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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..d7b82bc --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,4 @@ +*.txt text eol=lf +*.htm text eol=lf +*.html text eol=lf +*.md text eol=lf diff --git a/LICENSE.txt b/LICENSE.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6312041 --- /dev/null +++ b/LICENSE.txt @@ -0,0 +1,11 @@ +This eBook, including all associated images, markup, improvements, +metadata, and any other content or labor, has been confirmed to be +in the PUBLIC DOMAIN IN THE UNITED STATES. + +Procedures for determining public domain status are described in +the "Copyright How-To" at https://www.gutenberg.org. + +No investigation has been made concerning possible copyrights in +jurisdictions other than the United States. Anyone seeking to utilize +this eBook outside of the United States should confirm copyright +status under the laws that apply to them. diff --git a/README.md b/README.md new file mode 100644 index 0000000..5b56ce2 --- /dev/null +++ b/README.md @@ -0,0 +1,2 @@ +Project Gutenberg (https://www.gutenberg.org) public repository for +eBook #68019 (https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/68019) diff --git a/old/68019-0.txt b/old/68019-0.txt deleted file mode 100644 index 8c82f68..0000000 --- a/old/68019-0.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,2262 +0,0 @@ -The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Yale Literary Magazine (Vol. -LXXXVIII, No. 1), by (Students of Yale) - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and -most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions -whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms -of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at -www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you -will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before -using this eBook. - -Title: The Yale Literary Magazine (Vol. LXXXVIII, No. 1) - -Author: (Students of Yale) - -Release Date: May 8, 2022 [eBook #68019] - -Language: English - -Produced by: hekula03 and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at - https://www.pgdp.net (This book was produced from images - made available by the HathiTrust Digital Library.) - -*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE YALE LITERARY MAGAZINE -(VOL. LXXXVIII, NO. 1) *** - - - - - - - Vol. LXXXVIII No. 1 - - The - Yale Literary Magazine - - Conducted by the - Students of Yale University. - - [Illustration] - - “Dum mens grata manet, nomen laudesque YALENSES - Cantabunt SOBOLES, unanimique PATRES.” - - October, 1922. - - New Haven: Published by the Editors. - Printed at the Van Dyck Press, 121-123 Olive St., New Haven. - - Price: Thirty-five Cents. - - _Entered as second-class matter at the New Haven Post Office._ - - * * * * * - -THE YALE LITERARY MAGAZINE - -has the following amount of trade at a 10% discount with these places: - - CHASE—Men’s Furnishings $30.00 - GAMER—Tailors 32.00 - KNOX-RAY—Silverware $16.00 - PACH—Photographers 24.00 - PALLMAN—Kodaks 32.00 - ROGER SHERMAN—Photographers 63.00 - YALE CO-OP. 63.00 - YALE UNIVERSITY PRESS—Books 125.00 - KIRBY—Jewelers 63.00 - -If you want any of this drop a card to the Business Manager, Yale -Station, and a trade slip will be returned on the same day. - - * * * * * - -ESTABLISHED 1818 - -[Illustration: _Brooks Brothers_, CLOTHING, Gentlemen’s Furnishing Goods.] - -MADISON AVENUE COR. FORTY-FOURTH STREET NEW YORK - -_Telephone Murray Hill 8800_ - -Clothing Ready made or to Measure for Autumn - - Evening Clothes, Cutaways, Sack Suits - Sporting Clothes and Medium-weight Overcoats - English and Domestic Hats & Furnishings - Boots and Shoes for Dress, Street and Outdoor Sport - Trunks, Bags & Leather Goods - -_Send for “New Directory of Brooks Brothers’ Building”_ - -BOSTON TREMONT COR. BOYLSTON - -NEWPORT 220 BELLEVUE AVENUE - - * * * * * - -THE YALE CO-OP. - -_A Story of Progress_ - -At the close of the fiscal year, July, 1921, the total membership was -1187. - -For the same period ending July, 1922, the membership was 1696. - -On October 5th, 1922, or one week after the opening of college the -membership was 1752, and men are still joining. - -Why stay out when a membership will save you manifold times the cost of -the fee. - - - - -THE YALE LITERARY MAGAZINE - - - - -Contents - -OCTOBER, 1922 - - - Leader MAXWELL E. FOSTER 1 - - Truth MAXWELL E. FOSTER 6 - - Poem RUSSELL W. DAVENPORT 8 - - About It and About K. A. CAMPBELL, JR. 11 - - The Meditations of a Non-Thinker L. HYDE 12 - - Selima MYLES WHITING 16 - - Portfolio: - - Beauty HERBERT W. HARTMAN, JR. 23 - - Fear of God ROBERT CRUISE MCMANUS 23 - - Ballade LAIRD GOLDSBOROUGH 27 - - Notabilia 30 - - Book Reviews 32 - - Editor’s Table 