
just  the  same,  except  for  one  or  two  details.  The  view  from  the  window 
on  to  the  quadrangle  is  just  the  same."  At  this  point  Mr.  Fawkes  went 
to  the  window. 

"Ah,  yes,  the  same  old  noises,  the  same  old  smells,  the  same  old 
ivy  on  the  wall.  Everything  seems  the  same.  Hullo,  the  curtains  are 
new!"     He  took  one  and  shook  it. 

It  happened  that  Kate  was  hiding  in  this  particular  curtain  and 
by  shaking  it  Mr.  Fawkes  disclosed  her.  He  took  a  step  back  in  amaze- 
ment and  she  blushed  in  an  unforgivable  way. 

Joe  now  came  to  the  rescue.  "Oh — er — er — excuse  me,  sir — er — • 
may  1  introduce  you  to  my  sister?  Miss  Bradly — Mr.  Fawkes,  Mr.  Faw 
Fawkes — Miss  Bradly." 

Joe's  visitor  turned  to  him  and  exclaimed  with  glaring  eyes: 

"And  the  same  old  lie,  sir!!" 


departure 

By  R.  N.  Miller 

As  I  gazed,  the  tears  were  flowing, 
Filled  your  liquid  eyes  of  blue 
As  the  cooling  morning  freshness 
Fills  the  violet  cups  with  dew. 

And  1  kissed  you,  warm  and  tender. 
Whispered  the  name  that  1  adore: 
Perhaps  the  tears  betokened  friendship, 
But  I'm  sure  the  kiss  meant  more. 


^fje  ^ale  of  a  2Dub 

By  H.   W.  Brecht 

OUR  hero — never  begin  a  story  this  way.  In  the  first  place,  he 
isn't  a  hero,  and  in  the  second,  he  wouldn't  be  ours.  Also, 
the  beginning  is  hackneyed  and  trite.  Our  hero,  then,  and 
our  heroine  were  like  brother  and  sister.  It  does  not  matter  what  we 
call  our  hero,  so  we  shall  call  him  Jack.  It  matters  extremely  what  we 
call  our  heroine,  and  we  shall  call  her  Eleanor.  No  name  will  do  justice 
to  her.  Relatives,  sorted  and  unsorted,  appear,  mostly  at  unsorted 
intervals,  whom  we  shan't  name  at  all.     Also,  there  was  I. 

Eleanor  was  little  more  than  a  high-school  girl.  Our  hero  was  in 
college.  So  was  1.  Teachers  and  preachers  are  public  benefactors, 
and,  like  all  public  benefactors,  their  benefactions  must  serve  as  food 
and  drink  for  them.  They  probably  do,  but  they  do  not  serve  to  send 
sons  to  college.  Which  is  only  a  long  way  of  saying  that  Jack  and  I 
could  not  board  at  college,  but  attended  these  irritating  seats  of  higher 
education  by  day  and  Eleanor  by  night.  In  what  time  was  left,  we 
attended  to  our  lessons.  This  was  an  example  of  the  beneficent  influ- 
ence exerted  by  contact  with  sweet  and  pure  young  womanhood. 

As  1  said  before,  our  hero  and  Eleanor  were  like  brother  and  sister 
without  the  feeling  toward  each  other  that  too  often  exists  in  the  off- 
spring from  a  union  that  is  one  of  the  most  beautiful  relations  of  the 
human  race.  I  was  not  like  a  brother.  There  were  many  of  us  who 
were  not.  It  was  usually  our  fortune  to  converse  with  Mamma  Eleanor 
on  subjects  such  as  religion.  Our  religion  was  Eleanor.  My  gods 
were  her  lips,  and  my  heaven  her  eyes.  1  composed  impassioned  poems 
to  her,  beginning: 

"O  Eleanor  now. 
When  I  see  thy  eyebrow.  .  .  ." 
which  I  never  showed  to  her,  as  there  are  thoughts  and  ideals  of  the 
human  heart  and  creations  that  spring  from  God  to  the  human  soul  too 
holy  and  too  divine  to  be  cheapened  by  verse  even  as  inspired  as  the 
above.  But  to  return  to  Mamma  Eleanor  and  her  family.  There  was 
also  a  Papa  Eleanor  in  the  talky  stage,  a  Sister  Eleanor  in  the  gawky  stage, 
a  Brother  Eleanor  in  the  balky  stage,  and  a  Kitty  Eleanor  in  the  squawky 
stage. 

We  (those  of  us  who  were  not  like  brothers  and  sisters,  I  mean) 
would  familiarize  ourselves  with  the  aforesaid  stages,  ingratiating  our- 
selves, meanwhile,  to  the  best  of  our  ability,  with  the  sundry  relatives. 


230  The  Haverfordian 

The  receiving  room  looked  like  a  conservatory,  anyway,  and  smelled 
like  a  candy-shop.  Many  a  book  my  father  paid  for  was  bought  by  the 
pound  at  Huyler's,  or  purchased  two  for  a  quarter  at  a  cigar-store. 
Papa  Eleanor  probably  swung  immense  business  deals  with  the  good 
cigars  we  brought  him,  for  if  he  had  smoked  them  all  he  would  have 
long  before  metamorphosed  himself  into  a  living  Perfecto.  I  endangered 
my  chance  of  eternal  salvation  and  seriously  impaired  my  ability  to  make 
the  track  team  by  smoking  innumerable  cigarettes  of  tobacco  grown  in 
North  Iceland  and  cured  in  a  hog-pen,  merely  to  obtain  for  Brother 
Eleanor  the  cards  in  the  boxes.  I  was  so  much  in  doubt  concerning 
Sister  Eleanor's  condition  that  1  brought  her  one  day  a  tinny-concrete 
doll,  guaranteed  unbreakable,  while  on  the  next  I  gave  her  a  tufted 
booklet  to  keep  her  dance  engagements  in.  1  read  so  much  and  bought 
so  much  about  religion  that  1  pleased  my  father  at  last,  and  1  made  the 
fortune  of  an  obscure  bookseller.  We  all  competed  alike.  I  remember 
the  contest  grew  fast  and  furious  in  bringing  bells  for  Kitty  Eleanor, 
till  her  approach  sounded  like  a  herd  of  cows.  Our  speeches  were  always 
the  same  in  presenting  these  gifts,  or  bribes.  "Happened  to  see,  er — 
thought  you  might  like — nothing  at  all — quite  welcome,  yes, — a — er — 
um — is  Eleanor  in?     Thank  you,  I  can't  stay — "  (as  we  sat  down). 

We  sat  together  in  the  parlor,  and  tried  to  think  of  one  another  as 
the  books  said  we  ought  to  think.  But  we  did  not.  For  (I  even  include 
Jack)  they  were  all  a  likable  set  of  fellows,  and  though  each  one  of  my 
rivals  came  to  me  separately,  and  told  me  how  asinine,  buffoonish,  silly, 
and  damnable  every  one  else  was  beside  him  and  me,  yet  we  managed 
to   remain   very   good   friends  indeed. 

At  last  Eleanor  would  enter  the  parlor,  smiling  and  brilliant-eyed, 
brilliant  and  smiling-eyed.  Her  voice  was  like  rhymed  bluebells  chim- 
ing (I  am  quoting  from  a  poem  1  made  now),  and  the  cadences  in  it  were 
notes  that  liquid-throated  birds  might  have  been  proud  to  own  in  spring. 
We  each  would  press  for  an  instant  the  slender  hand  she  graciously  gave 
us  (there  were  never  more  than  three  of  us  at  a  time,  counting  our  hero). 
Then,  fishing  absent-mindedly  in  our  pockets,  as  though  for  a  handker- 
chief, with  a  look  of  surprise,  we  would  draw  forth  sundry  little  tokens 
(as  I  called  them)  and  with  a  sort  of  bumpkiny  astonishment  at  our- 
selves for  finding  them,  we  would  present  them  to  Eleanor.  Doing  so, 
we  would  mumble  some  stuttering  nothing,  while  Eleanor  opened  them, 
or  shut  them,  or  smelled  them,  or  broke  them,  or  ate  them  at  once,  with 
a  pretty  curiosity,  saying,  "So  perfectly  sweet  of  you."  These  words 
said  to  me  would  invariably  transport  me  to  Paradise,  for  I  fancied  a 
sweeter,  more  gentle,  more  intimate  note  in  them  meant  for  me  alone. 


I 


The  Tale  of  a  Dvb  231 

and  I  remained  thus  happy  till  I  found,  afterward,  that  everyone  else 
had  experienced  the  same  sensation,  and  noticed  the  same  expression. 
One  evening,  though,  her  eyes  were  on  me  quite  often  with  a  flattering 
regard,  so  that  1  walked  home  on  wings.  As  1  gazed  at  the  mirror  that 
night,  glorying  (for  once)  in  myself,  I  felt  a  sinking  at  my  stomach,  for 
my  necktie  had  displayed  a  wholly  groundless  tendency  to  run  away  under 
my  collar,  displaying  my  bone  collar-button. 

Eleanor  used  to  sit  on  one  edge  of  a  roomy  sofa,  gathering  one  lit- 
tle ankle  under  her  in  a  manner  half-coquettish,  half-uncomfortable, 
and  wholly  adorable,  while  she  fixed  the  gold  halo  around  her  hair.  She 
would  tell  us  all  how  glad  she  was  to  see  us,  and  how  perfectly  wonderful 
everything  was.  She  was  very  fond  of  the  phrase  "perfectly  wonderful," 
and  appropriately,  as  it  appertained  directly  to  her.  Later,  we  might 
play  cards,  in  which — as  I  dare  tell  her  now — she  was  egregiously  rotten, 
or  we  would  dance,  in  which  she  was  gloriously  radiant.  She  tried  to 
teach  me  the  dance  (not  the  radiance)  and  unfortunately  I  was  so  much 
engrossed  in  following  the  steps  that  I  did  not  have  leisure  to  enjoy 
her  nearness,  or  the  sensation  of  holding  her  hand. 

If  I  were  eighteen  now,  instead  of  eighty,  one  might  excuse  my 
meanderings  and  my  maunderings,  but  as  one  is  too  young  and  a  fool 
at  eighteen,  one  is  too  old  and  a  fool  at  eighty.  Dear  dream  of  my 
youth,  sweet  Eleanor!  To  what  a  boresome  time  I  must  have  sub- 
jected you! 

One  evening  around  Christmas  time  when  the  snow  had  fallen,  my 
good  or  better  angel  prompted  me  to  ask  Eleanor  to  go  sledding  with 
me.  I  do  not  know  what  was  the  matter  with  our  hero;  perhaps  the 
two  had  quarreled,  as  they  often  did,  probably  to  enjoy  reconciliation. 
Brothers  may  quarrel  with  sisters  and  kings  with  queens.  At  any 
rate,  she  "would  be  perfectly  delighted,"  and  probably  I  would  have 
been  too,  had  I  not  been  too  fearful  to  be  anything  but  almost  idiotic. 

It  was  a  glorious  night,  with  starshine  and  moonshine,  brilliant  and 
thrilling.  Eleanor  was  as  pretty  as  she  always  was,  with  a  light  in  her 
eyes  that  was  kindled,  I  hoped,  for  me.  We  started  in  the  face  of  a  harum- 
s  arum,  dare-devil  sort  of  wind,  who  was  making  a  night  of  it,  probably, 
or  celebrating  something,  which  he  did  earnestly  with  a  great  deal  of 
noise,  the  result  attained  and  hoped  for  in  all  celebrations.  But  he  was 
a  good  sort  of  wind,  for,  being  somewhat  of  a  gallant  and  spark,  I  sup- 
pose he  whipped  Eleanor's  hair  so  roughly,  and  maltreated  her  so 
generally, — doubtless  to  steal  a  glance  at  her  face,  and  who  could  blame 
him, — that  she  was  reduced  to  the  lamentable  necessity  of  re-fixing 
everything  by  the  aid  of  the  street-light  and  me. 


232  The  HavEefordian 

We  came  too  soon  to  the  hill,  glittering,  cool  in  its  white  sheath,  and 
defying  the  wind  to  do  anything  to  it.  I  arranged  Eleanor  carefully 
on  the  sled  and  pushed  her  furiously  over  the  brow  of  the  hill,  all  fur- 
rowed by  sled-tracks  (the  phrase  is  Eleanor's).  Then  with  a  last  des- 
perate plunge  I  landed  on  the  sled  behind  her,  and  down  we  went,  her 
hair  flying  in  my  face  as  it  rested  on  her  shoulder.  Faster  and  faster, 
past  little  boys  on  bellies  and  little  girls  likewise,  past  barking  dogs 
and  barking  children,  past  snow-covered  fences  and  trees  and  posts  that 
swirled  by  in  a  long,  unbroken  whiteness.  The  painful  fear  manifested 
in  Eleanor's  face  as  she  steered,  braced  with  her  feet;  the  infinitesimal 
fraction  by  which  we  missed  one  very  small  boy  with  a  very  large  hat 
that  obscured  his  eyes,  and  who  was  steering  blissfully  in  the  dark; 
the  tightening  of  our  throats  and  the  quick  gasping  of  our  breaths  as 
we  rounded  a  perilous  curve;  the  feeling  of  her  presence  and  her  near- 
ness; the  sparkle  in  her  eyes  and  the  outline  of  her  cheek;  the  sweet 
voice  and  the  sweeter  laugh — the  remembrance  of  all  this  makes  me 
wish  I  were  eighteen  again  instead  of  eighty.  It  is  better  to  be  a  young 
fool  than  an  old  fool,    1  think,  for  an  old  fool  has  more  time  to  reflect. 

Now  we  were  at  the  bottom  of  the  hill. 

"How  perfectly  lovely!"  said  Eleanor. 

One  must  ascend  hills  as  often  as  one  descends  them.  I  insisted  on 
pulling  Eleanor,  and  Eleanor  insisted  on  not  being  pulled.  The  male 
asserted  his  right,  and  the  female  defended  hers.  After  a  merry  struggle, 
I  forced  Eleanor  on  to  the  sled,  and  tried  to  hold  her  there  with  my 
hands,  while  1  pushed  with  my  feet.  This  operation  is  a  strain  on  the 
human  form  (try  it  and  see)  that  its  Maker  never  intended  it  to  bear, 
and  obviously  cannot  be  and  was  not  done.  In  addition,  Eleanor 
steered  us  into  a  drift  and  threw  snow  at  me,  whereupon  1  retaliated, 
and  we  had  a  very  good  time  indeed,  as  anyone  will  have  who  is  pelted 
with  anything  as  abominably  cold  as  snow.  At  last  we  got  to  the  top 
of  the  hill,  which  was  a  wonder,  and  we  remarked  how  short  the  ascent 
was  compared  to  the  descent,  and  how  much  fun  it  would  be  to  go  down. 
And  it  was.  Thus,  until  1  began  to  contemplate  the  interesting  thought 
that,  while  it  was  undeniably  pleasant  to  be  a  brother,  it  could  be 
infinitely  more  gratifying  to  be  a  lover. 

But  how  shall  1  describe  that  last  slide?  How  some  young  gentleman 
with  an  inventive  turn  of  mind  proposed  that  we  should  join  our  sleds 
and  go  down  together,  a  proposal  which,  inasmuch  as  we  could 
go  immeasurably  better  alone,  pleased  rather  more  than  one  might 
think.  How  a  few  sleds  were  hitched  together  with  old  strings  that 
might    have    restrained    particularly    mild    butterflies,    and    how    more 


Thk  Tale  of  a  Dub  233 

were  joined  by  belly-riding  boys'  and  girls'  grasping  the  sleds  in  front 
of  them,  among  which  the  very  small  boy  with  the  very  over-shadowing  cap 
was  remarkable  for  his  literally  blind  trust.  How  Eleanor  and  I  were 
about  last,  as  she  considered  it  unladylike  to  ride  on  her — er — stomach, 
while  I  had  too  much  regard  for  mine  to  use  it  as  a  pillow.  How  we 
compromised  by  my  sitting  with  my  feet  hooked  in  the  sled  of  an  ex- 
tremely sniffly  girl  with  mittens,  who  was  in  front  of  me,  while  Eleanor 
rode  less  or  more  in  my  lap.  It  is  useless  to  attempt  description.  How 
the  first  sled  went  too  slow  and  the  second  too  fast,  while  others  didn't 
go  at  all.  How  various  obscure  laws  of  motion  worked  in  a  very  illu- 
minating fashion.  How  everybody  steered  in  a  different  direction,  and 
nobody  went  in  any  direction.  How  the  sniffly  girl  had  good  cause  for 
sniffling,  and  how  nobody  succeeded  in  anything  or  got  anywhere  except 
the  cap-blinded  boy  who  sailed  serenely  to  the  bottom  of  the  hill.  How 
my  feet  cracked  under  the  strain,  so  that  I  relinquished  my  toe-hold, 
and  with  Eleanor  in  my  lap  went  straight  to  a  big  drift  where  everyone 
was  being  mingled  in  the  most  inextricable  confusion,  and  was  as  happy 
as  one  naturally  is  in  that  desirable  condition.  How  snow  filled  my  nose 
and  ears  and  eyes,  and  crept  in  my  gloves  and  filtered  down  my  back 
and  went  everywhere  that  no  self-respecting  snow  would  go.  How 
I  felt  a  soft,  snow-wet  cheek  against  my  lips  which  I  indignantly  pushed 
away,  under  the  impression  that  it  was  the  sniffly  girl's,  until,  my  snow- 
beclouded  vision  clearing,  I  found  too  late  that  it  had  been  Eleanor's. 
How  I  declaimed  against  the  witlessness  of  the  asininity  concerning  the 
bliss  of  ignorance.  How  we  all  smothered  the  inventor  and  washed  his 
face,  and  perpetrated  other  indignities,  to  suffer  which  is  the  lot  of  like 
geniuses.  How,  with  it  all,  Eleanor  was  so  rosily  brilliant,  and  so  snow- 
covered,  that  she  looked  like  an  angel  (and,  indeed,  so  she  was),  and  so 
bright  of  eye  and  so  smiling  of  lip,  and  so  radiantly  happy  that  seven- 
teen different  boys,  including  the  inventor,  fell  in  love  with  her  on  the 
spot  (as  they  afterwards  told  me),  which  made  about  seventy,  1  suppose, 
all  told.  How,  in  short,  she  was  so  adorably  beautiful  that  1  hardly 
forbore  catching  her  up  right  then.  How  instead  1  walked  home  with 
her — all  this  is  impossible  to  tell.  But  what  a  walk  home  was  that! 
The  stars  and  the  moon  made  innumerable  little  stars  and  baby  moons 
to  stare  back  at  them  from  the  snow,  yet  none  of  the  stars  and  none  of 
the  moons  could  vie  with  Eleanor's  eyes.  The  wind  howled  boisterously, 
and  tried  to  work  himself  into  a  towering  passion  by  stripping  some  trees 
of  their  weight  of  snow,  but  he  soon  quieted,  and,  like  the  good  fellow 
he  was,  he  blew  on  us  from  behind,  and  helped  us  on  as  best  he  might. 

"To  think  of  love,"  1  began,  hopefully. 

"Don't  put  your  arm  around  me,"  commanded  Eleanor,  with  her 


234  The  Haverfordian 

usual  pretty  modesty.  I  obeyed,  though  I  may  have  had  some  indis- 
tinct recollection  of  the  methods  I  had  employed  to  assert  my  male 
prerogative. 

She  tucked  her  hand  in  my  arm,  and  we  walked  happily  along, 
talking  of  many  things — including  our  hero — and  laughing  uproariously 
at  the  flashes  of  wit  we  displayed;  as  one  will  when  one  is  eighteen. 
No  cynical  thought  came  to  me,  such  as  with  how  many  others 
she  had  walked  and  given  little  convulsive  pressures  (quite  un- 
conscious), no  cynical  thought,  such  as  one  has  at  eighty.  The  little 
walk  was  over  too  soon,  but  we  lingered  at  her  gate,  and  talked,  and  smiled 
and  laughed,  and  remarked  how  perfectly  lovely  everything  was.  And 
it  was,  too. 

"May  I — I've  wanted — won't  you,  I — Eleanor,"  I  stammered  to  a 
stop  at  the  name. 

"Go  on,"  said  Eleanor. 