38 - - - - - The Yale Literary Magazine - - VOL. LXXXVIII OCTOBER, 1922 NO. 1 - -_EDITORS_ - - MAXWELL EVARTS FOSTER - RUSSELL WHEELER DAVENPORT - ROBERT CHAPMAN BATES - WINFIELD SHIRAS - FRANCIS OTTO MATTHIESSEN - -_BUSINESS MANAGERS_ - - CHARLES EVANDER SCHLEY - HORACE JEREMIAH VOORHIS - - - - -_Leader_ - - -Every generation is a foible. It is born of whim, and educated -on fantasy. In adulthood it is naturally a freak. This younger -generation in this year of our Lord 1922 is no exception. We were -born of respectability, educated on pedantry. In adulthood we are -revolutionaries. Could anything be more natural, more un-Victorian? - -We were born secretly. God knows how such things happened in that age. -Perhaps the Stork brought us, nicely done up in—well—baby-clothes. We -were brought up on platitudes. Most of them were dressed up as Christian. -We hid our meanings in pretty words, and our sense in a blush. The word -sex was unheard of. We didn’t talk much about anything dirty. We never -swore. We said our prayers. With goodness we were replete; it made our -lives hideous. Ultimately it was our virtue that drove us to sin. We -were too good for this world. Forced to live in it by the tyranny of our -parents—we adjusted ourselves, and became bad. - -As soon as lies become platitudes they are doomed. The next passer-by -will see through their disguise and expose them. You can fool yourself -with your own lie; but if your neighbors catch the habit from you, and -begin fooling themselves with the same lie, in no time that lie becomes a -platitude. The Victorians fooled themselves into thinking that anything -you could forget didn’t exist any more. So were we born into a Virgin -world. Our beloved ancestry had forgotten there was any sin; for us then -there would not be any. We were their realized dream. - -But unfortunately these little cherubim, these little seraphim grew up -into adolescence, learnt things about sex by groping in dark corners, -learnt shocking social problems by looking up words in Dictionaries; -learnt in so doing to disbelieve every word the Victorians uttered. They -had put their faith in that sort of royalty once too often. Genuinely -they became skeptics. Because they had been taught by liars they could -not afford to believe anything—without testing its verity. They are -generous in their estimate of the society into which they are born. -Instead of saying, “We are born into a world of liars,” they restrain -themselves, consider the question rationally and say, “No, only into a -world of fools.” And out of these Fools’ Paradise the younger generation -has toddled. To them it was a hell. - -Their first independent action was to set up Truth as their God. They had -had enough of lies. Truth was their panacea. Ignorance was the abiding -sin of mortality. Their battle was for the Tree of Knowledge of Good -and Evil, not for the beautiful garden of Eden—where nakedness did not -prevail upon innocence and blushing was unknown. - -Part of this knowledge surely was scientific. The health of the body -was all important: Biology, Hygiene, sex education. For these they -cried out. They talked eagerly of germ-plasm and genetics; defiantly of -birth-control, the double-standard. - -An equality between man and woman had suddenly been decreed politically; -philanthropists were already talking about it morally; the younger -generation carrying the movement one step further is experimenting with -it intellectually. What they think, they say. Does it matter who is -there? Bah! Victorian prudery. There are no secrets now between the sexes. - -But part of this knowledge of good and evil was common sense—when once -the Puritan and Victorian nonsense had been destroyed. It is only to -a sex-maniac that the shortening of skirts can possibly do any harm. -What, cries the younger generation, is the difference between showing -one’s legs, and one’s arms; bobbing one’s hair is the same, or smoking, -or drinking, or swearing. If they aren’t good for the physique—well -and good, they are bad; but if they are only bad because our Puritan or -Victorian ancestry say so—or because Moses fell down the mountain with -some tombstones under his arm—what the hell?