In  an  instant  1  tilted  the  warm  little  chin  up,  until  I  could  look 
into  those  beautiful  eyes.  What  I  saw  there — "Eleanor,  do  you — 
you  can't — care?"  (Care  is  such  a  sickish  word  used  by  modern  novelists.) 

The  voice  was  very  low  now,  but  it  was  sweeter  than  all  the  music 
of  the  great  masters — sweeter,  holier  far.  "Don't,  please."  But  she 
did  not  move  to  turn  away,  and  the  eyes  did  not  falter. 

Again  1  whispered  the  question,  passionately. 

"I've  waited  so  long,"  she  smiled,  and  her  face  was  so  near  mine 
that  1  could  feel  the  breath  of  her  words  on  my  lips.  And  1  could  see 
her  blush,  a  color  even  above  the  red  the  wind  had  given  her,  a  mounting, 
happy  blush. 

I  kissed  her. 

:{:  4:  :{:  :((  :}; 

But  1  didn't,  you  know.     This  is  only  a  story,  and  now  she  and  Jack 
are  married.     They  were  always  like  brother  and  sister. 
Damn  our  hero! 

^toap  from  |9ou 

By  A.  Douglas  Oliver 

Away  from  you  on  such  a  bright,  glad  day. 

When  galleoned  clouds  scud  through  the  sky's  clear  blue; 

When  madcap  winds  shake  out  each  new-born  spray. 

And  soft  bird  trills  betray  each  rendezvous: 

All  show  too  clear  the  distance  to  your  heart. 

For  these  as  phantoms  are  with  you  apart. 


(J^cean=jFisif)ing 

By  Samuel  Albert  Nock 

TRULY,  a  manly  sport  is  fishing.  At  times  all  of  us  are  tempted 
to  try  a  new  manly  sport — never  do  we  repeat  a  trial  of 
the  same  one — and  in  our  experiment  we  find  bits  of  advice 
from  others  highly  annoying  and  useless.  Without  these  bits  of 
misinformation  and  counsel,  however,  we  should  feel  lost;  hence 
these  few  words  to  those  who  some  day  will  fish  on  the  sea. 

Find  out  where  to  get  a  boat  for  the  trip,  and  proceed  to  hunt  the 
place.  After  following  all  directions  with  the  greatest  exactness,  when 
you  are  hopeles-sly  lost,  try  to  get  some  little  boy  to  take  you  to  your 
destination;  for  this  you  give  him  a  small  coin,  say,  a  nickel.  Upon 
inquiring  for  the  man  who  rents  the  boats,  you  learn  he  is  out,  but  will 
be  in  after  supper,  and  "will  you  please  come  back  then?"  You  do  so. 
"Day  arter  tomorrer,"  the  man  informs  you,  "he  can  take  keer  o'  that 
there  party  o'  yourn."  Eight  is  a  convenient  number.  "  It  will  cost" — 
but  I  shall  not  put  this  "most  unkindest  cut"  right  at  the  beginning. 

Day  after  tomorrow  dawns,  windy  and  a  bit  cloudy;  at  least,  you 
suppose  it  dawned  so,  although  you  were  not  awake  to  verify  the 
supposition.  Such  was  the  weather  at  six,  anyway,  when  the  alarm  went 
off.  Hastily  dressing  in  old  clothes,  you  stumble  off,  cursing  fish,  the 
sea,  boats,  all  creation,  and  thus  awake  the  others.  A  hasty  breakfast 
gobbled,  a  hastier  lunch  packed,  you  start  at  seven.  At  the  wharf 
or  dock,  or  whatever  nomenclature  the  rickety  platform  boasts,  the 
boat  lies  ready.  You  consider  that  the  skipper  surpasses  anything 
on  his  boat  for  rough  appearance,  until  you  see  his  assistant.  Do  they 
think  it  will  rain?  No,  it  won't  rain,  but  it's  a  little  windy.  A  question 
raised  by  one  of  the  ladies  as  to  the  danger  of  getting  capsized  meets 
with  a  laughing  negation  from  the  skipper,  and  a  disdainful  ejection  of 
tobacco  juice  from  his  assistant.  Your  party,  sweaters,  lunch,  hopes, 
and  fears  are  aboard;  the  men  "untie  the  boat,"  start  the  little  engine — 
you  are  off.      While  the  skipper  sieers,  the  other  man  cuts  bait. 

The  outward  voyage  is  exhilarating.  With  a  refreshing  breeze  and 
gently  swelling  sea  you  bound  over  the  billowy  bosom  of  the  deep,  and 
try  to  remember  about  Keats  or  Kipling  or  Mark  Twain  or  whoever 
it  was  that  wrote  about  those  things,  and  suppose  you  really  feel  like 
a  Shelley,  or  a  Galahad,  or  a  Sir  Francis  Drake  or  Blackbeard  or  some- 
body, and  tell  the  others  the  same  unconscious  lie.  Swiftly  passes 
the  outward  voyage.      The  land,    the  beach  with  the  waves  breaking 


236  The  Haverfordian 

o'er  it;  the  sand  and  the  strand — your  poetical  sentiment  succumbs 
to  lack  of  vocabulary.  Anyway,  all  the  shore  recedes  and  diminishes; 
seagulls  swoop  and  soar  around  you;  green  waves  surge;  splendid  light 
clouds  play  with  the  sunbeams;  all  the  glory  of  Nature  fills  your  soul, 
while  the  sordid  mate  cuts  crabs  and  mussels  for  bait.  You  are  at  the 
grounds.  How  the  men  can  tell  is  beyond  you,  but  you  don't  argue 
about  it. 

You  take  a  line  wrapped  around  a  small  flat  piece  of  wood,  and  a 
piece  of  bait,  which  you  stick  on  the  hook.  You  let  out  the  line  over 
the  side  of  the  boat  until  you  think  it  has  gone  far  enough;  but  it  has,  of 
course,  not  gone  far  enough;  or  perchance,  it  has  gone  too  far — I  don't 
know  how  anybody  can  ever  tell.     Then  wait. 

One  of  the  ladies  is  uncomfortable,  from  all  appearances.  This  is 
soon  made  painfully  manifest.  She  retires  to  the  two-by-four  cabin 
and  lies  down,  after  going  through  the  preliminaries.  She  is  followed 
by  another.  To  show  your  bravado,  you  eat  a  ham  sandwich  and  a 
hard-boiled  egg.  Once  in  the  whole  time  a  fish  has  stolen  your  bait; 
but  you  have  had  no  other  occupation,  aside  from  watching  people 
be  sick.  Plenty  of  time  is  given  for  meditation.  The  waves  are  high, 
indeed;  how  they  rock  the  boat!  First  backwards,  now  frontwards; 
now  from  side  to  side;  while  occasionally  they  send  it  around  in  a  dizzy, 
swooping  ellipse.  For  a  moment  you  think  of  ellipses  of  various  shapes, 
until  the  conic  that  is  egg-shaped  pops  into  your  mind.  Eggs  are  sub- 
jects which  engage  your  mind;  specialization  follows,  narrowing  the 
field  to  the  hard-boiled  egg  you  just  ate.  Naturally,  consideration  of  the 
ham  sandwich  succeeds.  You  surely  were,  you  feel,  a  fool  to  eat  them. 
They  never  did  appeal  to  you;  least  of  all  on  the  water.  Lack  of  appeal 
changes  to  positive  dislike;  the  notion  seizes  you  that  you  would  be 
better  without  the  sandwich  and  egg,  which  notion  is  soon  carried  into 
effect.  Then  you  lie  down.  The  clock  says  10:  14;  you  are  to  return 
at  I  :  30.  Hours  and  hours  later,  you  turn  over;  now  it  is  10:  16.  But 
this  painful  performance  need  not  be  dwelt  upon  at  length.  Imagina- 
tion   cannot    overstep    reality. 

After  some  eons,  the  engine  starts.  Your  heart  leaps  within  you — 
your  heart  for  sure  this  time;  nothing  else  is  left.  At  the  motion  of 
the  boat  your  spirits  rev've;  since  the  nauseating  roll  is  over,  you  feel 
better.  A  bit  later  you  feel  able  to  get  up,  and  see  ail  the  fish  that 
everybody  except  your  party  of  eight  has  caught.  Truly,  you  observe, 
not  a  bad  haul,  considering  the  fact  that  two  men  not  nearly  as  splendid 
as  you,  did  the  work.     After  an  hour  or  two's  voyage,  again  you  round 


Ocean  Fishing      -  237 

the  point  towards  the  dock.  Gratefully  you  watch  the  men  tie  up; 
joyfully  you  assist  your  friends  to  land;  almost  hilariously  you  pay 
what  seems  a  small  sum  for  your  safe  deliverance.  The  skipper  asks 
you  to  divide  the  fish;  you  take  some — lovely  ones,  too — and  go  your 
way  rejoicing,  nevermore  to  fish,  nevermore  to  sail,  nevermore  to  enter 
rashly  into  an  unknown  sport, — which  last  resolution  sometimes  holds 
out  until  sundown. 


By  Jacques  Le  Clercq 

When  death  shall  have  removed  me 

To  a  far  distant  land. 
The  cold  heart  that  reproved  me, 

Will  understand. 

Perhaps  with  slender  finger 

Some  day  she'll  touch  this  page. 

Where  all  my  young  dreams  linger. 
Yellowed  with  age. 

She'll  say,  "He  never  moved  me, 

He  and  his  verses  mild. 
But,  oh!  he  must  have  loved  me. 

Poor  child!     Poor  child!" 


By  G.  E.  Toogood 

THE  Park  is  still  discussing  the  affair". — And  it  happened  three 
months  ago!"  as  Peggy  Stetson  remarked  when  she  told  me 
about  it.  She  was  as  glad  to  see  me  as  a  young  but  highly- 
valued  friend  should  be,  and  asked  me  all  about  my  trip  and  how  I 
liked  Japan,  and  were  the  women  really  as  cute  as  she  had  always  heard 
they  were;  but  I  could  see  that  something  was  agitating  the  back  of 
her  mind.  At  last,  when  the  requirements  of  politeness  had  been  suffi- 
ciently fulfilled,   the  great  news  burst  out — 

"  Nan's  married!" 

Try  as  1  would,  1  could  not  work  up  quite  the  enthusiasm  that  was 
evidently  expected  from  me.  The  truth  was,  1  hadn't  the  slightest  con- 
ception of  Nan's  identity.  Therefore  I  smiled  brightly  and  said, 
" Indeed?" 

"Don't  tell  me  you  don't  remember  Nan,"  said  Peggy  reproach- 
fully, having  easily  perceived  my  feeble  bluff.  "When  she  was  a  wee 
tot  she  used  to  hunt  for  candy  in  your  pockets,  and  we  went  riding  in  the 
same  pony-cart.  You,"  pointing  an  accusing  finger  at  me,  "used  to 
drive  us.     So  there!" 

I  well  remembered  those  rides  over  the  mountains  in  the  bumpy 
little  pony-cart,  and  I  was  beginning  to  remember  Peggy's  little 
playmate.  The  face  was  as  yet  indistinct,  but  I  recalled  the  jumble  of 
wind-tossed  curls  and  the  blue  eyes  that  had  such  a  disconcerting  gaze 
as  they  regarded  me.  But  Peggy  gave  me  no  time  for  this  sort  of  recol- 
lection. 

" — And  her  mother  brought  her  back  from  Europe  three  years 
ago,  just  a  month  after  you  left.  Oh,  Mr.  Audrain,  what  a  beauty  she 
was!  It  made  me  gasp  just  to  look  at  her.  Her  hair  was  the  most 
beautiful  copper  color  that  you  have  ever  seen,  and  her  complexion  made 
all  us  girls  simply  green  with  envy.  And  when  Hugh  Macy  and  all  those 
terribly  blase  boys  laid  eyes  on  her  they  fairly  besieged  the  house!  She 
was  such  a  little  dear,  with  her  demure  little  ways  and  just  a  touch  of 
French  accent. 

"Well,  just  as  soon  as  Mrs.  Lloyd  got  settled  down  in  the  new 
house,  and  everything  was  running  smoothly,  she  began  her  campaign 
to  marry  Nan  well.  You  see  she  had  lived  in  France  so  long  she  had 
gotten  all  those  French  ideas,  and  poor  Nan  was  so  well-trained  that 
she  never  quite  dared   to  oppose  her,   so  she  just  helplessly  watched 


When  Knights  Were  Bold  239 

her  mother  pick  out  her  husband  and  then  angle  for  him.  She  used  to 
come  over  and  cry  in  my  room,  and  I  had  read  up  all  my  novels  that  had 
similar  situations  in  them,  and  I  would  tell  her  that  she  must  not  give  in 
but  bide  her  time  and  then  flee  with  her  true  lover.  But  she  always 
said  she  didn't  have  any  true  lover — and  she  didn't,  till  later.  After 
that  we  would  both  cry,  because  it  was  so  tragic  and  all. 

"After  about  two  months  of  this,  Ted  got  home  from  college.  He 
was  terribly  happy  to  be  home  and  kissed  Mother  and  Father  and  me 
about  a  thousand  times  and  asked  what  was  doing  in  the  gay  and  spark- 
ling social  circles  of  Llewellyn  Park,  because  he  was  going  to  be  the 
roundest  of  all  the  rounders  for  about  two  short  weeks.  That  night  I 
had  Nan  over  to  dinner,  and  after  that  night  Ted  was  her  slave!  He 
was  simply  maJ  about  her!  He  went  to  everything  she  went  to  and  lived 
the  rest  of  the  time  in  their  drawing-room.  When  he  went  back  to 
college  she  cried  and  told  me  he  wanted  her  to  marry  him  as  soon  as  he 
graduated  in  June,  and  that  she  would,  too! 

"Well,  my  dear,  it  seemed  ages  before  June  came  around.  Ted 
arrived  at  the  house  and  went  right  over  to  Nan's,  and  there  he  re- 
mained, coming  home  only  to  eat  and  sleep.  I  was  as  pleased  and 
excited  as  could  be,  because  I  had  visions  of  myself  as  maid  of  honor  and 
had  my  frock  all  planned,  something  filmy  with  net  overskirt  and  cream 
silk  bodice,   or  perhaps  all  chiffon. 

"Then  one  night  Ted  came  home  with  a  ghastly  white  face  and 
went  straight  upstairs  and  locked  himself  in  his  room.  I  ran  up  after 
him  and  tapped  on  his  door. 

"'Ted,'  I  gasped,  'what  has  happened?' 

"He  wouldn't  answer,  so  I  got  my  own  flivver  and  tore  like  one 
posessed  over  to  Nan's.  Through  her  closed  door  I  could  hear  her 
sobbing  on  her  bed,  but  she  wouldn't  answer  me — and  to  this  day  I  don't 
know  what  those  foolish  children  quarreled  about!  In  the  morning  Ted 
wrote  her  a  note,  and  when  the  answer  came  he  stood  for  a  long  time 
staring  at  it,  then  he  crumbled  it  in  his  hand  and  went  upstairs.  That 
night   he   left   for    France! 

"I  shall  never  forget  that  next  morning.  '  Mother  was  prostrated 
in  bed,  and  Father  sat  holding  her  hand  and  looking  very  tired  and 
old.  I  had  been  crying  all  night,  but  when  morn'ng  came,  I  got  my 
flivver  and  drove  in  a  white  rage  over  to  Nan's.    I  found  her  in  the  hall. 

"'It's  your  work.  Nan  Lloyd,'  I  stormed  at  her.  'Just  on  account 
of  your  meanness  and  selfishness  and  hatefulness  he's  gone.  Gone 
to  get  killed,  probably;    gone — ' 

"She  was  staring  at  me  strangely.      'Gone?' 


240  The  Haverfordian 

"'Yes,  gone.  Gone  to  France,  and  I  hope  you're  satisfied  with 
your  w — ' 

"With  a  Httle  moan  she  fell,  and  1  caught  her.  But  1  was  so  furious 
that  I  just  laid  her  on  a  lounge,  called  Thomas,  and  marched  out  like 
the  hard-hearted  little  beast  1  was. 

"From  his  letters  we  learned  tha::  he  had  joined  the  Lafayette 
Esquadrille,  and  later  that  he  brought  down  his  fifth  plane  and  became 
an  'ace'.  You  can  imagine  how  proud  we  were!  Nan  begged  me  to 
let  her  read  his  letters,  for  he  did  not  write  to  her.  She  would  cry  over 
them  and  press  them  to  her  breast  and  then  kiss  them  and  give  them 
back.  Gradually  1  grew  to  be  as  sorry  for  her  as  I  had  been  angry,  and 
once  more  we  spent  all  our  time  together.  Then  his  letters  stopped! 
Father  and  Mother  were  frantic;  when  their  inquiries  brought  no  in- 
formation. Father  left  for  Paris,  but  cabled  that  the  only  news  he  had 
was  that  Ted's  machine  was  last  seen  far  across  the  German  lines,  en- 
gaged with  three  German  aeroplanes.  As  a  last  hope,  we  wrote  to  all 
the  German  prison  camps,  but  we  never  got  any  answers.  As  time  went 
on,  we  slowly  came  to  think  of  him  as  dead. 

Nan  seemed  to  lose  all  interest  in  everything.  She  spent  most 
of  her  time  down  at  Red  Cross  headquarters.  Mrs.  Lloyd  had  caught 
her  fish,  and  when  he  proposed,  Nan  accepted  him  without  a  murmur. 
Poor  dear!  It's  my  belief  she  was  stunned  by  it  all,  and  moved  in  a  kind 
of  haze  in  which  she  and  Ted  lived  and  loved  again. 

"Mrs.  Lloyd  was  astonished  at  her  easy  victory,  and  made  the  most 
of  it  by  setting  an  early  date  for  the  wedding.  Trouble  just  made  Nan 
more  beautiful  than  ever.  Mr.  Vance-Durgeen  (he's  Mrs.  Lloyd's  fish) 
was  crazy  over  her,  I'll  say  that  much  for  him,  but  his  millions  hadn't 
done  him  much  good  intellectually.  Uncle  Phil  said  if  he  had  twice  as 
much  brains  as  he  had,  he  would  still  be  half-witted. 

"  In  the  two  weeks  before  the  wedding,  Mrs.  Lloyd  and  I  fixed  up 
all  the  details  of  her  trousseau  and  a  million  other  things.  All  at  once 
it  came  over  me  what  might  have  been,  and  I  almost  made  a  spectacle 
of  myself  right  there,  but  managed  somehow.  Nan  didn't  seem  to 
realize  what  was  going  oTi,  saying  'Yes'  to  everything  and  gazing  out 
of  her  window  all  day  long.  It  Was  to  be  an  evening  wedding,  with  a 
reception  afterwards,  and  Mrs.  Lloyd  had  certainly  arranged  everything 
to  perfection.  The  last  ten  minutes  before  the  car  was  to  come  to  take 
us  to  the  church  I  spent  putting  the  finishing  touches  on  Nan.  I  tell 
you,  Mr.  Audrain,  any  man  would  have  carried  her  off  on  the  spot. 
She  looked  so  simply  ravishing,  standing  there  in  her  snowy  veil  with 
the  big  bouquet  in  her  hands  and  over  them  her  big  eyes  gazing  at  me 


When  Knights  Were  Bold  241 

and  yet  hardly  knowing  I  was  there.  Mrs.  Lloyd  had  everything  running 
like  clockwork.  The  car  rolled  up  on  the  tick  and  we  all  got  in,  taking 
care  of  our  dresses,  Mrs.  Lloyd  giving  a  last  round  of  instructions  and 
climbing  in  at  last,  and  we  were  on  our  way  to  the  church. 

"My  dear,  that  was  an  awful  ride!  Not  one  of  us  spoke  a  word 
except  Mrs.  Lloyd,  telling  Miles  not  to  drive  so  fast  (for  he  was  setting 
a  very  warm  pace).  Each  of  us  was  busy  with  her  own  thoughts  and 
I  felt  more  and  more  like  crying,  although  Nan's  eyes  were  as  dry  as  they 
had  been  since  Ted's  letters  stopped  coming.  Finally  we  passed  a  long 
line  of  waiting  limousines  and  drew  up  before  the  church.  Mrs.  Lloyd 
descended  heavily  and  stepped  under  the  canvas  canopy  over  the  side- 
walk.     Then  it  happened! 

"The  chauffeur  reached  around  and  slammed  the  door,  the  motor 
roared  and  the  car  simply  leaped  forward.  1  was  just  rising  to  get  out 
and  was  thrown  back  on  the  cushions.  I  remember  seeing  the  startled 
face  of  the  carriage-starter  and  then  we  were  racing  through  the  streets 
with  the  lights  flowing  past  us  in  dizzy  streams.  I  was  too  frightened 
to  move  or  speak,  and  Nan  never  uttered  a  sound.  On  and  on  we  went, 
out  through  the  country  and  through  another  town  until  suddenly  the 
car  stopped  and  the  chauffeur  opened  the  door  and  put  his  head  in. 

'"Is  Nan  all  right?'  he  asked. 

"It   was    Ted! 

"Before  I  could  say  a  word.  Nan  was  on  her  feet,  with  her  arms  out 
to  him.  Her  cloak  fell  away  from  her,  and  he  just  gathered  her  in, 
bridal  dress  and  all,  and  my  tears  that  had  been  gathering  all  evening 
burst  out  suddenly  from  sheer  happiness.  For  a  long  time  they  stood 
that  way,  and  then  Ted  picked  her  up  as  you  would  a  tired,  happy  child 
and  carried  her  up  the  walk  and  into  a  little  parsonage  that  stood  on  the 
corner.  They  were  married  there,  and  then,  for  the  second  time  I 
knew  her.   Nan  fainted  dead  away!" 

Peggy  stopped,  and  I  blew  my  nose.  There  was  silence  for  a  mo- 
ment and  Peggy  meditatively  stirred  her  orange-ade.  Then  she  raised 
her  damp  lashes  and  asked,  "Doesn't  it  sound  like  one  of  those 
sweet,  impossible  romances?"     And   I   agreed  that  it  did. 


Jf  ititJie  anb  3 

By  Joseph  Hopkinson  Smith 

MANY,  many  years  ago,  Roumania  was  divided  into  two 
provinces — Moldavia  and  Wallachia.  Each  had  its  own 
king,  its  customs  and  laws,  and  each  harbored  an  intense 
rivalry  and  hatred  for  the  other.  Each  realized  full  well  that  to 
conquer  the  other  meant  a  place  in  the  world  and  honor,  forever. 
But  the  serenity  of  the  country,  the  quietness  of  the  happy  peasant 
life — the  old  Picyhrr  dances,  the  carding  parties,  and  their  suppers 
over  their  bowls  of  polenta — had  all  prevented  open  hostilities, 
and  the  wise  people  of  Moldavia  and  Wallachia  looked  forward  to  a 
peaceful  union. 

There  lived,  at  this  time,  in  Bogdan  of  Moldavia,  a  certain  boy  by 
the  name  of  Michael  Sturdza.  There  had  been  a  time  when  Michael 
was  like  every  other  boy  of  his  age,  but  when  his  parents  died  during  the 
plague,  and  no  one  would  give  him  a  home,  his  spirit  rebelled  and  he 
fought  and  railed  at  all  the  customs  that  the  good  citizens  of  Moldavia 
cherished.  He  allied  himself  with  a  band  of  thieves  and  iconoclasts 
who  destroyed  and  terrified. '  He  became  a  byword  for  evil,  and  mothers 
would  say  to  their  children  on  a  black  night  when  a  storm  was  raging, 
"Hush,  my  child,  go  to  sleep.  Michael  and  his  Hellions  are  abroad 
tonight.  Hush,  quietly,  he  may  hear  you."  And  the  child  would  trem- 
ble and  go  to  sleep. 

Michael,  young  as  he  was,  was  really  the  genius  of  the  band,  al- 
though his  lieutenant  Achmet  was  many  years  his  senior.  Michael 
planned,  and  Achmet,  with  a  dreadful  thoroughness,  executed.  There 
was  just  one  softening  factor  in  Michael's  life — Doloren.  She  was  a 
dark-haired  beauty,  impetuous  and  fiery,  who  had  more  than  once  got 
into  trouble  for  defending  Michael  against  the  people.  Their  friendship 
was  of  a  fierce  nature.  He  often  treated  her  brutally,  but  always  she 
came  back,  and  always  their  deep-rooted  affection  triumphed. 

Things  came  to  such  a  pass  that  the  good  citizens  held  a  council 
one  day  and  begged  Michael's  uncle  to  take  him  away  to  Perlep — the 
other  city  of  Moldavia — so  they  might  have  some  peace.  Strange  as  it 
may  seem,  Michael  agreed  to  go,  and,  at  the  suggestion  of  his  uncle,  to 
study  the  violin.  "Who  knows  what  may  become  of  it?  "  Michael 
later  explained  to  the  band.  "I  shall  probably  become  the  saviour  of 
my  country.     Ha!  that  sounds  well — and  all  through  a  violin,  mind  you." 


Fiddle  axd  I  243 

"'The  water  passeth,  but  the  stones  remain'  is  a  very  good  prov- 
erb." said  Achmet.  "You  will  be  back  in  a  year — the  same  Michael 
as  before."  Then  he  left  them.  As  he  went  out  of  the  door,  he  turned 
and  smilingly  said,  "Don't  commit  any  crimes  I  wouldn't  approve  of, 
Achmet.  " 

"Thank  you.  my  majesty,"  he  retorted  with  mock  deference,  "my 
bounds  are  limitless."  So  Michael  left  Bogdan  and  took  up  his  abode 
far  up  on  the  side  of  the  mountain  that  separated  Perlep  and  the  town  of 
his  boyhood  days. 

:f:  :f:  :4:  ^  4: 

For  many  years  no  one  heard  of  Michael.  He  remained  a  hermit 
in  the  hills,  alone  with  his  music.  He  only  came  down  into  the  town  to 
get  provisions,  and  chat  for  a  few  moments  with  the  old  men  smoking  on 
their  doorsteps.  But  if  you  asked  a  good  housewife  of  Perlep  some 
evening  who  Michael  was,  she  would  say,  "Hark,  do  you  not  hear  him 
playing?  The  wind  humming  through  the  pine  trees — that  is  he  singing 
my  baby  to  sleep.  He  does  it  every  night.  Michael  plays  beautifully. 
He  loves  our  little  children." 

Then  one  dark  evening  Trouble  walked  boldly  into  the  peaceful 
town  of  Perlep.  People  gathered  hurriedly  in  the  market-place.  Flaring 
torches  lighted  the  scene.  A  man  on  a  platform  was  talking  excitedly 
to  the  crowd.  It  was  Achmet.  "To  arms,  to  arms!"  he  shouted. 
"Strike  now,  Bogdan  is  with  us.  See  here  it  is — this  old  treaty — Wal- 
lachia  has  wronged  us.  Our  rights,  our  rights!"  he  screamed.  "If  we 
strike  tonight,  they  can  offer  no  resistance."  He  choked  for  breath. 
"Wait,  hush!"  someone  whispered.  In  the  dead  silence  that  followed, 
one  could  hear  the  wind  playing  in  the  pine  trees.  "What  will  Michael 
say?      What   will    the   violin   say?" 

"Michael?"  sneered  Achmet,  "I  know  Michael.  He's  got  to  be 
with  us,  or — .  Strike  now,  strike  now,  strike  novo!"  People  took  up 
the  cry  in  a  frenzy,  and  soon  the  streets  were  lined  with  soldiers.  "For- 
ward," shouted  Achmet,  placing  himself  at  their  head.  And  the  soldiers, 
followed  by  old  men,  women,  and  children,  started  up  the  mountain  to 
join  Bogdan  and  together  move  on  Wallachia. 

In  the  confusion  no  one  had  noticed  a  dark-haired  girl  slip  away 
from  the  platform  and  hurry  towards  the  hills.  It  was  Doloren,  going 
to  warn  Michael  of  his  danger.  She  ran  feverishly,  guided  by  the  light 
of  his  cabin,  never  pausing  until  she  stood  on  the  threshold.  She  stopped 
for  just  a  moment  to  listen  to  him  playing  a  fantasie  he  had  written. 
Then  she  opened  the  door  and  went  in.  "Michael,"  she  exclaimed,  and, 
rushing  up   to  him,    kissed  him.      "My  Doloren,"   and  he  pressed   her 


244  The  Haverfordian 

closely  to  him.      "How  very  beautiful  you  hav^  become!"      The  con- 
fused murmur  of  the  oncoming  crowd  reached  their  ears. 

"Come,"  she  cried,  there  is  not  a  moment  to  lose.Achmet  is  leading 
them  to  war.     He  is  the  very  devil  himself  and  he — " 

"No,  Doloren,"  he  said  gently,  "fiddle  and  I  are  not  afraid.  My 
fiddle  (and  he  caressed  it  as  he  spoke)  will  tell  her  story  straight."  The 
people  were  outside,  clamoring  for  Michael  to  join  them.  Achmet's 
voices  could  be  heard  above  the  rest,  shouting,  "Michael,  now  is  the  time 
to  come  back.     'The  water  passeth,  but  the  stones  remain.'" 

Michael  walked  to  the  window  and  opened  it  to  its  fullest  extent. 
"Good  people,"  he  said  slowly,  "1  will  not  come  with  you."  An  angry 
hissing  ran  through  the  crowd.  "My  fiddle  will  speak  for  me.  Listen, 
good  people!"  Standing  at  the  open  window,  he  began  to  play  to  them. 
The  music  was  rapid  and  martial,  with  a  ringing  note  of  triumph.  All 
the  fame  and  honor  of  a  thousand  wars  seemed  to  be  contained  in  the 
clear,  vibrant  notes  as  one  theme  joined  another  in  the  swelling  crescendo. 
Higher  and  higher  soared  the  notes,  until  only  the  tenseness  of  the  situa- 
tion prevented  the  people  from  breaking  out  in  tumultuous  applaue. 
"Michael  is  with  us,"  was  the  thought  in  every  heart.  Then  gradually 
the  theme  changed,  losing  its  note  of  glory.  A  deep  solemnity  crept  into 
the  music;  it  was  a  funeral  song,  not  of  one  person,  but  of  a  nation.  The 
people  saw  before  them  the  horror  of  war,  bare  hearthstones,  and  bitter, 
choking  hearts.  Here  and  there  one  could  hear  a  stifled  sob.  A  flood 
of  pity  seemed  to  pour  from  the  music  as  each  even  tone  added  to  the 
vision. 

Then,  so  gradually  that  no  one  noticed  the  change,  the  theme  softened 
and  took  on  a  harmony  of  such  appealing  sweetness  and  sublimity  that 
the  people  scarcely  breathed.  Peace,  the  fiddle  sang,  with  a  clear  note 
of  happiness.  Again  the  eyes  of  the  people  saw  a  picture,  this  time  of 
Roumania  joined  with  the  fellowship  of  good-will.  As  the  last  caressing 
strains  died  away,  the  vision  faded  from  sight.  The  fiddle  had  told 
her  story. 

Not  a  sound  was  made  as  the  bow  dropped  at  Michael's  side.  Not 
a  soul  dared  to  move.  Suddenly  Achmet  cried  out,  "Shoot  the  traitor!" 
No  one  seemed  to  hear,  no  one  stirred.  Then  he  whipped  out  his  re- 
volver and  shot.  The  bullet  ripped  the  violin  and  struck  Michael  in 
the  heart.  He  reeled  and  fell  in  Doloren's  arms.  With  a  cry  of  anguish 
the  people  turned  on  Achmet,  and  he  fled  for  his  life.  Some  gave  chase, 
but  most  of  them  turned  and  went  back  to  Perlep. 

Today  Roumania  is  a  nation.  They  killed  the  dreamer  and  perpet- 
uated   the   dream    forever. 


(Kfje  €bitor's(  Reflections! 

WE  ARE  generally  thought  of  as  a  cheering,  band-playing,  flag- 
waving  people.  Perhaps  we  are  in  peace  times,  but  America 
at  war  is  quite  different.  I  recently  saw  the  departure  of  a 
group  of  drafted  men  from  one  district  of  Philadelphia.  Of  the  hundred 
and  seventy  men  in  the  quota,  only  twenty-five  were  native-born.  Most 
of  the  rest  were  of  Polish  extraction.  Fifty  per  cent  of  these  could  have 
obtained  exemption  on  the  ground  of  being  aliens.  1  even  saw  one  Ger- 
man among  them  who  could  speak  scarcely  five  words  of  intelligible 
English.  As  the  men  marched  to  the  station  to  await  the  train,  there 
was  no  band-playing,  no  cheering,  no  flag-waving.  Men  kissed  each 
other  in  the  foreign  manner,  husbands  embraced  their  families  tearfully. 
The  men  walked  in  groups  between  files  of  their  friends,  the  only  sounds 
being  those  of  calls  of  recognition  or  of  blessing  in  a  foreign  tongue.  I 
stood  and  watched  them  as  they  went  by. 

"This,"  1  reflected,  "is  America  going  to  war." 


IT  WAS  an  interesting  Christmas  Eve,  and  1  was  curious.  1, 
too,  went  out  to  find  the  Voice  of  the  City.  It  was 
raining,  an  irritating  drizzle,  just  wet  enough  for  the  com- 
fortably married  people  to  put  on  their  rubbers  and  open  umbrellas. 
The  streets  were  crowded;  umbrellas  rubbed  and  spun  each  other 
about;  overshoes  slushed  through  the  water;  the  raindrops,  like 
myriads  of  fairies,  danced  upon  the  asphalt  streets  in  the 
glare  of  the  arc-light  and  vanished;  the  drains  gurgled  with  the 
melting  snow. 

I  met  a  friend,  and  together  we  walked  down  a  long  business  thor- 
oughfare. Here  were  the  massive  chords  of  crashing  traffic;  the  shift- 
ing beat  of  countless  feet;  the  clang  of  bells;  the  slippery,  stealthy  hum 
of  automobile  tires;  the  piercing  shriek  of  the  newsboy  and  street- 
vendor;  the  whispered  phrases  of  lovers,  soft  words  lifted  from  books; 
the  high,  clarion  notes  of  carolers  on  the  street-corners;  the  low  strum 
of  wandering  players;  the  rattling  of  wheels;  the  gay,  festive  laughter 
of  the  night;  the  wild,  sinuous  music  of  the  dance;  even  the  "blind 
crowder  '  was  not  lacking,  serenading  the  city,  now  with  fiddle,  now 
with  harmonica  or  voice,  in  the  wheedling  tone  of  the  beggar; 
and  above  all  could  be  heard  the  tinkle  of  rain  upon  the  roofs  and 
awnings,  or  the  rush  of  water  through  spouts  and  gutters. 

The    rain    stopped.       Umbrellas    popped    from    sight.       Shops   and 


246  The  Haverfordian 

buildings  and  dwellings  poured  out  sheltered  families  and  friends.  Every- 
one carried  bundles;  the  flash  of  tinsel  and  gilt  was  everywhere.  The 
clouds  sifted  away,  and  the  moon  pierced  through,  imperfect  but  clear, 
and  silvered  the  wet  pavements.  Shop-windows  poured  forth  their 
brilliancy  of  glowing  red  and  green  upon  the  passer-by. 

"Friend,"    1    questioned,   "what  is   the  city   telling  you   tonight?" 

He  tramped  on  in  silence;  then,  after  measured  thought,  he  said 
slowly,  "It  tells  me  the  story  of  Life — and  of  Strife;  but,  after  all, 
they  are  the  same.  It  speaks  of  joy  and  sorrow  in  the  same  breath; 
of  birth  and  death  at  the  same  moment;  of  prayers  and  curses  in  the 
last  dying  gasp.  1 1  tells  of  perfumed  saloons  and  honej^-flowered  recesses ; 
of  filthy  dens  and  haunts  of  putrefaction;  of  ripples  of  laughter,  and  the 
falling  of  a  mother's  tears  upon  the  feverish,  cracked  lips  of  the  infant 
at  her  breast;  of  the  joyous  cry  of  pleasure,  and  the  languid  moan  of 
pain. 

"And"  here  passing  by  are  all  the  elements  of  Life.  Here  with 
bold,  brazen,  or  averted  faces  are  typified  the  noblest,  highest  and  the 
meanest  and  lowest  of  human  passions.  Here  is  a  full,  rapturous  and 
high-swelling  heart;  behind  there  slink  cowering,  shivering,  bloodshot 
eyes.  A  scene  worthy  of  a  Carlyle  or  Zola!  Each  seeks  mocking,  elusive 
peace  or  present,  eternal  strife.  Each  is  playing  his  part  in  the  greatest 
of  all  dramas,  the  most  interesting  of  all  novels,  the  wildest  of  all  ro- 
mances, and  the  most  gruesome  of  all  tragedies, — Life." 

He  stopped!  We  walked  on  in  silence  again,  but  my  thoughts  were 
not  so  pedestrian  and  composed.  I  gaped  in  amazement  and  surprise 
at  Life  in  review. 

"Listen!"  my  friend  caught  my  arm.  We  halted.  Traffic  slowed 
down;  people  stopped  and  listened;  the  hubbub  subsided.  High  up, 
oh,  ever  so  high  up,  there  sounded  the  silver-tongued  voice  of  church 
chimes  playing  Siille  Nachl,  Heilige  Nacht.  They  tolled,  in  their  unique 
way,  the  ever  new  old  story  of  the  coming  of  the  Prince  of  Peace.  But 
it  had  a  different  meaning  for  us  on  this,  our  first  Christmas  Eve  of  the 
war.  It  sang  of  the  birth  of  that  innocent  Child,  and  we  thought  of  His 
Calvary.  We  saw  in  a  new  light  the  relentless  struggle  against  evil, 
and  the  many  burdens  imposed  upon  that  purest  life.  We  had  a  vision 
of  the  many  crosses  that  we  must  bear  before  our  doctrine  of  righteous- 
ness and  justice  towards  all  nations  could  be  realized.  Determination 
was  reflected  in  the  eye  of  every  listener. 

The  chimes  died  away  in  the  black  void  of  night.  Then  a  near-by 
clock  sharply  struck  twelve.      My  friend  clapped  me  on  the  back: 

"Merry  Christmas!" 

Then  I  suddenly  realized  what  the  city  was  saying. 


The  Editor's  Reflections  247 

Ever  notice  how  few  fur  coats  and  elongated  cigarette  holders  stand 
in  front  of  our  chief  hotels  and  cafes  nowadays?  The  dilettante  has 
found  that  even  he  can  be  useful  in  the  world's  work. 

My  gaze  was  arrested  in  the  subway  car  the  other  day  by  a  most 
alluring  young  girl.  Her  hair  was  of  the  light,  blonde  Scandinavian; 
her  eyes  deep,  dark  and  languishing  like  the  Sicilian;  her  face  and  fea- 
tures were  Grecian;  her  cheeks  of  the  ruddy,  natural  bloom  of  the  Ty- 
rolese.  Her  slim  ankles  were  encased  in  tightly  fitting  steel-gray  hosiery 
and  boots. 

"How  refreshing,"  I  thought,  "to  be  in  the  company  of  such  a 
natural  creature!  Most  girls  nowadays  spoil  whatever  natural  charm 
they  possess." 

1  looked  at  her  companion  and  received  a  slight  shock.  He  was 
a  most  bourgeois,  ordinary,  non-intelligent  person.  1  looked  at  the 
beautiful  goddess  again  with  admiration  and  pity. 

"What  a  shame!"  1  muttered,  and  felt  sorry  for  her  and  myself. 
Suddenly  she  leaned  over  to  her  companion,  and  1  caught  the  high 
nasal  tones: 

"Pipe  this  guy  across  the  way  eyein'  me  up.  " 

I   averted  my  eyes — and  a  catastrophe. 