—they aren’t bad at all. - -So the gentlemen and ladies of the past lift their monocles and their -lorgnettes to watch these semi-nude girls, these godless men. “Dear, -dear,” they say. “Gracious me. That’s not a nice young man.” - -What really has happened, say the younger generation, is that America for -some time has been living up to ideals which they have never expressed, -and have expressed, in lieu of these, ideals which they have never lived -down to. Silly little superficial rules, and some hideous inhibitions -grew up out of these expressed ideals. Otherwise they have been like -corpses rotting before the very eyes of those who created them. They were -never alive at all, say the younger generation. So it considers itself -a generation of building, not of destroying. With frankness a dominant -characteristic it must express the futility of the old expressed, as well -as the strength of the old unexpressed ideals. But it lays the emphasis -on the old unexpressed. For instance, it is not proud that it has torn -down the absurd anthropomorphic God of the literature of the Past, but -it is proud, that, having gotten rid of that miasma, it has proceeded to -the conclusion that God is but the vision of the potentiality of mankind -realized. That with Thomas Hardy it can go forward - - “with dependence placed - On the human heart’s resource alone, - In brotherhood bonded close, and graced - With loving kindness fully blown, - And visioned help unsought, unknown.” - -It is not proud of having torn the veil off the carefully draped -Victorian womanhood, but having done so it is proud of the constructive -results, that no longer having ignorance, it can see the beauty and -purity in the nakedness of the sex. It has torn down the ugly lies that -covered the world with a respectable and morne garland of fig-leaves, but -out of the ruins of this demolition it is creating a naked sanity, of -which it is reasonably proud. - -Thirty years ago “Jude the Obscure” was called “Jude the Obscene”. To-day -Jude is considered a masterpiece, dealing in an intensely honest way with -God and the divine right of the marriage service. Marriage has become -a less eternal and a more kindly institution. Divorcees are considered -less heinous people than before. For better or for worse is no longer -a very powerful condemnation. In the Victorian era the sexual became -an obsession because it was over-emphasized by being left unmentioned. -In reaction, for a moment, under the Freudian influence it became an -obsession from the exactly opposite reason. With the younger generation -it is taking its place like hunger and thirst in the category of normal -desires. The relations between girl and boy are more open, more real than -in the past. There is no longer the hideous restraint before marriage, -causing unhappy lives. It is an easier matter to know whom one is to -marry among the younger generation. More and more they are being honest -with one another. More and more they are coming to consider themselves -rational, kind-hearted people. - -I am not justified in defending or attacking the younger generation. I -am doing my duty only in attempting to express the ideals we live by, -the ideals they teach me. Too long has the ridiculous idea been current -that they have no ideals. I have set myself to define them. Because they -are different from the past, they are not non-existent. We are not, as a -generation, more dishonest, more dishonorable than our predecessors. Yet -we have no ideals? That is out of the mouths of fools only. - -No, the Victorians thought that not knowing, or pretending not to -know, about things unpleasant was the way to destroy them—by a slow -process of forgetting. The younger generation thinks that knowing, and -everyone knowing thoroughly about things unpleasant, will eventually -arouse the race to do something about them; to clean energetically the -Augean stables. You can see there is a fundamental difference in each -generation’s idea of Humanity. The Victorians thought that knowledge of -sin tainted the virtuous flower of innocence by rousing thoughts and -passions for evil, which could only be killed by long disusage. Mankind -fundamentally, said the Victorians to themselves, has a bad streak. We -must carefully avoid mentioning things that would start that streak -going. If man is not naturally bad, he naturally has some bad in him. We -must starve the devil out of him. The younger generation denies this. -Man is naturally good; anyway, fundamentally so. Evil is an outgrowth of -our own civilization, and social scheme. Most, if not all, criminals are -insane. Society is to blame for insanity. We must study the causes of the -insanities; must publish them broadcast. People must know. If they know, -they will improve. We must educate ourselves up to knowing what is good, -what is bad. We must know the worst to do the best. - -Consciously, the Victorians were living by the theories of church dogma, -believing in original sin; unconsciously, the younger generation is -living by the theories of the romantic spirit, believing in natural -good. They are idealists beyond the common run of mankind; and they are -ruthless in the following of their ideals. - - MAXWELL E. FOSTER. - - - - -_Truth_ - - - The Truth that lingers in the heart’s secret