:f:  4:  =t=  4:  4: 

A  fox-furred,  velvet-hatted,  purple-coated  young  girl  blocked  my 
narrow  passage  to  the  aisle  in  a  theatre  the  other  day.  As  I  climbed 
past,  I  begged  her  pardon.  "Granted,"  she  condescended,  in  a  lovely 
tone  of  voice,  and  smiled.     Life's  not  so  bad  after  all,  is  it? 


extracts  of  a  Hetter  from  i|.  €.  Mt^in^ttp 


Paris,  Nov.  1 0. 
...  As  for  my  'experiences' 
of  which  you  speak,  I  regret  that 
I  cannot  give  any  harrowing  stories 
of  dodging  shrapnel  or  hacking 
little  pieces  out  of  Teutonic  verte- 
bral columns,  because  ever  since 
the  14th  of  September,  when  the 
good  ship  Rochambeau  pulled  into 
Bordeaux  harbor,  I  have  been 
hanging  around  the  central  office 
in  Paris.  However,  1  have  seen 
lots  of  poilus  and  women  in  black, 
and  soldiers  in  Belgian  and  Rus- 
sian and  Portuguese  and  English 
and  Australian  and  Indian  and  Al- 
gerian uniforms — American  engi- 
neers and  quartermasters  and 
medical  men  and  field  service  boys 
— and  even  German  prisoners.  You 
see  men  without  arms  and  men 
without  legs  and  men  without 
either  arms  or  legs.  Such  is  Paris. 
Gay  Paris  is  not  the  word.  Some- 
times you  see  a  little  superficial 
lightheartedness,  but  beneath  it 
all  is  the  concealed  suffering  of  the 
French  people.  But  this  spirit 
of  the  French  is  the  most  wonderful 
thing  that  I  have  come  to  know. 
They  do  not  complain,  they  don't 
swear  around  as  Americans  would. 
They  bear  everything  in  quiet  sub- 
mission. "La,  la,"  they  say,  "it 
is  for  France.  C'est  la  guerre." 
When  the  soldiers  pull  out  for  the 
front  they  are  not  accompanied 
by  brass  bands,  or  cheered  by 
crowds  in  the  streets;    they  slouch 


silently  into  the  stations  and 
climb  into  the  trains.  In  place  of 
bravado  they  have  a  quiet  look  of 
determination.  Demonstrative  as 
the  French  are  about  most  things, 
their  patriotism  is  a  thing  that 
you  never  see,  but  always  feel,  and 
1  believe  that  '  Mort  pour  la 
France'  means  more  to  French- 
men than  any  other  phrase. 

"The  other  day  I  saw  President 
Poincare  (the'  final  "e  "  is  pro- 
nonnced  in  France,  despite  the  fact 
that  it  usually  isn't  in  America) 
and  narrowly  escaped  shaking 
hands  with  him.  There  was  a  big 
crowd  of  Americans  on  the  Champs 
Elysees,  and  our  unit  had  an  ex- 
hibit there.  Fannie  Sharpless  and 
I  were  lucky  enough  to  get  tickets 
to  the  opening  ceremonies,  where 
lots  of  gentlemen  with  laundry 
hung  all  over  their  fronts  stood  up 
and  talked  French  about  how  gen- 
erous the  Americans  were,  Brazil 
receiving  especial  mention  as  the 
latest  love  of  the  French.  Well, 
the  President  was  there,  and  I 
nearly  fell  over  his  feet  on  entering 
the  hall.  He  unfortunately  re- 
tained a  discreet  silence  when  the 
speeches  were  in  order.  He  walked 
around  and  looked  at  all  the  ex- 
hibits, commenting  on  ours  and 
remarking  that  he  knew  our  work 
well.  He  shook  hands  with  Shew- 
ell,  the  English  secretary,  and 
would  have  grabbed  our  mits  in  all 
probability     had  we  hung  around 


A  Letter  From  France 


249 


until  he  arrived.  The  other  night 
at  the  movies  I  saw  the  thing  re- 
peated on  the  screen. 

"You  see  some  very  good  war 
pictures  here — front  line  trenches 
and  all  that  sort  of  thing.  A  corps 
of  American  officers  walking  down 
Broadway  always  gets  a  hand. 
On  American  soldiers  they  do  not 
count  very  much  for  several 
months,  but  they  have  great  faith 
in  American  finance  and  munitions. 

"I  have  been  in  Paris  as  'Secre- 
tary of  the  American  Personnel' 
in  the  central  office  of  the  com- 
mittee— a  job  that  has  rapidly 
dropped  to  that  of  office  boy  and 
anybody's  stenographer,  so  I  long 
for  the  mud  of  the  Marne,  and  ex- 
pect to  see  it  soon,  as  Dr.  Babbitt 
is  expecting  to  start  a  hospital  in 
the  Verdun  country  and  I  go  along 
as  'secretary  and  pathologist.'  My 
knowledge  of  pathology  is  about 
equivalent  to  that  of  the  average 
blacksmith,  but  after  years  of 
study  and  experience  it  is  possible 
that  I  may  acquire  the  efficiency 
of  His  Excellency,  Ralph  Bang- 
ham.  At  any  rate,  there  will  be  a 
good  bunch  there — Howland,  for 
one. 

"Fannie,  Bill  Crowder,  '13,  Dr. 
Babbitt  and  I  are  living  in  a  little 


pension  on  the  top  floor  of  an 
apartment  house  in  the  Latin 
Quarter.  We  are  the  only  guests, 
and  the  landlady  talks  French  to 
us  at  dinner  time.  I  have  learned 
to  eat  breakfast  in  bed  without 
ever  waking  up  at  all.  In  fact,  the 
French  breakfast  is  not  worth 
waking  up  for.  All  they  serve  is 
cocoa,  war-bread  and  butter.  The 
butter  is  a  distinct  luxury  and  costs 
eighty  cents  a  pound,  while  one  can 
obtain  only  one  pound  of  sugar  a 
month. 

"Chic  Cary  was  in  Paris  a  few 
weeks  ago  and  has  wild  tales  of  the 
front  lines.  He  has  been  driving 
a  motor  truck,  hauling  shells  for 
'Ole  Soisants-quinze,'  and  has 
some  good  descriptions  of  aero- 
plane duels.  Yesterday  twenty- 
eight  new  Americans  rolled  in, 
including  'Keedle'  Brinton,  '15, 
and  Bowerman,  '14.  .  .  .  And 
speaking  of  French  pronuncia- 
tion, Ernie  Brown  says  he  is 
chief  of  the  automobile  depart- 
ment of  the  'am  some  was  and 
ain't,'  which  is  not  far  from  the 
correct  sound  of  'Ham,  Oise, 
Somme  and  Aisne.'  There  are  two 
men  in  the  department,  by  the 
way." 


I 


JLUMNI 


75 

It  is  with  great  regret  that  we 
announce  the  death  of  Charles 
Edward  Haines,  who  died  on  Sat- 
urday, December  first,  at  his  home 
in  Philadelphia.  Mr.  Haines  was 
formerly  a  member  of  the  Phila- 
delphia Stock  Exchange,  but  re- 
tired from  business  for  several 
years  because  of  ill  health.  He  was 
a  well-known  cricketer  and  a  mem- 
ber of  the  Merion  Cricket  Club  for 
many  years,  playing  in  a  number 
of  international  matches.  He  is 
survived  by  his  widow,  two  daugh- 
ters and  a  son. 

76 

F.  H.  Taylor  is  chairman  of  the 
Committee  on  Dental  Instruments 
in  the  medical  section  of  the  Coun- 
cil for   National   Defence. 

'89 

Herbert  Morris  is  a  member  of 
the  American  International  Ship 
Building  Corporation. 

•90 

On  Saturday,  November  24th, 
after  the  Haverford-Swarthmore 
game,   the   twenty-seventh   annual 


dinner  of  the  class  of  1 890  was  held 
at  the  Racquet  Club,  Philadelphia. 
H.  P.  Baily  and  W.  P.  Simpson 
had  as  their  guests,  J.  S.  Auchin- 
closs,  J.  M.  Steere,  T.  A.  Coffin, 
P.  S.  Darlington,  G.  H.  Davies.  R. 
E.  Fox,  J.  F.  Lewis,  and  E.  R. 
Longstreth.  The  class  adopted 
for  the  evening  the  following  mem- 
bers of  the  class  of  1889:  J.  S. 
Stokes,  D.  J.  Reinhardt,  and  L. 
J.  Morris.  After  dinner  the  two 
classes  had  their  annual  rivalry  in 
a  bowling  match. 

The  class  of  1 890  has  the  dis- 
tinction of  having  met  in  reunion 
and  at  dinner  each  year  since  its 
graduation. 

'93 

G.  K.  Wright  is  in  the  Bureiau 
of  Personnel  of  the  War  Work 
Council  of  the  Y.  M.  C.  A. 

'96 

J.  Henry  Scattergood,  who  has 
been  in  France  organizing  the  work 
of  the  American  Friends'  Re- 
construction Unit,  has  returned 
home.  He  reports  that  all  the 
men  have  been  assigned  to  their 
work  now,  and  that  things  are 
running  smoothly. 


The  Haverfordian 


251 


'01 

William  E.  Cadbury  is  now  as- 
sociated with  the  Philadelphia 
office  of  the  National  City  Com- 
pany, which  is  the  largest  dis- 
tributor of  bonds  to  investors  in 
the  United  States. 

•02 

We  reprint  the  following  from 
a  recent  issue  of  the  Haverford 
News: 

"The  announcement  has  been 
made  that  Dr.  Richard  M.  Gum- 
mere,  Assistant  to  the  President 
and  Professor  of  Latin  at  Haver- 
ford College,   has  been  appointed 


to  succeed  Dr.  Richard  Mott 
Jones,  '67,  who  died  August  1st  of 
this  year,  as  headmaster  of  the 
William  Penn  Charter  School. 

"Dr.  Gummere's  appointment 
is  to  take  effect  at  the  close  of  the 
present  school  year.  The  an- 
nouncement came  as  the  result  of 
the  following  action  taken  at  a 
special  meeting  of  the  Overseers  of 
the  School. 

"'After  thoughtful  considera- 
tion and  inquiry,  Dr.  Richard 
Mott  Gummere  was  appointed 
headmaster  of  the  William  Penn 
Charter  School,  his  duties  to  begin 
at  the  close  of  the  present  year. 
We  are  influenced  in  this  selection 


We  will  rent  you  a  late  model 

Underwood  Typewriter 

3  Months  for  $5.00 

and  apply  the  first  rental 
payment  on  the  purchase 
price  if  you  desire  to  buy 
the  machine. 

MARCUS  &  CO. 

STATIONERS— TYPEWRITERS 
1303  Market  St.,  Philadelphia 


252 


The  Haverfordian 


by  the  scholarly  and  practical 
qualities  of  Dr.  Gummere,  as  evi- 
denced by  his  experience  at  Haver- 
ford  College  and  for  a  short  time 
at  Groton  School,  by  his  sympa- 
thetic acquaintance  with  the  ideals 
and  principles  which  have  guided 
the  school  in  the  past,  and  by  the 
fact  that  our  late  headmaster  sug- 
gested Dr.  Gummere  as  a  desirable 
successor.' 

Alfred  G.  Scattergood, 
Clerk. 

"Penn  Charter  School  is  the 
oldest  school  in  this  country,  hav- 
ing been  founded  by  William  Penn 
in  1689.  During  the  last  forty- 
two  years,  largely  owing  to  Dr. 
Jones  and  the  strong  men  and 
women  with  whom  he  surrounded 
himself  on  the  staff  of  the  school, 
it  has  been  a  powerful  force  in 
educational  circles  in  this  city,  and 
numbers  among  its  graduates  many 
distinguished  men  living  in  all 
parts  of  the  country." 

'03 

A.  G.  Dean  is  in  the  mechanical 
department  of  H.  O.  Wilbur  and 
Sons,  Philadelphia.  His  present 
address  is.  The  Athens,  Ardmore, 
Pa. 

Reverend  Otto  E.  Duerr,  min- 
ister of  the  First  Unitarian  Church 
of  Laconia,  New  Hampshire,  is  de- 
voting a  great  deal  of  time  and 
energy  to  the  publicity  work  and 
financing  of  different  activities 
connected  with  the  war.  Dr. 
Duerr  is  on  the  Civilian  Relief 
Committee  of  the  Red  Cross,  and 
is  one  of  the  Four  Minute  Men  of 
the  government's  publicity  com- 
mittee in  his  district. 

He  writes  in  his  class  letter: 
"My  people  expect  to  be  called  on 


Army  and  Navy 


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Alumni  Notes 


253 


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about  once  in  so  often,  the  sick 
need  cheering  up,  the  dead  must 
be  buried,  and  once  a  week  they 
demand  a  sermon.  Not  the  dead, 
but  the  living.  But  in  the  con- 
fusion of  the  times  I  am  not  sure 
but  that  I  may  follow  literally 
the  instruction  of  the  man  who 
charged  the  young  minister:  'Cast 
out  the  sick,  heal  the  dead,  and 
raise  the  devil.' " 

H.  M.  Hoskins  has  recently 
taken  a  position  with  the  United 
States  National  Bank  in  McMinn- 
ville,  Oregon. 

Howard  M.  Trueblood  has  an 
important  research  position  with 
the  American  Telephone  and  Tele- 
graph Company.  He  is  endeavor- 
ing to  devise  methods  of  dealing 
with  the  electricity  that  escapes 
from  the  third  rail  systems. 

'06 
Joseph  J.  Tunney  was  married 
on  October  eighteenth  to  Miss 
Maria  F.  Kelly,  of  Philadelphia. 
Mr.  and  Mrs.  Tunney  are  living 
at  328  South  Forty-fifth  Street. 

•07 
J.  W.  Nicholson  has  entered  the 
Y.  M.  C.  A.  work  at  Camp  Dix. 
New  Jersey. 

•08 

J.  B.  Clement  is  a  captain  in  the 
Field  Artillery  at  Camp  Gordon, 
Atlanta,  Georgia. 

'II 

Charles  Wadsworth  was  married 
on  October  sixth  to  Miss  Martha 
Clay  Hollister,  of  Grand  Rapids, 
Michigan.  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Wads- 
worth  are  living  at  720  Calton 
Ave.,  Plainfleld,  New  Jersey. 


252 


The  Haverfordian 


•12 
W.  W.  Longstreth  is  a  lieutenant 
in    the    aviation    section     of     the 
Army.       He    is    now   stationed    at 
Columbus,  Ohio. 

•15 

Cyrus  Falconer  is  in  the  employ 
of  the  Michell  Seed  House,  Phil- 
adelphia. 

G.  H.  Hallett  and  E.  N.  Votaw 
are  active  officers  of  the  Colle- 
giate Anti-Militarism  League.  Mr. 
Hallett  is  organizing  secretary,  and 
Mr.    Votaw,    executive    secretary. 

E.  L.  Moore  has  enlisted  in  the 
medical  department  of  the  Army, 
and  is  in  the  Sanitary  Corps. 


Elmer  Shaffer  is  in  the  Navy 
Base  Hospital  No.  5  of  the  Ameri- 
can Expeditionary  Force  in  France. 

•16 

James  Carey  is  an  acting  ser- 
geant of  Battery  E,  112th  Regi- 
ment. He  is  stationed  at  Amiston, 
Alabama. 

Bolton  L.  Corson  is  a  first  lieu- 
tenant in  the  aviation  section  of  the 
Signal  Corps,  and  has  been  sta- 
tioned at  Kelly  Field,  San  Antonio, 
Texas.  He  is  at  present  on  the 
board    of    examiners. 

A.  H.  Stone  is  a  first  lieutenant 
in  the  Officers'  Reserve  Camp. 


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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. 
Each   job   of   printing   is    a  separate 
piece  of  manufacture.    For  this  reason 
no  printer  can  tell  exactly  what  any 
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tomer and  the  printer.    You  can't  get 
quality  and  service  that  way.     Select 
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tained. One  worth  mentioning  is  the  fa- 
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and  face,  and  other  irritations  of  the  skin. 
Decline,  gently  but  firmly,  any  other  said 
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THE    HAVERFORDIAN 


EDITORS 
Russell  N.  Miller,  1919,  Editor-in-Chief 


A.  Douglas  Oliver,  1919 
Harold  Brecht,  1920 


Christopher  Roberts,  1920 
J.  H.  Smith,  1920 


BUSINESS  MANAGER 
Edwin  O.  Geckeler,  1920 


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The  Haverfoedian  is  published  on  the  twentieth  of  each  month  during  college  year. 
Its  purpose  is  to  foster  the  literary  spirit  among  the  undergraduates,  to  provide  an  or- 
gan 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  in- 
tended for  insertion  should  reach  the  Editor  not  later  than  the  twenty-fifth  of  the  month 
preceding  the  date  of  issue. 

Entered  at  the  Haverford  Post-Office,  for  transmission  tiirough  the  maile  as  second-class  matter 


Vol.  XXXIX 


HAVERFORD,  PA.,  MARCH,  1918 


No.  8 


3n  Z\)i&  3sisue 


Freedom  of  Thought  and  the  Colleges.  .  .  .Henry  J.  Cadbury  257 

Sonnet Gilbert  T.  Hoag  260 

The  Ghost  of  the  Black  Forest J.  Reiter  261 

A  Fragment S.  A.   Nock  263 

The  Solution T.  B.  Barlow  264 

Sensations  of  a  Young  Man  with  a  Young  Lady  and  a  Nose- 
bleed   Samuel  Albert  Nock  266 

Where  Marriage  is  Not Harold  W.  Brecht  269 

On  Being  a  Duchess W.  S.  McCulloch  271 

He  Who  Laughs  Last Alan  W.   Hastings  276 

The  Editor's  Reflections 280 

Alumni  Notes 282 


THE    HAVERFORDIAN 


Vol.  XXXIX.  H.WERFORD,  PA.,  M.\RCH,  191S  No. 


JfreeiJom  of  ^fjoustt  anb  tfjc  Colleges! 

By  Henry  J.   Cadbury 

THE  war  has  scored  one  victory,  at  any  rate.  It  has  successfully 
won  the  attention  of  whole  nations  to  a  most  remarkable  degree. 
It  pervades  all  our  life.  The  very  language  which  we  speak  is 
succumbing  to  the  picturesque  influence  of  its  terminology.  Every  effort 
is  now  a  drive;  every  opponent,  a  slacker;  every  pretense,  camouflage. 
And  so,  to  commandeer  its  own  language,  we  may  speak  of  a  conscription 
of  mind. 

There  are  probably  some  who  regret  this  diversion  of  attention 
keenly.  It  seems  to  them  a  pity  that  so  little  interest  can  now  be  aroysed 
in  simplified  spelling,  or  Irish  poetry,  or  other  most  worthy  causes.  But 
the  real  danger  of  our  monomania  does  not  lie  in  these  forms  of  casual 
and  temporary  indifference,  but  in  the  suppression  of  judgment  and  in 
the  mental  and  moral  astigmatism  that  war  inevitably  brings.  The  bane 
of  conscription  whether  of  brains  or  of  hands  is  the  mechanical  uni- 
formity it  produces.  Its  goal  is  something  like  the  Liberty  motor — one 
convenient,  universal  type  of  mind,  with  interchangeable  parts  and  easy 
repairs. 

The  present  writer  has  no  thought  of  criticising  such  intellectual 
standardization  as  inefficient.  No  doubt  military  necessity  justifies  it 
in  a  fighting  machine.  Independent  ideas  would  clog  an  army,  as  foreign 
matter  injures  the  works  of  a  watch.  But  what  of  non-combatants? 
Shall  they  too  yield,  by  the  same  stern  military  necessity,  to  intellectual 
rations  of  canned  political  ideas?  Must  we  erect  our  censor  into  a 
dictator  of  food-for-thought?  And  shall  an  imperious  public  opinion 
and  patriotic  propaganda  control  absolutely  the  manufacture  and  com- 
merce of  ideas — by  the  gentle  pressure  of  the  black  hand  and  committees 
of  safety? 


258  The  Haverfordian 

In  a  militarized  nation  the  answer  to  the  questions  is  certainly 
"Yes,"  but  in  a  nation  opposed  to  militarism  the  answer  as  plainly  is 
"No."  In  the  United  States  ninety-eight  per  cent,  of  us,  by  reason  of 
age,  sex  or  conscience,  are  n  the  class  of  non-combatants.  If  we  are 
not  to  be  ruled  by  our  Junkers,  the  non-combatants  must  determine 
the  policy  of  our  country,  and  must  determine  it  with  the  freedom  of 
thought  for  which  our  fathers  made  this  land  the  asylum.  And  nowhere 
does  the  duty  of  such  freedom  make  such  a  call  as  in  our  colleges. 

Even  before  the  war  we  had  begun  to  hear  a  good  deal  about  aca- 
demic freedom.  It  was  then  something  so  largely  "academic"  as  to 
seem  a  very  minor  issue.  It  was  something  quite  commendable,  to  be 
sure,  the  right  of  scholars  to  seek  the  truth  fearlessly  without  restraint 
or  loss  of  station.  It  was  a  protest  against  the  arbitrary  treatment  of 
professors  according  to  the  economic  interests  of  trustees  or  the  political 
prejudices  of  state  legislatures.  The  war  has  made  this  need  more 
apparent  by  certain  flagrant  cases  of  patriotic  academic  execution.  But 
after  all,  this  kind  of  liberty  is  not  the  greatest  need.  It  is  a  question  of 
rights;  I  would  plead  for  academic  freedom  as  a  duty,  and  a  duty  for 
students  more  than  for  faculties.  For  to  their  youth  belongs  by  right 
a  greater  freedom  and  to  their  future  greater  service.  Theirs  is  the 
boasted  leadership  of  the  college-bred;  but  leadership,  it  should  be 
recalled,  is  not  supplying  brains  as  instruments  of  a  passion,  'it  is  sup- 
plying judgment  and  moral  poise  amid  prejudice. 

And  the  freedom  is  not  merely  a  freedom  from  conscious  slavery. 
Most  Americans  were  shocked  at  the  Manifesto  of  the  ninety-three  Ger- 
man intellectuals  justifying  the  war.  It  appears  to  have  been  prepared 
and  signed  by  imperial  request.  But  how  much  more  shocked  we  should 
be  if  such  general  agreement  were  due  not  to  special  pressure  but  to  the 
more  imperious  force  of  a  perverted  public  opinion.  The  latter  is  appar- 
ently our  greater  danger  here.  It  is  not  that  we  are  so  coerced  in  our 
thinking  that  we  chafe  at  our  restrictions;  but  that  our  minds  only  too 
eagerly  accept  the  current  standards  of  opinion.  We  are  suffused  in  a 
sentiment  until  it  penetrates  within,  and,  above  all,  we  yield  to  the 
subtle  temptation  of  taking  sides  for  once  and  letting  cool  deliberation 
go.  After  the  strain  of  nearly  three  years  of  official  neutrality  it  was  a 
welcome  relief  to  plunge  into  violent  partisanship, — a  relief  similar  to 
that  of  him  who  plunges  into  battle. 

This  freedom  is  to  be  achieved  certainly  not  by  violent  counter- 
partisanship.  I  would  make  it  plain  that  I  have  no  such  counsel  in 
mind.    Freedom  of  thought  is  not  to  be  defined  as  opposition  to  a  prevail- 


Freedom  of  Thought  and  the  Colleges  259 

ing  view.  It  is  a  certain  detached  point  of  view — detached  neither  because 
of  smug  aloofness,  nor  of  selfish  indifference,  nor  of  moral  neutrality, 
but  because  of  a  wholesome  desire  to  see  the  whole  issue.  It  allows  the 
mind  to  consider  other  ways  of  meeting  the  problem  than  the  way  that 
is  in  vogue,  and  it  directs  the  thought  to  the  future. 

The  present  situation  seems  to  offer  many  fields  for  independent 
thought.  The  coming  months  will  not  only  open  many  new  fields,  but 
will  make  manifest  that  this  liberty  is  and  was  an  imperative  duty. 
There  is  first  of  all  needed  a  more  careful  scrutiny  of  the  military  method 
as  a  means  to  an  end.  Does  the  means  secure  the  end?  Does  the  end 
justify  the  means?  It  is  a  great  disadvantage — that  by  the  sheer  limita- 
tions of  attention  belligerent  nations  have  not  given  sufficient  considera- 
tion to  the  possible  alternative  use  of  non-military  methods  for  securing 
both  their  respective  war  aims  and  an  early  and  satisfactory  peace. 
Both  sides  have  unfortunately  confused  the  right  of  their  aim  with  the 
right  of  their  means  and  so  have  come  to  identify  war  with  right  and 
peace  with  wrong.  Some  time  these  equations  must  be  challenged,  and 
every  day  they  are  retained  without  truth  is  a  day  of  culpable  waste. 

A  second  almost  contradictory  result  from  absorption  in  the  war  is 
the  obscuring  of  the  aims  of  the  war.  As  the  end  appears  to  justify  the 
means  without  much  consideration  of  the  morality  and  effectiveness  of 
the  means,  so  in  turn  attention  to  the  details  of  military  endeavor  leaves 
little  place  for  considering  the  hoped-for  fruits  of  the  effort.  There  is 
certainly  one  thing  more  important  than  winning  the  war,  as  no  one 
will  deny;  it  is  winning  the  noble  things  for  which  the  war  is  fought, 
and  which  alone  can  to  any  extent  justify  the  evils  of  the  war.  But 
these  things  are  forgotten  and  need  to  be  kept  in  mind.  They  are  called 
war  aims  or  peace  terms — but  they  are  more  than  either.  For  neither 
fighting  nor  the  cessation  of  fighting  will  bring  them:  they  are  principles 
for  reconstruction  of  the  world,  and  can  be  secured  only  by  new  and 
united  endeavor,  unselfish,  intelligent  and  based  on  the  highest  ideals. 
They,  too,  deserve  some  attention,  perhaps  priority  of  attention  for 
non-combatants,  if  our  dictator  of  thinking  were  really  wise. 

Of  course  some  of  our  freedom  of  thought  will  have  to  be  negative. 
There  are  many  false  emphases  that  war  suggests  that  unbiased  judg- 
ment must  correct.  For  instance,  the  hysteria  against  all  things  Ger- 
man still  feels  somewhat  strained  even  to  many  an  ardent  patriot. 
There  is  also  the  idol  of  democracy  which  is  being  exploited  for  the  pur- 
poses of  a  war-cry.     Perhaps  it  is  not  too  soon  to  be  throwing  this  useful 


260  The  Haverfordian 

watchword  into  its  proper  perspective  and  defining  more  clearly  its 
limitations  as  a  merely  tolerable  working  scheme.  Last  of  all,  one 
thinks  with  regret  of  the  perversion  of  terms  like  loyalty  and  sacrifice — 
as  of  a  noble  unselfishness  too  often  spoiled  by  the  innocent  ignorance  of 
the  victim.  For  the  value  of  sacrifice  depends  not  on  the  heroism  dis- 
played but  in  part  at  least  on  the  goodness  of  the  cause  for  which  effort 
or  suffering  is  endured,  and  the  effectiveness  of  the  effort  and  suffering 
finally  to  achieve  their  aim. 


bonnet 

By  Gilbert   T.  Hoag 

What  man  can  say  there  is  divinity; 

And  who  can  prove  we  mortals  rule  supreme; 

Or  show  the  power  that  shaketh  land  and  sea; 

That  I  am  1,  and  you  are  what  you  seem? 

If  God  there  is  not,  who  did  make  the  earth. 

And  who  did  formulate  its  endless  laws? 

Solve  me  the  mystery  of  death  and  birth; 

Read  me  the  riddles  Nature's  pencil  draws. 

If  God  there  is,  can  He  be  infinite, 

Ever-existent,  dread,  omnipotent? 

Through  one  dark  maze  with  these  two  paths  in  it 

We  reach  one  wall,  by  different  descent. 

Grope  ye,  poor  mortals,  grope  for  evermore; 

An  aeon's  roaming  brings  none  near  the  shore! 


VL\)t  #f)ost  of  t\)t  Placfe  Jforcsit 

By  J.  Reiter 

GREY  thatched  cottages,  streets  running  at  random,  but  all  seem- 
ing to  run  into  the  cobbled  platz;  a  smithy;  a  shop  or  two  and 
a  few  stray  dogs  and  children;  a  sprinkling  of  industrious,  plump 
fraus — and  you  have  the  village  of  Machtenhagen.  It  lies  between  two 
high  hills;  a  little  curling,  clear  stream  rushes  through  it  from  the 
Black  Forest,  bent  on  its  way  to  the  Rhine  and  the  land  of  windmills. 
A  rather  imposing,  yet  small  castle  stands  on  the  hillside  like  some 
granite  boulder  dropped  by  the  whim  of  chance.  Machtenhagen  today 
is  the  same  Machtenhagen  of  a  century  ago.  The  broad,  rich  fields 
that  make  up  the  fief  have  changed  lords  often,  but  the  peasants,  the 
town,  and  the  fields  remain.     So  do  story  and  tradition. 

In  that  glorious  age  when  a  gentleman  was  born,  not  made,  and 
when  a  gentleman's  only  qualifications  were  a  good  liquid  capacity  and 
a  love  for  hunting,  this  village  had  a  mystery  in  which  they  gloried,  they 
talked,  and  they  feared. 

The  plutocratic  Bomemanns  were  the  lords  of  the  castle  then, 
and  haughty  lords  they  were.  They  feared  not  God  or  man.  They 
were  insolent  and  indolent,  working  only  when  they  hunted  in  the 
nearby  Black  Forest.  But — here  was  the  mystery.  .  The  scions  of  the 
Bomemanns  would  go  into  the  Black  Forest  and,  sooner  or  later,  on 
one  of  these  visits,  they  would  return  with  the  sign  of  a  cross  branded 
into  the  flesh  of  their  left  cheek.  Then  and  then  only  did  a  Bomemann 
fear.  The  Ghost  of  the  Forest  had  gazed  into  his  eyes.  This  ghost  they 
described,  but  they  knew  not  whether  he  was  mortal  or  an  apparition 
sent  from  the  dead,  to  be  a  curse  on  the  Bomemann  freinschaft.  Those 
eyes  I  The  ghost  was  covered  with  a  flowing  white  robe  that  completely 
enveloped  his  form.  Only  two  holes  were  in  it,  and  out  from  those 
peered  two  eyes.  Brown,  quiet  eyes,  of  a  brown  that  is  rich,  richer  than 
gold  or  a  fantasia  of  color.  The  brown  softened  imperceptibly  into  the 
black  of  the  pupil  and  softened  again  at  the  outer  edge  to  a  circle  of 
bluish  grey.  They  were  the  eyes  of  a  soulful  woman,  but  slowly  they 
would  change.  They  snapped  fire,  a  living,  glowing,  orange  flame. 
And  then  came  the  cross  for  another  Bomemann. 

Villagers  had  seen  the  ghost,  but  he  alwa:  s  turned  from  them  and 
rode  away  on  his  fleet  white  horse.  Parties  had  pursued  him,  and  the 
ghost  always  eluded  them;  but  he  would  leave  his  mark  in  the 
camp  of  the  hunters. 


262  The  Haverfokdian 

But  the  proud  Bomemanns  still  hunted,  and  many  were  the  crosses. 
They  were  branded  as  they  slept,  or  they  were  caught,  and  bound  and 
forced  to  look  into  those  eyes  until  the  file  sparked  from  them — then 
came  the  brand. 

And  yet  the  villagers  and  the  Bomemanns  knew  what  had  caused 
the  curse.  The  grandsire  of  the  House  of  Bomemann  had  stolen  the 
fief.     That  was  no  secret. 

Baron  Karl  Newhardt  had  been  the  lord  then,  and  the  Bomemanns 
were  but  rich  vassals  of  Newhardt.  The  grandsire,  Peter  Bomemann, 
had  plotted  to  get  the  castle  and  its  land.  He  paid  men  to  perjure  that 
Karl  Newhardt  was  a  traitor  and  was  about  to  rebel  from  his  king  and 
set  up  a  new  Rhine  principality.  Newhardt  was  tried  and  convicted. 
A  T  w^s  branded  on  his  left  cheek  and  a  red  T  sewn  on  to  his  shirt. 
Then  he  and  his  son,  who  had  been  punished  in  the  same  way,  were 
taken  to  Spain  and  sold  as  slaves.  Bomemann,  having  rid  the  section 
of  the  Newhardts,  became  lord  of  the  fief.  But  Baron  Karl,  before  he 
left,  had  sworn  that  eternal  vengeance  should  come  to  the  House  of 
Bomemann  for  thus  deceiving  God.  Ten  years  later  the  Ghost  of  the 
Forest  branded  the  old  sire  of  the  Bomemanns,  and  he  died  of  fright. 

The  Baroness  Newhardt  remained  in  a  small  cottage  near  Machten- 
hagen  and  raised  her  only  daughter  to  hate  the  Bomemanns.  But  fate 
was  cruel;  for  the  daughter  of  Baron  Karl  was  wooed  and  won  by  the 
new  lord,  the  son  of  old  Sire  Bomemann.  But  this  marriage,  though 
happy  at  first,  grew  to  be  unfortunate.  The  new  Baroness  had  eyes  of 
brown,  the  same  quiet  brown  of  the  ghost,  and  they  flashed  fire,  a  glow- 
ing orange  flame,  when  anger  was  in  her  heart.  They  burned  the  heart 
of  a  Bomemann  to  a  cinder.  Yet  there  was  a  son  from  this  marriage, 
and  it  was  this  infant  alone  that  kept  the  unhappy  couple  together. 
But  as  the  infant  grew  in  stature,  the  more  it  resembled  its  grandsire. 
Baron  Karl.  The  Newhardt  eyes  were  there  as  ever  to  strike  fear  into  the 
hearts  of  Bomemanns.  And  the  curse  of  the  brand  was  still  haunting 
them. 

Now — as  the  tale  is  told — this  child,  who  had  been  named  Karl 
Bomemann,  went  to  the  edge  of  the  forest  one  day  to  shoot  birds.  He 
was  but  ten  years  old,  yet  he  was  expert  with  the  bow.  He  roamed  on 
and  on  into  the  forest  and  became  lost.  When  he  did  not  return  to  the 
castle  at  evening,  the  Bomemanns  were  worried.  Alas  for  the  poor  boy 
of  ten  years,  that  he  should  receive  the  brand!  Parties  were  organized 
and  sent  into  the  forest  to  search.  They  spread  into  a  long  line  and 
winded  their  horns  in  the  hope  of  hearing  the  small  boy  cry  out  in  return. 
The  wild  animals  of  the  woods  were  chased  from  their  lairs  and  rushed 


The  Ghost  of  the  Black  Forest      '  263 

hither  and  thither  throughout  the  vast  forest  in  their  fright.  They 
mingled  their  cries  with  the  sound  of  the  horns.  Still  they  did  not  find 
the  youth,  and  they  had  penetrated  far  into  the  forest.  Dawn  came  over 
the  land,  and  the  hunting  line  turned  to  re-scour  the  forest  for  the 
body  of  the  little  boy.  He  could  not  have  survived  the  night,  and  not 
have  been  beset  by  a  boar  or  some  beast  of  prey — or  the  ghost. 

The  return  brought  no  success.  No  little  mangled  form  was  found, 
but  his  little  bow  was. 

The  hunting  party  came  together  again  just  outside  of  Machten- 
hagen.  The  town  had  been  deserted;  even  the  women  had  joined  in 
the  search.  But  there  in  the  platz  stood  a  lone  white  rider,  enveloped 
in  a  flowing  robe  and  seated  on  a  white  stallion.  In  his  arms  was  a  small 
boy  with  restful  brown  eyes.  Similar  eyes,  but  eyes  flashing  an  orange 
flame,  were  burning  from  the  eyeholes  of  the  white  mantle.  Then  they 
softened  to  a  restful  brown. 

The  ghost  got  down  from  his  horse  and  helped  the  boy  to  the  ground. 
Then  he  pulled  off  his  flowing  mantle  and  there  stood  a  straight,  hand- 
some man  marred  only  by  a  scar  on  his  cheek.  On  the  breast  of  his 
shirt  there  was  sewn  a  red  T.  He  dropped  the  mantle  to  the  cobbled 
pavement,  stooped  and  kissed  the  boy,  then  simply  said,  "Karl,  I  am 
your  uncle.  Tell  them  I  am  leaving  for  ever.  God  be  with  you  and 
them!" 


^  Jfragment 

By  S.  A.  Nock 

The  whole  is  one  majestic  farce.      Our  gain 
Or  loss,  our  sorrows,  misery,  and  pain 

Mean  but  as  much  as  a  small  bubble  wrought 
Upon  the  ocean  by  a  drop  of  rain. 


EfjE  Solution 

By  T.  B.  Barlow 

AT  LAST   I  have  found  the  solution  for  the  cares  of  college  life, 
for  its  excitement  and  its  speed.     I  have  found  the  one  and  only 
place  that  will  relieve  one  from  the  social  and  physical  strain 
of  our  strenuous  life,  and  at  the  same  time  give  that  much-yearned-for 
leisure  in  which  to  read  and  meditate. 

We  all  know  the  unavoidable  calls  of  our  social  life  here.  Who  has 
not  had  that  irresistible  hurry-call  to  Ardmore?  He  may  have  gone  to 
the  movies,  or  he  may  have  seen  beauty  in  distress;  but  in  either  case  the 
result  is  the  same — he  crawls  into  bed,  a  washed-out-wreck,  in  the  small 
hours.  The  call  of  the  metropolis  near  at  hand  appeals  to  many  for 
whom  Ardmore  holds  no  attractions.  The  occasional  appearance  of 
dress  suits  at  breakfast  indicates  the  thoughtless  way  in  which  locals 
fail  to  run  at  all  hours.  Yet  who  would  be  so  narrow  as  to  say  that 
these  social  activities  are  unnecessary?  Just  one  more  example  of  social 
exertion  is  the  delightful  little  week-end  houseparty  which  we  all  adore. 
It  probably  begins  on  Saturday  morning,  and  there  is  a  long  motor- 
ride  to  the  hostess's  house.  Often  this  is  shared  with  a  charmingly 
helpless  captor,  who  is  either  seventeen  or  the  hostess's  daughter.  And 
all  through  the  next  twenty-four  hours  she  has  to  be  amused.  By  twelve 
o'clock  on  Sunday  night — that  is,  if  the  auto  does  not  break  down — 
one  gets  back  to  college  to  find  the  lights  out  and  the  room  ruined.  So 
even  over  the  Sabbath  one  cannot  always  get  the  rest  that  one  needs. 

The  physical  strain  of  the  social  activities  is  very  great,  as  1  have 
already  shown.  But  add  to  it  the  arduous  work  of  football  or  soccer 
and  none  but  the  fittest  can  hope  to  survive.  If,  however,  one  can 
elude  the  above-named  pitfalls,  there  are  still  as  many  more  to  be  fought 
against.  There  is  that  strange  and  unaccountable  form  of  endearing 
oneself  to  one's  neighbours,  called  rough-housing.  It  may  break  out  at 
£y  noment;  even  a  harmless  remark  as  to  the  shape  of  a  man's  nose 
may  cause  a  perfect  pandemonium  to  rage  for  a  whole  evening.  But 
what  is  worse  than  all  for  our  health,  is  the  terrific  strain  laid  upon  our 
digestions — the  way  in  which  we  eat  our  meals,  alternately  bolting  our 
food  and  fretting  with  impatience  while  the  waiter  rubs  the  stamp  off 
the  margarine,  or  milks  the  cow  so  that  we  can  have  cream  with  our 
coffee.  The  strain  is  immense,  and  it  is  only  with  the  aid  of  Dr.  Beecham 
or  Carter's  Little  Liver  Pills  that  some  can  exist. 


The  Solution'  265 

But  the  retreat  that  I  have  found  spares  one  from  all  these  strains, 
and,  in  addition,  it  provides  time  and  material  for  reading.  At  present 
there  is  a  large  assortment  of  literature,  varying  from  the  Saturday 
Evening  Post  and  THE  HAVERFORDIAN  to  the  Alumni  Quarterly  and 
the  Parisienne.  It  also  provides  music  of  all  kinds,  and  leisure  to  ap- 
preciate it,  or  to  do  some  really  good  thinking.  It  is  true  that  the  music 
comes  from  a  victrola,  but  the  records  make  up  for  that.  Some  of  the 
hymns  are  so  soul-filling  that  one  thinks  of  the  next  world  immediately, 
and  makes  a  mental  vow  never  again  to  cheat  the  telephone  operator 
or  take  spoons  from  the  dining-room.  Others  produce  much  the  same 
desire  for  harmony  that  church  bells  do  on  a  dog,  and  one  howls  in  un- 
restrained misery  until  the  needle  breaks  or  somebody  shuts  off  the 
machine.  A  few  choice  records  have  the  same  invigorating  effect  that 
an  electric  shock  produces.  One  forgets  all  fatigue  in  the  desire  to  go 
and  see  whether  it  is  raining,  until  that  record  is  finished.  One  then  sits 
down  to  a  serious  debate  with  oneself  as  to  whether  its  author  should 
be  burnt  alive,  boiled  in  oil,  or  merely  hung,  drawn,  and  quartered. 
The  debate  is,  of  course,  futile  when  one  realizes  that  he  has  in  all  prob- 
ability been  roasting  for  the  last  ten  years. 

Is  this  place  far  away?  Is  it  an  expensive  hotel?  you  may  ask. 
No,  it  is  not.     It  is  at  our  very  door.     It  is — the  Infirmary. 


^enfiatjons  of  ^  §ouns  iWan  Witi)  M  §ouns  ILabp 
anti  ^  i^osfcbleeb 

By  Samuel  Albert  Nocl^ 

I  WAS  not  in  the  best  of  moods,  anyway.  Going  down  to  her  house, 
I  had  stepped  into  a  shadow.   Now,  the  evening  was  cold;  a  wind 

was  blowing;  the  ground  was  covered  with  ice;  and  the  ice  with 
water.  I  do  not  like  ice  covered  with  water,  as  I  have  had,  in  my  youth, 
many  and  many  a  sad  experience  with  this  infernal  combination.  At 
any  rate,  1  stepped  infep  the  shadow.     It  was  three  inches  deep. 

I  expressed  myself  fluently,  and  passed  on,  stamping  my  feet.  Much 
as  I  should  like  to  say  that  I  stamped  in  another  shadow,  I  must  dis- 
appoint everybody,  and  say  that  I  didn't.  But  my  temper  was 
irremediably  damaged. 

She  and  I  started  for  the  doolah  that  was  to  come  off.  It  had  taken 
skill  and  patience  for  me  to  pilot  myself  around;  but  when  I  had  two 
people  to  steer,  the  task  became  Herculean.  (That  phrase  is  not  original 
with  me.)  We  had  to  walk  the  entire  length  of  the  town,  which  was 
usually  not  very  great.  But  ah!  how  long  it  seemed  that  evening. 
You  know,  when  you  are  walking  with  a  girl,  time  and  space  are  not — 
that  is,  if  the  girl  is  one  with  whom  you  wish  to  walk.  And  then,  when 
you  have  to  walk  home  by  your  lonesome,  the  streets  are  so  endless, 
the  hours  so  long,  everything  so  tedious!  Well,  time  and  space  were  not 
for  two  blocks.     Then  I  got  a  nosebleed. 

Nosebleeds  are  all  very  well  in  their  place.  They  will  relieve  a 
cold,  a  headache,  tiredness,  and  feverishness,  if  used  judiciously.  When 
they  come  in  the  proper  place,  at  the  proper  time,  I  am  not  at  all  loath 
to  entertain  them  for  a  short  while.  Tact  in  nosebleeds,  as  in  humans, 
is  the  secret  of  success.  This  nosebleed,  needless  to  say,  was  tactless. 
Not  only  was  it  tactless,  it  was  insistent.  Often  such  a  thing  can  be 
postponed  to  a  more  favorable  time — say,  from  the  five  minutes  before 
Latin  class  to  the  last  quarter  of  an  hour  therein,  when  departure  from 
the  room  is  necessary.  This  is,  however,  not  a  dissertation  on  nose- 
bleeds; it  is  a  description  of  sensations. 

I  have  seldom  had  so  many  sensations  crowded  into  so  short  a 
space  of  time.  Hastily  remarking  to  her,  "Gotta  nosbld!"  I  tilted  my 
head  gracefully  back,  and  modestly  hid  behind  a  pocket  handkerchief. 
"That's  too  bad,"  she  said,  and  giggled.     In  as  dignified  a  manner  as 


Sensations  of  a  Young  Man  267 

possible,  I  remarked  that  I  saw  nothing  funny.  Then  she  snickered 
again. 

With  my  head  up  in  the  unethereal  dark  blue,  I  had  no  chance 
whatever  of  knowing  where  I  was  stepping,  or  of  guiding  her.  With 
my  eyes  to  the  ground,  where  they  had  to  be,  I  had  no  chance  of  stopping 
the  nosebleed,  which  naturally  would  not  stop  of  itself,  whether  it  could 
or  not.  Never,  never  until  that  evening  did  I  know  how  many  odiously 
and  morbidly  curious  people  there  are  in  a  small  town.  Not  a  village, 
you  understand,  but  a  runt  city.  People  standing  on  the  corners  looked 
at  me,  escorting  a  pretty  young  lady  through  the  streets  while  holding 
a  handkerchief  over  my  face,  as  if  concealing  my  identity.  Loungers 
in  doorways  gazed,  apparently  taking  me  for  a  fugitive  from  justice,  or 
a  detective,  being  guided  in  my  way  to  salvation  or  triumph.  Or 
perhaps  they  thought  that  1  was  so  ugly  that  I  was  ashamed  to  have  my 
physiognomy  visible. 

Pretty  soon  storekeepers  looked  at  me  through  their  half-frosted 
panes,  and  remarked  things  to  one  another  which  I  should  have  liked 
to  hear.  People  turned  around  and  stared  after  me.  Soon  small  boys 
were  following  at  a  safe  distance,  certain  that  some  gory  crime  was 
about  to  be  perpetrated.  Autos  began  to  slow  down  to  keep  in  sight  of 
me.  The  police  force  considered  it  his  duty  to  look  into  the  strange 
matter  here;  wherefore  he,  too,  joined  in  the  procession  at  a  safe  dis- 
tance. People  looked  out  at  half-opened  doors  and  shaded  windows  and 
peeped  between  shutters.  Soon  a  couple  of  young  brats  brought  out  some 
torches  to  enliven  the  scene.  And  thick  and  fast  they  came  at  last, 
and  more  and  more  and  more.  Somebody  had  a  bugle;  its  strident  note 
called  forth  a  vast  array  of  horns,  pans,  and  drums. 

Meanwhile,  she  and  I  were  rather  unsuccessfully  picking  our  way 
among  the  ice  and  shadows;  and  1  was  trying  to  look  superior  and  uncon- 
cerned in  all  the  fuss.  She  seemed  to  be  unconscious  of  so  many  eyes, 
and  told  me  that  1  was  too  sensitive  because  I  was  afraid  that  I  should 
make  a  spectacle  of  myself.  To  which  I  gallantly  replied  that  1  feared 
making  a  spectacle  of  hei.  Again  she  laughed,  although  the  statement 
was  true.  I  once  walked  backwards  through  the  whole  of  Ardmore. 
But  this  was  different,  damnably  different. 

Every  crossing  loomed  vast  and  deep.  There  was  no  other  curb; 
there  was  no  ice  or  snow  projecting  its  helping  top  from  the  water  sur- 
rounding it.  All  was  water,  water,  everywhere.  1  didn't  have  any  rub- 
bers. My  father  had  worn  them  to  Chicago  a  time  ago,  and  I  had 
never  seen  them  since.  Neither  had  he.  My  feet  were  unhappily  wet; 
my  nose  was  still  bleeding;    1  couldn't  see  to  navigate  the  treacherous 


268 


The  Haverfordian 


channel;  and  she  was  laughing  at  me.  That  was  the  most  unkindest — 
but  1  won't  afflict  you  with  that;  instead  I  shall  say  something  original: 
that  was  adding  insult  to  injury. 

I  had  never  had  so  complete  a  nosebleed  before.  I  had  not  known 
that  my  nose  was  capacious  enough  to  bleed  that  way.  I  restrained 
my  vocabulary  and  pretended  to  be  facetious  and  witty.  It  was  all 
pretense;  she  laughed  at  me.  Eventually  we  got  to  our  destination, 
and  I  felt  relieved,  vastly,  great-and-gloriously  relieved.  I  didn't  care 
whether  my  nose  bled  or  not,  now;  1  could  contend  with  it  on  equal 
grounds.     The  desire  for  a  fair  and  square  fight  thrilled  me. 

My  nose  had  stopped  bleeding. 


^fjerc  iWarriage  is  iSot 

By  Harold  W.  Brecht 

AH,  M'sieu'  Surgeon,  they  say  that  war  is  a  terrible  thing. 
Surely  they  are  much   wiser  than  I,  yet "       He    could     not 

shrug  his  shoulders  because  of  his  wound,  but  he  finished 
his  sentence  with  a  quick  smile.  "Nay,  do  not  condemn  me  for  my 
heresy  till  you  hear  me  tell  you  about  Fleurette — my  little  flower,  whom 
the  Boches  could  kill,  yes,  but  not  stain. 

"We  grew  up  together  in  Couccy,  on  the  Aisne.  From  a  child  she 
was  pretty:  a  little  girl  with  shy  eyes  and  bare  brown  legs,  who  did 
not  like  to  be  kissed.  I  was  an  unlovely  little  boy.  Her  father  had 
been  dead  since  she  was  a  baby;  and  I  had  never  had  a  father,  so  my 
mother  and  1  were  as  poor  as  she  was.  I  used  to  fancy  the  whole  world 
hated  me — and  it  did.  pretty  much — and  I  returned  it  hate  for  hate — 
ah,  yes,  M'sieu',  altogether  1  was  a  sullen,  unlovely  little  boy.  And  I 
hated  poor  little  Fleurette,  because  she  seemed  so  happy,  1  think,  and 
I  used  to  throw  stones  at  her  furtively,  up  the  by-streets,  and  she  would 
weep.  Mon  Dieu!  how  she  would  weep,  and  stick  out  her  red,  red  tongue 
at  me! 

"The  years  pass  slowly  in  Couccy,  but  one  twilight  when  my  age 
was  fifteen  years  and  seventeen  days,  and  she  was  about  thirteen,  I 
should  say,  I  met  her  in  the  wood,  hunting  chestnuts.  I  picked  up  a 
stone,  as  usual,  but  she  did  not  flinch  from  me.  'Why  will  you  make 
it  more  miserable?'  she  said,  her  shy,  deep  eyes  meeting  mine  fairly, 
and  at  that  minute  I  knew  that  I  loved  her.  So  down  on  the  soft  ground 
I  knelt,  in  the  shade  that  was  rich  with  the  glow  of  evening,  and  kissed 
her  on  the  bare  arch  of  her  ankle — very  silly,  you  say,  M'sieu',  but  ah! 
I  have  never  been  worthy  to  lift  my  lips  higher. 

"Then — but  you  will  not  believe  me — she  put  her  little  hands 
under  my  chin,  so,  and  bent  her  mouth  down  and  kissed  me,  a  long, 
long  kiss,  M'sieu'  Surgeon."  He  smiled  a  slow,  happy  smile  at  remem- 
brance of  it. 

"That  was  how  we  plighted  our  troth,  and  1  was  happy  that  night, 
I  have  never  been  so  happy  again  until  now.  Do  not  look  surprised, 
I  will  explain. 

"  I  do  not  know  how  it  is  in  your  country,  but  in  France  we  peasants 
work  from  the  dawn  to  the  set  of  the  sun,  hateful,  bitter,  hopeless 
work,  M'sieu'.  We  are  always  in  debt;  we  never  hope  to  catch  up;  we 
never   have   enough   of   anything,    only   work.      Men   and   women    and 


1 


270  The  Haverfordian 

children  work  side  by  side  in  the  fields,  and  ah!  toil  like  ours  pays  little 
heed  to  beauty.  So,  as  1  grew  still  older,  1  could  foresee  for  my  little 
Fleurette  only  that  cheerless  future  of  work,  until  her  smooth  cheeks 
would  be  crisscrossed  with  wrinkles,  and  her  dear  little  hands  would  be 
gnarled,  her  slender  shoulders  bowed,  and  her  warm  lips  cracked,  and 
she  would  drag  herself  painfully  along,  mumbling  to  herself,  and  think- 
ing only  if  there  would  be  enough  soup  for  dinner — like  my  mother. 
It  is  not  a  pleasant  picture,  M'sieu',  and  1  was  unhappy  those  days. 
I  wondered  whether  1  should  run  away,  for  she  was  wonderfully,  surpass- 
ingly beautiful,  and  for  beautiful  peasant  girls  like  her  the  good  God, 
or  some  one,  has  provided  But  I  crave  His  pardon  for  the 

words,  for  1  know  better  now,  and  1  wished  to  show  you  the  kind  of 
thoughts  that  I  was  thinking  then.  But  1  could  not  bear  to  leave  her — 
my  little  flower  with  the  deep  eyes  that  had  smiled  upon  some  glory, 
I  know — and  the  day  was  set  for  our  marriage. 

"Then  the  war  came,  her  saviour  and  mine,  as  sure  as  I  am  lying  in 
your  wonderful  bed.  1  shall  not  go  through  again  the  old,  worn-out 
story  ol  the  first  days,  but  1  was  called  away,  and  our  train  as  it  left 
was  covered  with  flowers.  But  flowers  do  not  help  one  much,  and  the 
only  thing  that  cheered  me  was  Fleurette's  whisper:  '1  know  you'll 
come  home  to  me,  dearest.'     That  was  what  she  called  me. 

"The  Boches  crossed  the  Aisne  valley,  as  you  know,  and  for  weeks 
I  was  tortured  between  hope  and  dread,  trust  and  distrust.  The  fellows 
in  our  regiment  called  me  the  'Worried.'  Then  1  received  a  letter  one 
day,  from  the  cure,  very  short,  very  straggling,  for  he  had  lost  his  right 
hand.  Fleurette's  body  had  been  found  in  her  room,  a  bullet  through 
her  forehead,  a  dead  German  on  the  threshold  and  in  her  hand  the  revol- 
ver 1  had  given  her.  But  her  face  was  very  peaceful,  the  cure  wrote, 
and  my  little  flower  had  met  death  full  in  the  face,  with  a  smile  on  her 
lips,  as  1  shall  meet  it. 

"Then  1  went  mad,  stark,  raging  mad,  and  my  comrades  called 
me  the  'Hater.'  1  cursed — pretty  nearly  everything,  M'sieu',  and  pres- 
ently the  charge  came — the  push,  you  call  it.  With  all  hell  aflame  in 
my  heart,  I  was  first  over  the  top  of  the  trench.  A  German  bullet — 
maybe  one,  maybe  two — struck  me  there,  and  I  knew  no  more  till  I 
woke  up  here.  But  1  know  that  1  am  happy  and  at  peace  with  God, 
for  Fleurette's  beauty  is  assured,  and  1  am  wounded  to  death.  1  know 
that  every  word  I  speak  decreases  my  span  of  life — nay,  do  not  look 
afraid,  M'sieu' " 

The  nurse  turned  suddenly  and  whispered  to  the  Doctor.  "  1  thought 
you  said  that  you  could — save  him." 


Where  Marriage  Is  Not  271 

The  Doctor  put  a  warning  finger  to  his  lips.      "Ssh!" 

" —  I  know  that  at  this  time  tomorrow  I  shall  see  again,  kiss  for 
the  third  time,  my  Fleurette  ...  up  there,  where  she  will  wel- 
come me.     Ah,  M'sieu',  it  is  good  to  die,  but  so  slow. 

"  I  was  not  really  worthy  to  kiss  her  feet,  you  know,  but,  Fleurette," 
with  the  quick,  happy  smile  on  his  face  as  he  lifted  it  to  the  ceiling, 
"I'll  follow  you  home." 

The  Doctor  spoke.  "See — see  that  this  man  is  not  disturbed  for 
twenty-four  hours."     He  turned  and  walked  heavily  from  the  room. 


0n  Peins  a  3Duci)C£(s! 

By  W.  S.  McCulloch 

THIS  introduction  is  an  insult  to  your  intelligence.  It's  not  my 
fault.  The  Editor-in-Chief,  being  slightly  less  obtuse  than  most 
of  his  profession,  claimed  that  he  understood  what  I  meant  by 
a  Duchess,  but  that  you  would  not.  He  demanded  an  introduction, 
and  obtained  it  by  the  law  of  the  big  stick.  You  see,  he  claimed  that 
a  Duchess  should  be  regarded,  and  referred  to,  as  feminine.  I  told 
him  that  I  was  a  Duchess,  I  produced  an  advertisement  of  "DUTCH- 
ESS TROUSERS."  He  only  laughed;  so  we  have  to  call  the  Duchess 
"IT."  I  am  sure  that  the  old  saying  is,  "What  is  the  use  of  being  a 
Duchess  if  you  can't  wear  an  old  bonnet?"  and  I  never  heard  this 
phrase  substituted — if  you  can't  wear  trousers.  Of  course,  "JX"  can 
wear  trousers!  The  Editor  does  not  know  what  he  is  talking  about.  His 
own  words  show  that.  This  essay  defines  a  Duchess.  That  is  what 
I  wrote  it  for.  Now,  when  this  brilliant  one  had  read  it,  to  the  very  last 
word,  he  said,  "You  will  have  to  write  an  introduction,  describing  what 
you  mean  by  a  Duchess!" 


Personal  reasons — known  to  all  who  know  me — have  induced  me 
to  drive  forth  my  bleeding-footed  pen,  over  the  mountains  of  prejudice, 
into  the  unknown  lands  beyond.  In  search  of  gold?  No.  In  search  of 
glory?  No.  In  search  of  freedom.  1  shall  follow  his  trail  easily,  for 
it  is  written  in  his  life's  blood.  Behold  him  traveling!  Now  he  halts 
to  take  breath  at  a  comma,  or  a  semicolon;  now  reaches  a  lofty  hill- 
top.    Ah!     An  exclamation!     Now  he  scrutinizes  the  new  country  from 


272  The  Haverfordian 

his  vantage-point;  searching  for  what?  Is  every  new  height  gained  an 
interrogation  point?  No.  He  has  seen  the  goal  of  his  labor — off  with 
a  dash  to  the  sea — freedom.  He  halts  for  a  period.  Here  he  is  free — 
free  to  do  as  he  will.  Others'  opinions  bind  him  no  more.  He  stands 
alone;  self-justified,  self-admired,  self-sufficient.  There  have  been  mar- 
tyrs to  freedom  since  the  world  began;  freedom  of  body,  mind,  soul. 
But  freedom  of  dross — a  little  freedom  from  the  claims  of  fashion — such 
things  are  not  to  be  hoped  by  any  save  the  Duchess.  The  Duchess  is 
unshackled.     O  Blessed  Condition,  how  can  man  attain  thee? 

Well,  gentlemen,  1,  your  humble  servant,  am  a  Duchess.  That  s 
right;  hold  up  your  hands  in  befitting  horror.  You  despise  me  for  such 
conceit.  None  of  you,  surely  none,  consider  yourselves  better  than  your 
neighbors.  You  did  not  imply  that  when  you  indicated  your  contempt 
for  me.  No,  you  merely  meant  that  I  was  even  worse  than  you.  But 
that  is  the  other  side  of  that  same  conceit.  If  1  told  you  that  Shake- 
spere  could  not  write  even  as  well  as  I  could,  it  would  sound  just  as 
conceited — and  far  more  obnoxious — than  if  1  said  that  I  could  write 
even  better  than  he  could. 

But  I  am  not  willing  to  admit  that  conceit  is  undesirable.  It  is  a 
God-given  talent,  and  should  be  doubled  before  the  account  is  called 
for.  I'll  leave  it  to  you.  The  turtle  could  not  1  ve  without  his  shell; 
nor  the  rhinoceros  without  his  hide;  nor  man,  without  conceit.  Oh, 
how  our  hearts  go  out  to  those  poor  people  who  lack  it! — people  who 
hide  in  dark  corners  when  they  hear  a  strange  tread  on  the  stair;  people 
who  think  that  every  harmless  word  we  utter  conta'n§  a  covert  sneer 
which  they  are  too  dull  to  understand,  so  they  wince  all  the  more.  Isn't 
that  your  idea  of  a  man  without  conceit?  I  call  such  an  one  most  hope- 
lessly conceited;  for  he  is  unwilling  to  let  us  see  himself,  his  ideas,  the 
things  he  admires,  for  fear  we  should  laugh,  and  hurt  his  pride.  He  is 
unwilling  to  cast  his  pearls  before  swine. 

Excuse  me,  gentlemen,  I  never  meant  to  use  that  word.  I  assure  you 
that  I  recognize  that  you  are  inmates  of  the  seventh  heaven  of  society, 
members  of  the  Three  Hundred,  high  priests  of  the  altar  of  Fashion.  I 
am  sure  you  are  all  nobs — yes,  perfectly  sure.  Why?  Well,  you  are 
born  gentlemen.  You  are  well  read,  both  in  the  classics  and  the  light 
1  terature  of  the  time.  Your  clothes  do  not  attract  attention  and  com- 
ment. The  dull  mahogany  furniture  in  the  parlor  has  stood  in  its  place 
for  a  hundred  years,  and  it  had  a  history  before  that.  The  queer,  old 
graceful  bowl  on  the  side  table  has  engraved  on  it  the  names  of  your 
forefathers,  reaching  back  for  centuries — men  known  in  art,  in  war,  in 
the  church.     Your  family  is  stilt  before  the  world  in  the  person  of  your 


On  Being  a  Duchess  273 

famous  uncle,  the  poet  of  the  old  school;  and  in  the  person  of  your 
esteemed  brother,  the  architect  who  designed  the  church  at  the  corner. 
It  is  a  beautiful  building,  and  is  in  keeping  with  its  surroundings,  for 
you  live  in  what  used  to  be  the  fashionable  quarter,  which  still  retains 
the  best  part  of  its  reputation.  Society  comes  to  you.  You  need  not 
seek  it.  You  are  not  exhibiting,  with  someone  to  take  tickets  and  count 
noses  at  the  door. 

Mr.  and  Mrs.  Maloney,  on  the  other  hand,  think  that  to  have 
money,  and  not  to  exhibit  it,  is  to  waste  it.  Mrs.  Maloney  gives  three 
balls  a  week,  and  a  card-party  every  Sunday  (the  rest  of  the  time  she 
goes  out),  all  for  no  other  reason  in  the  world  than  to  show  the  modern 
style  of  an  expensive  house  in  the  new  residence  section.  Of  course, 
she  cannot  afford  to  waste  her  time  and  effort  on  those  who  lack  wealth 
and  fashion  to  return  the  compliment.  The  only  way  of  reaching  the 
house  is  by  a  drive.  Everybody  comes  in  cars.  The  officious  gate-keeper 
is  always  a  little  hilarious.  The  stained-glass  windows  on  either  side  of 
the  rosewood  front  door  are  the  color  which  is  all  the  rage — bilious 
yellow.  When  the  servant  in  his  gorgeous  livery  opens  that  door,  a 
strange  and  striking  scene  presents  itself.  There  is  music,  without  har- 
mony; luxury,  without  comfort;  grandeur  without  beauty.  The  lady 
of  the  house  puts  down  her  dainty  cigarette  and  sidles  over  to  greet  you. 
We  take  her  hand  with  an  indescribable  sensation.  It  might  as  well  be 
a  cordial  jellyfish.  When  we  reach  a  place  of  seclusion,  we  have  a  violent 
argument  as  to  the  location,  shape  and  number  of  all  her  beauty-spots. 
She  was  almot  too  endearing  at  first,  liked  sofas  too  well,  straightened 
my  tie  too  often — until  our  conversation  turned  to  ancestry.  It  came 
out — by  accident,  of  course — that  she  was  descended  from  the  First 
Earl  of  Kildendale.  But  I,  I  was  descended  from  nobody  who  was 
called  Sir.  Then  Jack  Frost  himself  could  not  have  been  colder.  My 
friend  fell  from  grace  because  he  let  slip  that  he  lived  on  the  far  side  of 
the  avenue  which  divides  the  fashionable  from  the  hoi  polloi.  And  you, 
nob  though  you  are,  will  come  to  grief,  for  you  have  no  car.  Archibald 
alone  will  make  good;  he  lives  in  sanctum  sanctorum  of  fashion;  he  has 
an  automobile;   his  father  was  a  German  count: — he  is  a  boob! 

The  night  after  that  ball,  I  had  a  vision;  and  behold,  there  came  a 
woman,  clad  in  cloth  of  gold.  In  her  hand  she  bore  an  offering,  bought 
from  them  that  sold  in  the  temple.  Eagerly  she  brushed  past  the  high 
priest  and  laid  her  sacrifice  on  the  fire  which  burns  forever  on  the  altar 
of  Fashion,  her  god.  Then  she  fell  on  her  knees,  and  cried  with  a  loud 
voice : — 


274  The  Haverfordian 

"O  Fashion,  from  my  youth  up  I  have  served  thee.  Night 
unto  night  have  I  desired  thee;  day  unto  day  have  I  sacrificed 
unto  thee. 

"2.  Thine  enemies  have  I  utterly  destroyed;  the  Gentiles 
have  I  driven  from  thy  holy  hill. 

"3.   My  life  is  spent;   my  purse  is  empty. 
"4.   If  now,  O  Fashion,  1  have  found  favor  in  thine  eyes, 
let  the  offering  of  my  gold,  and  the  burnt  offering  of  my  flesh 
be  savory  before  thee. 

"5.  Hearken  unto  my  cry,  and  inclirie  thine  ear  unto  thy 
handmaid; 

"6.  For  1  would  that  1  might  serve  thee  in  the  stead  of  this, 
thy  high  priest;    in  this,  thy  holy  of  holies. 

"  7.  Fulfill  now,  O  Fashion,  the  desire  of  thy  servant,  that  I 
may  make  a  glad  noise  in  all  the  earth. 

"8.  But  Fashion,  her  god,  was  angered,  and  breathed  the 
fire  of  his  wrath  upon  that  woman. 

"9.  And,  behold,  the  bloom  of  her  youth  became  like  to 
dust  upon  her  cheek; 

"10.  And  the  grace  of  the  hue  of  her  hair  faded,  like  to 
straw; 

"II.  And  the  lustre  of  her  eyes  perished;  and  her  feet 
shrank,  so  that  she  could  no  more  walk  upon  them; 

"12.  And  the  priests,  the  anointed  of  Fashion,  drave  her 
from  the  Temple. 

"13.  And  I  awoke;  and,  behold,  it  was  a  dream." 
Thank  Heaven!  I  would  hate  to  think  that  that  was  the  end  of  all 
my  fashionable  friends.  I  am  sure  that  nothing  of  that  sort  will  hap- 
pen to  Mrs.  Maloney.  Yet  I  cannot  help  feeling  glad  that  I  am  neither 
the  high  priest  of  such  a  god,  nor  its  demented  worshiper;  neither  nob, 
nor  snob;  neither  you,  nor  Mrs.  Maloney. 

I  see  your  smile.  You  think  that  I  am  just  the  other  kind  of  a 
snob;  the  kind  that  considers  itself  superior  to  the  decrees  of  Fashion, 
that  despises  those  who  wear  good  clothes.  You  are  exactly  and  beau- 
tifully wrong.  The  true  Duchess  has  friends  in  every  walk  of  life — 
Mr.  Fitzosborn,  and  his  waitress;  Mrs.  Maloney,  and  their  gardener; 
longshoremen,  great  financiers;  the  great  cardinal,  the  saloon-keeper; 
society's  outcasts,  society  belles: — all  these  call  the  smiling  Duchess  friend, 
than  which  there  is  but  one  more  endearing  name — one  too  sacred  for 
print.  Yet  the  Duchess  does  not  lose  caste  by  these  associations,  any 
more  than  a  nob  by  patting  his  dog. 


Ox  Being  a  Duchess 


275 


Ah!  Now  you  have  discovered  what  I  meant  by  saying  that  I  was 
a  Duchess.  I  meant  that  I  was  to  a  man  what  a  nob  was  to  his  dog; 
more  of  a  nob  than  the  greatest  nob!  Why  will  you  always  jump  to  con- 
clusions, gentlemen?  You  are  further  from  the  track  than  ever.  The 
nob  is  the  highest  caste  among  the  worshipers  of  Fashion;  but,  inas- 
much as  he  has  caste,  he  can  lose  it.  The  Duchess  has  no  caste,  and  so 
can  never  lose  it. 

Doubtless  that  is  what  you  thought  all  the  time.  You  always 
knew  it  was  the  lowest  order  of  fashion.  That  is  why  you  despised  me 
when  I  admitted  that  I  was  that  detestable  thing — a  Duchess.  You 
have  always  known  that  I  and  your  ashman  were  of  the  same  social 
caste.  You  could  tell  it  from  the  similarity  of  dress.  Well,  gentlemen, 
I  compliment  you  on  your  powers  of  penetration,  and  thank  you  from 
my  heart  for  your  kindly  intended  concealment  of  that  knowledge. 
Your  talents  are  immense.  You  have  penetrated  my  disguise.  I  wish 
to  call  your  attention  to  this  fact,  which  might  so  easily  be  overlooked; 
the  thing  you  saw  beneath  my  disguise  did  not  exist. 

An  ashman  is  not  necessarily  a  Duchess;  for,  if  he  is  proud  of  his 
rags,  he  is  a  snob,  in  embryo;  or,  if  he  is  ashamed  of  them,  he  is  a  nob, 
in  embryo.  I  never  said  that  a  Duchess  was  the  lowest  caste  of  the  wor- 
shipers of  Fashion;  I  said  it  had  no  caste  at  all.  Can  you  tell  me  to  which 
of  the  species  of  the  horse  family  belongs  the  cow? 

The  Duchess  does  not  belong  to  any  caste  of  the  worshipers  of  the 
god.  Fashion.  It  is  an  unbeliever.  Sometimes  the  orthodox  invite  it 
to  dinner,  partly  out  of  curiosity,  partly  out  of  missionary  zeal;  but 
more  often  they  convict  it  of  heresy,  and  either  convict  it  to  the  cheer- 
less dungeon  of  Coventry,  or  roast  it  alive  in  the  Scandal  Column  of  the 
Society  Buzz-buzz.  All  are  the  same  to  the  Duchess,  for  it  has  the 
bleeding-footed  pen  over  the  mountains  of  prejudice  into  the  Elysian 
Fields  beyond.  Behold,  then,  the  Duchess,  standing  triumphant,  alone; 
by  the  sea  of  freedom;    self-justified,  self-admired,  self-sufficient. 


||e  W\)o  Haugf)^  Hast 

By  Alan  W.  Hastings 

THREE  girls  were  chattering  over  their  tea,  or  rather,  one  was 
chattering  very  fast;  she  was  a  tall,  dark-haired  person.  One 
was  chattering  very  fast  when  she  got  an  opportunity;  she  had 
brown  hair.  And  one  chattered  not  at  all,  unless  she  had  something  to 
chatter  about,  which  is  not  chattering.  Therefore,  1  repeat,  she  chattered 
not  at  all;  and  she  was  a  little  persoH,  with  light  hair.  What  is  more, 
she  had  a  dimple. 

"Richard  Harding  has  been  calling  on  Marguerite  Lance  for  more 
than  three  weeks  now,  ever  since  the  Humphreys'  dance.  I  guess  Mar- 
guerite will  be  wearing  a  ring  on  her  third  finger  pretty  soon."  She  gig- 
gled.     It  was  the  first  girl,  of  course. 

But  woe  to  that  giggle!  The  other  girl  seized  her  chance.  "Yes, 
nobody  in  the  world  could  stop  that  love  affair  now." 

"Do  you  really  believe  that?"  It  was  the  light-haired  person  this 
time. 

Scorn  came  into  the  dark-haired  girl's  voice.  "Believe  that!  I'll 
bet  you  a  spring  hat  that  if  anybody  tried  to  meddle  with  their  love 
affair,  those  two  would  be  engaged  inside  of  twenty-four  hours." 

"All  right,  I'll  take  you,"  laughed  the  light-haired  girl.  "You 
know,"  she  added,  "1  don't  know  either  of  them.  I  don't  know  how 
I'm  going  to  do  it  either,  but  1  will  win  that  hat." 

Now,  everything  might  have  gone  well  with  that  light-haired  per- 
son's plans,  but  the  chubby,  blue-eyed  god  of  love  heard  what  the  girls 
said  at  their  tea,  and  straightway  his  brow  was  knit  with  thought.  He 
had  planned  that  Marguerite  and  Richard  should  love;  he  had  shot  two 
winged  arrows  and  watched  with  satisfaction  their  work;  and  now  he, 
Cupid,  did  not  propose  to  be  thwarted  by  an  insignificant  person  with 
light  hair. 

At  last  his  brow  cleared. 

Richard  sat  in  the  glare  of  his  office  light.  He  gave  a  sigh  of  satis- 
faction; his  desk  was  cleared  at  last.  It  was  fifteen  minutes  until  the 
office  closed;  it  was  three  hours  and  fifteen  minutes  till  he  would  see 
Marguerite.  He  smiled  at  a  little  spot  in  the  ceiling.  He  wished  the 
time  was  already  come  to  mount  a  certain  long  flight  of  steps  and  lift 
the  knocker  of  a  certain  door.  He  smiled  again  at  the  little  spot.  Old 
Jane,  as  dignified  as  the  Pope,  would  show  him  in,  and  three  minutes 


He  Who  Laughs  Last  277 

later — just  three  minutes  by  the  stately  clock  in  the  hall — there  would 

be  a  rustle  on  the  stairs  and .    He  laughed  this  time  at  the  little  spot. 

His  mind  filled  out  the  picture  of  the  evening.  There  would  be  a  fire  in 
the  big  fireplace,  a  glowing,  breathing  fire,  that  had  little  playing  flames; 
and  he  would  sit  deep  in  the  big  leather  rocker  and  look  across  at  two 
sparkling  eyes  and  a  beautiful  face  framed  with  soft  brown  hair. 

Yes,  Marguerite  was  his  ideal. 

Then  he  frowned.  No,  she  did  not  have  a  dimple,  and  Richard, 
being  a  hard-headed  business  man,  adored  dimples. 

But  the  spell  of  his  dream  and  of  the  fire  came  back  and  he  resolved 
that  he  would  ask  Marguerite  something  that  evening,  a  certain  very 
important  something. 

The  bell  rang  in  the  outer  office.  He  rose  and,  after  closing  his 
desk,  went  out. 

He  had  hardly  gone  before  the  waste-paper  basket  rustled  and  out 
stepped  Cupid.  He  blew  a  kiss  after  him  and  vanished  with  a  tinkling 
laugh. 

Marguerite  was  pretty.      Indeed,  everybody  admitted  it. 

Mary,  her  new  maid,  was  pretty.      But  nobody  notices  maids. 

And  Marguerite  was  not  only  pretty  but  wise,  for  she  was  playing 
the  game  for  love. 

Also,  Mary  was  wise.  One  has  to  be  very  wise  if  one  wishes  to  win. 
And  she  was  playing  the  game  for  a  new  spring  hat. 

Richard,  being  a  hard-headed  man  who  adored  dimples,  was,  never- 
theless, in  love  with  Marguerite.  As  proof  of  the  fact,  there  was  a 
little  square  box  in  his  vest-pocket. 

Now,  Marguerite  had  been  dressing — I  dare  not  say  how  long, 
because  you  would  not  believe  me.  But  she  told  Mary  to  go  to  the 
door  when  he  came,  although  she  would  rather  have  gone  herself.  Hoyle, 
however,  to  the  contrary. 

Richard,  being  a  hard-headed  business  man  who  adored  dimples, 
was,  nevertheless,  in  love  with  Marguerite.  As  proof  of  the  fact,  there 
was  a  little  square  box  in  his  vest-pocket,  when  he  mounted  a  certain 
long  flight  of  stairs,  two  at  a  time,  and  lifted  a  certain  knocker. 

A  moment's  pause,  and  the  door  swung  open,  revealing  Mary  in  a 
demure  maid's  costume.  He  looked  at  her,  and  a  vague  feeling  that 
he  had  made  a  mistake  seized  him.  This  was  not  the  Jane  of  yore.  She 
smiled,  and  Richard  realized  with  a  start  that  she  had  the  prettiest 
dimple  that  he  had  ever  seen. 

Still  he  hesitated,  and,  as  the  pause  had  passed  all  bounds  of  pro- 
priety, she  prompted  him  by  asking,  "Do  you  wish  to  see  Miss  Lance?" 


278  The  Haverfordian 

He  started,  and  said  he  did. 

She  opened  the  door  wider.     "Who  shall  I  tell  her?" 

"Tell  her — ah — Richard." 

"Won't  you  step  in,  Mr.  —  Richard?"  Again  the  dimple  came  and 
was  not. 

"  I  guess  I  will." 

One  must  wait  at  least  three  minutes  before  coming  down.  "The 
effect  of  this  wait  is  to  impress  the  visitor  with  the  extreme  condescension 
of  one's  presence." 

Richard,  however,  did  not  spend  those  three  minutes  in  being 
impressed,  or  in  thinking  of  Marguerite.  (Here  lieth  Hoyle!)  He  was 
mentally  swearing  in  a  helpless  manner  at  the  dumb  way  in  which  he 
had  acted  at  the  door,  until  the  dimple,  like  a  vision,  put  other  thoughts 
to  flight. 

Cupid,  hidden  behind  the  vase  on  the  mantel,  began  to  get  worried. 
This  would  never  do.  But  soon  there  came  a  rustling  on  the  stairs, 
and  he  smiled  again. 

Marguerite  found  Richard  very  hard  to  talk  to  that  evening.  He 
was  so  absent-minded.  He  asked  her  about  her  new  maid.  Hoyle 
did  not  stipulate  against  conversation  about  maids,  but  why  talk  about 
maids,  when  there  was  another  subject  which  you  wanted  to  talk  about 
very  much;  when  instinct  told  you  there  was  something  you  wanted 
very  much  in  a  certain  vest-pocket? 

At  last  the  firelight,  dancing  on  soft  brown  hair,  wrought  its  spell 
about  him,  and  he  remembered. 

A  silence  longer  than  usual  followed  this  remembering,  and  Mar- 
guerite's heart  went  faster,  ever  so  much  faster.  Cupid  smiled  a  self- 
satisfied  smile,  and  came  out  and  sat  down  at  the  base  of  the  candle- 
stick.     They  wouldn't  look  his  way  for  a  while. 

Just  when  Richard's  hand  was  wavering  about  his  pocket,  the  tele- 
phone rang  with  vehemence.  A  half-minute  later,  Mary  stepped  into 
the  room. 

"Mr.  Brenniman  says  he  must  speak  with  Miss  Lance." 

Cupid  had  scrambled  behind  the  vase;  he  was  very  angry  indeed. 
Just  at  the  crucial  moment,  too!  Marguerite  was  so  vexed  that  she 
could  have  cried. 

"Tell  Mr.  Brenniman  that  I  am  not  at  home,  and  also  any  others 
who  may  call." 

"All  right,  Miss  Lance."  Mary  smiled — at  Richard — and  the  dimple 
came  and  disappeared.  Richard  was  again  aware  that  Marguerite  had 
no  dimple. 


He  Who  Laughs  Last  279 

This  time  he  was  looking  the  facts  in  the  face;  Cupid  could  not 
deceive  him  with  a  dream.  She  did  not  have  a  dimple.  He  began  to 
talk  about  the  war.  Marguerite  would  almost  as  soon  have  had  him 
talk  about  maids. 

Meanwhile  Cupid,  behind  the  vase,  sat  down  in  thought.  A  man 
loves  to  see  a  pretty  face  across  a  little  table,  with  a  small,  shining, 
steaming  pot  of  something  (tea,  or  cocoa,  perhaps)  on  it.  Marguerite 
suggested  cocoa. 

She  touched  the  bell,  and  Mary  soon  appeared,  with  a  little  tray 
which  she  set  on  the  little  table  drawn  up  between  them.  Marguerite 
proceeded  to  pour.  This  time  Richard  neglected  to  look  up,  as  Mary 
went  out,  and  the  smile  was  unheeded.  Richard  was  watching  a  pretty 
face  across  the  table  and  those  deft  fingers  as  they  poured  chocolate. 

Mary  realized  with  a  frown  that,  if  she  did  not  do  something  at  once, 
all  would  be  lost. 

Cupid  came  out  and  sat  on  the  mantel  and  kicked  his  heels  over. 
Richard's  hand  again  strayed  towards  his  pocket.  Marguerite's  cheeks 
became  flushed  and  her  eyes  sparkled  more  brightly.  She  poured  out 
two  little  cups,  and  prattled  foolishly  all  the  while.  Then  she  needs 
must  carry  Richard's  cup  around  to  him.  In  the  transfer  of  the  cup 
that  soft  little  hand  touched  his,  and  somehow, — they  stayed  thus  for 
a  full  five  seconds. 

Meanwhile  Mary  in  the  little  kitchen  had  been  planning  desperately. 
Her  eyes  fell  on  the  plate  of  cookies  which  she  had  forgotten  to  take 
in.  Quickly  she  snatched  it  up,  and — she  was  none  too  soon.  The  swing- 
ing door  opened  on  the  two  as  there  they  stood.  Richard  started; 
Marguerite  snatched  away  her  hand,  and — Crash!  The  little  cup  of 
cocoa  broke  on  the  arm  of  the  chair  and  splashed. 

I  give  you  my  word  of  honor  that  Cupid  swore. 

Mary  almost  laughed  right  out,  but  the  door  swung  back  in  time. 

Like  a  child  about  to  cry,  Marguerite  stood  looking  at  her  hands, 
stained  with  cocoa.  Richard  was  looking  too,  and  he  thought  how 
beautiful  those  hands  would  be  with  a  little  ring — .  Quick  as  thought, 
he  drew  forth  the  box  and  slipped  the  little  ring  on  the  third  dainty 
finger. 

By  some  caprice  of  Chance,  Marguerite's  waist  had  escaped  the  flying 
deluge  of  cocoa,  but  Richard  was  not  the  man  to  stand  aside  for  Chance. 
Five  minutes  later,  there  was  an  exceptionally  large  amount  of  cocoa 
on  Marguerite's  waist. 

I  give  you  my  word  of  honor  that  Cupid  laughed. 


tlTfjE  Cbitor'g  Eeflecttong 

IT  is  my  habit,  being  of  a  somewhat  dreamy  nature,  that  verges  more 
often  toward  sentimentahty,  I  fear,  than  toward  anything  better,  to 

find  pleasure  in  the  most  innocent  of  pastimes;  forgetfulness,  even, 
in  waters  that  smack  not  at  all  of  the  waters  of  Lethe;  and  to  search 
for  redemption  in  my  vision. 

On  a  midsummer  Sunday,  when  the  sultry  air  seemed  sweet  with 
the  memory  of  a  half-forgotten  happiness,  yet  oppressive,  as  though 
presaging  a  sorrow  that  is  to  be,  1  had  been  tramping  wearily  along  a 
dusty,  apparently  nterminable  road,  and  found  myself  at  about  ten 
o'clock  in  the  morning,  at  a  little  white  country  village.  It  was  a  strag- 
gling little  place,  with  a  white  old  tavern  in  the  center  that  had  been 
licensed  centuries  before  the  Revolution,  and  old  men  with  white  beards 
and  white  clay  pipes  were  sitting  in  a  semicircle  in  front  of  it,  dozing 
through  a  drowsy  conversation.  Gardens  bordered  the  street,  sedately 
r  otous  with  old-fashioned  flowers;  modest  pinks  and  the  low-flowering 
jasmine,  sweet-williams,  and  my  untrained  eyes  saw  marjoram,  hearts- 
ease and  rue.  The  air  had  a  delicate  sweetness,  like  that  which  lavender 
gives  a  drawerful  of  old  linen,  and  a  sleepy  cat  lifted  a  reluctant  paw, 
trying  to  catch  flies — whose  every  buzz  seemed  labored,  to  blend  with 
the  universal  lassitude. 

But  all  this  brought  little  solace  to  me.  There  was  always  the 
thought  of  tomorrow,  of  Blue  Monday  and  its  cares,  of  the  devil's  own 
Monday  and  the  rest  of  his  weekdays.  So  1  turned  my  steps  into  a 
little,  whitewashed  church,  sheltered  behind  some  pines  that  made  the 
air  heavy  with  yet  another  scent.  I  sat  in  a  pew,  with  heavy,  mahogany 
varnish  clinging  in  beads  to  its  cracks,  and  the  strong  savor  of  pine.  I 
shook  myself  to  forget  the  visions  of  my  childhood,  which  my  surround- 
ings had  recalled  to  trouble  me,  and  1  betook  myself  to  observing  the 
people  who  were  filing  into  the  church. 

The  tired  man,  with  the  cheap  celluloid  collar  and  the  kind  of  tie  to 
hook  on,  ready-tied,  and  his  tired  wife,  and  the  three  tired  children,  who 
would  presently  intone  praise  of  the  Father,  Son,  and  Holy  Ghost  in 
tired  voices,  go  home  to  sleep  after  their  dinner  of  boiled  potatoes  and 
ham,  and  wake  up  tired.  What  visions  could  they  have?  The  Vision  of 
Rest,  perhaps,  which  had  been  put  aside  from  them  by  the  Genius  who 
presided  over  their  poverty. 

The  fat  little  man,  with  the  thick  gold  chain,  and  the  jingle  of 
money  in  his  tight  pocket.  His  was  the  Vision  of  Gold,  which  is  the 
Vision  of  Dross. 

The  girl,  with  the  ostrich  plume  which  she  had  curled  herself, 
shading  eyes  that  were  a  little  too  innocent,  not  ignorant  enough.  Hers 
was  the  Vision  of  Love,  which  the  kings  of  the  Jews  bought,  some  thou- 


The  Editor's  Reflections  281 

sands  of  years  ago,  and  we  have  hawked  on  the  streets,  from  Bagdad  to 
Pittsburgh,  ever  since. 

So  my  thoughts  went,  and  I  asked  myself,  as  the  most  optimistic  of 
you  ask  yourselves,  now  and  then,  what  was  the  true  vision,  if  there 
were  one?  Was  it  Art,  "there  is  none";  or  Beauty,  which  can  be  bought 
by  the  barrel,  and  sold  by  the  hundredweight;  or  Honor,  which  is  a 
byword;    or  Truth,  which  is  a  mockery;  or  God,  who  made  a  hell? 

Then,  (perhaps  1  fell  asleep  and  dreamed,  I  do  not  know),  a  little 
girl  entered  the  church.  She  was  clad  in  slender  white,  with  a  white  silk 
ribbon  like  a  halo  about  her  bright  head,  and  an  indefinable  grace  about 
her  whole  person.  The  Spirit  of  the  little  white  town  must  have  given 
it  her,  for  an  aureole.  Her  dark,  enigmatic  eyes  roved  the  church,  as 
though  they  were  looking  for  some  one,  and  rested  on  me  with  faint 
disapproval  troubling  them.  She  sat  down  between  her  mother  and 
father,  in  the  pew  in  front  of  me. 

An  insurgent  little  curl  strayed  out  upon  her  neck,  and  while  the 
sensuous  part  of  me  watched,  1  wondered  if  the  mother  and  father  knew 
what  a  gift  the  good  God  had  vouchsafed  them  when  He  trusted  them 
with  this  little  girl,  whose  feet  did  not  touch  the  floor;  or  whether  they 
regarded  her  merely  as  one  who  would  do  the  dishes.  The  Vision  of 
Childhood,  that  happy  birth-time  of  memories,  was  it  not  then  the 
Vision  of  Travail?  The  Vision  of  Children:  the  vision  of  aloof  strangers 
separated  from  their  parents  by  a  gulf  that  one  cannot  shout  across. 

Presently  a  little  boy  came  in,  in  knickerbockers  and  a  bow  tie,  with 
fair  skin  that  had  a  tendency  toward  freckles,  and  a  nose  that  had  more 
than  a  tendency  toward  snubness.  He  sat  down  beside  me,  and  imme- 
diately the  little  girl  turned  and  smiled  at  him;  the  kind  of  smile  the 
Master  must  have  seen,  just  before  He  told  of  the  kingdom. 

Often  through  the  service  she  sent  him  that  flashing  smile,  and  he 
smiled  back,  and  scratched  his  initials  on  the  bench.  Presently  the 
dreary  sermon  was  done.  She  dropped  demurely  behind  her  parents, 
and  her  soft  eyes  beckoned  him. 

He  put  his  arm  about  her  slender  shoulders,  very  gently,  with  a 
calm  disregard  of  the  worshippers  at  another  shrine,  and  the  man  who 
had  a  Vision  of  Gold  smiled  as  he  passed  them,  and  the  girl  with  the 
tawdry  plume  and  the  shifty,  wistful  eyes  turned  away.  I  murmured, 
somewhat  haltingly,  (for  my  lips  were  little  used  to  the  words)  a  bene- 
diction; for  on  the  midn  ght  of  my  sadness  had  broken  the  light  of  a 
little  child,  and  the  white  walls  with  the  sombre  shine  of  the  pine-trees 
through  the  windows,  seemed  to  echo,  or  perhaps  it  was  I  who  echoed, 
"  Benedicite." 

(It  must  have  been  a  dream.)  Then  I  saw  that  each  has  untohimself 
the  true  Vision. 


282 


The  Haverfordian 


ALUMNI 


'63 


William  M.  Coates,  president  of 
the  Philadelphia  Board  of  Trade, 
has  been  appointed  one  of  the 
American  Committee  of  the  Lyons 
Sample  Fair,  which  maintains  an 
exhibit  of  American-made  goods  at 
Lyons,  France.  The  fair  proved 
very  successful  last  year,  and  has 
stimulated  the  sale  of  American 
products  throughout  France. 

70 
The  Rev.  Charles  Wood,  pastor 
of  the  Church  of  the  Covenant, 
Washington,  D.  C,  will  give  the 
Noble  lecture  at  Harvard  Univer- 
sity for  1918.  Dr.  Wood  has  been 
active  in  the  training  camps  and 
for  the  American  Red  Cross,  and 
has  written  "Some  Moral  and 
Religious  Aspects  of  the  War, 
1915." 

11 
Dr.  F.  B.  Gummere  has  been 
appointed  a  member  of  the  Com- 
mittee on  the  Graduate  School  of 
Arts  and  Sciences  of  Harvard 
University. 

'88 
Thomas  J.  Orbison  is  a  captain 
in  the  Medical  Corps  of  the  United 
States   Army    and    is   stationed    at 
Camp  Kearney,  San  Diego,  Cal. 

'89 

Mr.  and  Mrs.  D.  C.  Lewis,  of 
Millville,  Pa.,  entertained  Presi- 
dent Comfort  at  a  supper  party  on 
Wednesday,  January  16th,  the 
night  of  the  Glee  Club  concert, 
before  the  Fathers'  Club  of  Mill- 
ville. William  H.  Nicholson,  '92, 
and  George  H.  Thomas,  '02,  helped 
in  planning  the  affair. 


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•92 
Dr.  Christian  Brinton,  author  of 
"Modern  Artists,"  delivered  an 
illustrated  lecture  on  January  16th 
before  the  Washington  Society  of 
the  Fine  Arts  on  the  "Russian 
School  of  Painting." 

•93 
W.  W.  Haviland,  principal  of 
the  Friends'  Select  School,  Phila- 
delphia, presided  at  a  meeting  of 
the  Friends'  Educational  Associa- 
tion before  Christmas.  The  meet- 
ing was  addressed  by  Dr.  Lida  B. 
Earlhart,  of  New  York  City. 

Ex-'93 
Among     recent     publications     of 
Haverfordians  is  "A  Maid  of  Old 
Manhattan,"  by  A.  A.  Knipe. 

'97 
Alfred  M.  Collins  and  Emmett 
R.  Tatnall,  •QZ,  respectively  presi- 
dent and  treasurer  of  the  Haver- 
ford  Alumni  Association,  have  en- 
tered the  government  service,  the 
former  as  a  major,  field  inspector  of 
ordnance,  U.  S.  R.,  the  latter  as  a 
member  of  the  non-flying  corps  of 
the  Aviation  Service.  Mr.  Collins 
has  the  last  two  years  been  presi- 
dent of  the  Main  Line  Citizens' 
Association,  and  has  delivered  lec- 
tures on  big  game  hunting  in 
Africa,  South  America,  and  Alaska. 

'99 
In  the  Standard  for  December 
appears  an  article  by  Royal  J. 
Davis,  "The  Press  in  Time  of 
War."  The  kernel  of  Mr.  Davis' 
article  is  the  need  for  constructive 
criticism  in  dealing  with  any  pub- 
lic evidence,  and  that  it  is  easy 
enough  to  check  obstructive  propa- 
ganda and,  at  the  same  time,  keep 
an  open-minded  attitude  which  is 
really  an  aid  to  the  government. 


284 


The  Haverfordian 


•00 
Major  Grayson  Murphy,  M.  P., 
vice-president  of  the  Guaranty 
Trust  Company  of  New  York,  has 
resigned  his  position  as  head  of  the 
Red  Cross  Commission  abroad, 
giving  place  to  Major  J.  H.  Perkins, 
a  Harvard  graduate,  and  will  take 
up  work  in  the  regular  army.  Mr. 
Murphy,  after  leaving  Haverford, 
graduated  from  West  Point,  and 
feels  that  he  should  give .  the  gov- 
ernment the  benefit  of  this  mili- 
tary training.  As  European  Com- 
missioner of  the  American  Red 
Cross,  Mr.  Murphy  was  a  guest  of 
honor  at  the  dinner  of  the  Harvard 
Club  of  London  at  Claridge  House, 
on  October  1st. 

"02 
A  poem,  by  C.  Wharton  Stork, 
"The  Flying  Fish,"  has  been 
printed  in  W.  S  Braithwaite's 
Anthology  of  Magazine  Poetry  for 
1917. 

'06 
James    T.    Fales    has    been    ap- 
pointed   City    Attorney    of    Lake 
Forest,  111. 

'07 
Mr.  and  Mrs.  Harold  Evans  are 
being  congratulated  on  the  birth  of 
a  son,  Nathaniel  Hathaway  Evans. 
Mrs.  Evans  is  a  sister  of  Nathaniel 
Hathaway,  ex-' 1 9. 

'09 

A  son,  Alfred  Lowry,  3d,  was 
recently  born  to  Alfred  Lowry,  Jr., 
and  his  wife,  Grace  Bacon  Lowry, 
who  are  on  Y.  M.  C.  A.  service  in 
France. 

The  engagement  of  Jane  Watson 
Taylor,  of  Langhorne,  Pa.,  to  R. 
Newton  Brey,  of  Philadelphia,  has 
been  announced. 


'10 

Willard  Pyle  Tomlinson  was 
married  to  Cornelia  Jessie  Turner, 
of  Woods  Hole,  Mass.,  on  Decem- 
ber 5th. 

•|l 

John  S.  Bradway  has  been  at- 
tending the  Naval  Pay  Ofificers' 
School  at  the  Catholic  University, 
Brookland,  D.  C.  He  is  a  ranking 
ensign. 

Philip  B.  Deane  is  superintend- 
ing the  purchase  of  chemical  sup- 
plies for  the  English  armies  in 
Bombay  and  Simla,  after  finishing 
similar  work  in  Sidney,  Australia. 

David  S.  Hinshaw  is  the  execu- 
tive secretary  of  the  special  Army 
and  Navy  Fund  of  the  American 
Bible  Society. 

On  January  7,  1918,  a  son, 
Charles  Frederick,  2nd,  was  born 
to  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Robert  E.  Miller, 
of  Lancaster,  Pa. 

Irvin  C.  Foley  has  been  chairman 
of  the  Weekly  Conference  held  by 
the  Germantown  Branch  of  the 
Society   for  Organizing   Charity. 

Victor  F.  Schoepperle  has  the 
position  of  assistant  sales  manager 
in  the  National  City  Company, 
New  York. 

Edward  Wallerstein  has  been 
made  a  first  lieutenant  in  the 
National  Army. 

'16 

Announcement  has  been  made 
of  the  engagement  of  Carroll  D. 
Champlin  and  Miss  Helen  Karns, 
of  Bryn  Mawr.  Mr.  Champlin  is 
an  instructor  in  the  University  of 
Pittsbuigh. 


Alumni  Notes 


285 


'15 

Edward  L.  Farr  has  recently 
been  awarded  a  commission  as  sec- 
ond lieutenant  at  Fort  Meyer. 
while  Albert  Stone,  '16.  has  been 
appointed  a  first  lieutenant  at  Fort 
Oglethorpe. 

•16 

Ralph  V.  Bangham,  Assistant 
Professor  in  Biology,  has  received 
notice  from  his  local  board  of  exam- 
iners that  he  has  been  accepted  for 
special  service  in  the  army  and  will 
be  called  at  a  later  date.  Bang- 
ham  will  probably  serve  as  a  bac- 
teriologist in  the  government  ser- 
vice. 

Frank  W.  Cary  recently  received 
a  commission  in  the  Aviation  Ser- 
vice, and  is  now  an  inspector  in 
that  branch. 

Lawrence  E.  Rowntree  was  killed 
in  action  in  Flanders  on  Novem- 
ber 23,  1917.  He  was  the  son  of 
J.  Wilhelm  Rowntree.  a  well-known 
Quaker  preacher,  and  was  born  at 
Scarboro  in  Yorkshire.  He  was 
educated  at  the  Bootham  School, 
and  spent  his  Freshman  year,  1912- 
1913,  at  Haverford  College,  where 
he  played  on  the  soccer  team.  The 
next  year  he  spent  at  Cambridge, 
and  at  the  declaration  of  war  he 
joined  the  Friends'  Ambulance 
Unit.  The  following  year  was 
spent  in  the  ambulance  service  at 
York  Hospital,  and  the  next  year 
he  volunteered  in  the  British  Army 
Motor  Corps. 

'17 

Willard  M.  R.  Crosman,  who  was 
with  the  City  Troop  at  Augusta, 
has  received  his  appointment  for 
the  Reserve  Officers'  Training 
Camp  at  Camp  Hancock,  Ga. 


Among  the  pall-bearers  at  the 
funeral  of  Kenneth  Hay,  of  Penn- 
sylvania Base  Hospital  Unit  No. 
10,  in  France,  were  L.  M.  Ramsey, 
'17;  H.  L.  Jones.  '17;  R.  B. 
Greer,  '18,  and  W.  B.  Moore,  '18. 
Altogether  there  are  twenty  Hav- 
erfordians  in  this  unit. 

Arthur  C.  Inman  has  a  poem  in 
W.  S.  Braithwaite's  Anthology  of 
Magazine  Poetry  for  1917,  entitled 
"The  Picture." 

Roland  Snader  has  enlisted  in 
the  Medical  Reserve  Corps  of  the 
United  States  Army. 

Mr.  and  Mrs.  Walter  M.  La  Rue, 
of  Pelham  Road,  Germantown, 
have  recently  announced  the  en- 
gagement of  their  daughter,  Mar- 
garet La  Rue,  to  Justus  Clayton 
Strawbridge. 

•18 

J.  M.  Crosman  and  J.  A.  Hisey, 
ex-' 18,  who  were  in  the  Headquar- 
ters Department  at  Camp  Meade, 
have  been  appointed  to  the  Officers' 
Training  Camp,  which  will  be  held 
at  Camp  Meade,  and  will  undergo 
a  three  months'  course  of  study  in 
preparation  for  their  examinations 
for  commissions. 

Evan  J.  Lester,  Jr.,  of  the  Senior 
Class,  has  been  awarded  the  Clem- 
entine Cope  Fellowship  for  1918. 
The  fellowship  permits  graduate 
study  in  any  university,  though 
Haverfordians  in  the  past  have 
generally  taken  the  extra  year  of 
study  at  Harvard.  This  year  the 
faculty  has  made  a  special  ruling 
which  will  enable  Lester  to  take 
up  war  work  on  his  graduation 
and  take  the  fellowship  when  he 
can. 

Percy  S.  Thornton,  ex-' 18,  and 
Samuel   Wagner,    '16,    who   are   at 


286 


The  Haverfordian 


Augusta  with  the  City  Troop,  have 
been  assigned  to  the  Officers' 
Training  School  at  Camp  Hancock, 
Augusta,  Ga. 

Ex-'21 
C.   A.   Brinton  has  entered   the 
Aviation    Service    in    the    Flying 


Department,   and  has  left   college 
for  the  training  camp. 

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