places, - The Truth that gleams of a sudden on Grail-faces, - The Truth that has run so many torch-lit races, - Shone suddenly on me, - And henceforth was to be - Bone of my bone, flesh of my flesh, soul of my soul, unto that - last far dawn which is eternity. - - Our souls were worn like a gaunt dungeon-keep - Washed by the sea; we sowed not, nor did reap; - Our Gods were on a journey or asleep;— - When like a surging fire - A spirit from earth’s ages did suspire, - And each soul’s tower put forth leaves and blossomed, - Like a young tree, and in our souls again there was desire. - - The Spring lay luxuriantly the earth over, - White roses broke like foam, and the hot clover - Seemed heavy with spent passion like a lover - Languorous, till the night - And the swift breezes white - Came like a cooling bell and rain, and our eyes grew brighter - With the new gleam of that celestial light. - - Suddenly there was Romance laughing again, - And poetry in the strange ancient ways of men, - We were as ones on peaks in Darien, - And Love with a new glory - Opened in song and story, - Like a flower in a wan waste by the sea, - And we with our wide eyes looked forward from our star-touched - promontory. - - The hands that moulded dust out of the dust, - Scorching the sky with the iron that turns to rust, - Fashioning brazen Gods to feed their lust, - These with their feet of clay, - In the slow alchemy of a timeless day, - Caught like the hunter of the east new beauty - And were like figures of the dawn and spray. - - Time has not memory enough for these. - De Gustibus through shadowy autumn trees, - Drinking life fully to its twisted lees, - Nor Time, nor drear regret - Holds enough memory ever to forget, - These that are metaphors of immortality, - Enduring beyond the finality of any long and last sunset. - - The Truth that lingers in the heart’s secret places, - For this is there an hour glass that effaces, - Or waves to wash away to sunless spaces - Truth that is more than Time, - More than the mere infernal and sublime, - Truth that is strong as Death, and light as Life, - And passionate as the last great poet’s last rhyme? - - MAXWELL E. FOSTER. - - - - -_Poem_ - -“_The sane man is nowhere at all when he enters into rivalry with the -madman._” - - - Goddess, the rocks are crumbling into sand; - The moonlight trembles hesitant, as though - Winter with all his winds and hoary snow - Were gathering. Goddess, thy hand, - Which has created shore and rock and ocean - Within my heart, seems cold; - I fear lest thou art growing old - With me—the shattered wreck of my devotion. - - Goddess, there is no love in heaven or earth - Without thee, and the stars grow dim with age - When thine eyes are averted, and the rage - Of winter winds turns luxury to dearth. - What will it profit if we love no more - (For I know thou hast loved in thine own way)? - What will it profit, if for yesterday - We substitute to-morrow, with its store - Of sorrow? - - What is a dream for goddess?—not to be - Immortal once is to be dead forever! - And shall our eyes go blind and our lips never - Meet? What is eternity, - If not that moment of a wild embrace, - When two souls recognize - Their first bewildered contact, and two eyes - Drink the white radiance of a lover’s face? - - Oh, ere the evening lights go gathering like fire - Across the western portals—ere the sun - Proclaims that life and life’s short tasks are done— - Be thou the mistress of my pure desire, - Be thou the goddess of my heart! - A man cannot forget a woman’s eyes, - If he has kissed them (as I have thine own - In dreams). Love is an art - Which men do not forget, when they have known - The way a woman takes toward paradise. - - What weary fools we are! Dust is the same, - Whether alive, or whether dead and rotten; - And love is love, remembered or forgotten; - And life is life, although it be a name. - Let sorrow come, with many tears; or shame - Alight upon my brow; or age deny - What fiery youth would fain assert or die; - Let even death wash all my dreams away - Like sand—still I am I, - To-morrow and to-day, and yesterday. - - Therefore I am immortal; and thy face - Which I have called mine own, must live, must be - Immortal with the very heart of me. - On whatsoever shore, or in what place, - Whether among the gods, or on the earth, - Wherever man finds truth, or woman grace, - Or Sorrow tears, or Laughter tears of mirth; - Wherever love is, goddess, I shall be; - Wherever I am, thou—the heart of me! - - Ah, we are weary fools— - We men who talk of love and sorrow, - And build philosophy upon old schools, - And yearn for paradise to-morrow. - We are insane! Creation dimly flows - About us, yet like children do we play - With our uncomprehended toys; - And no one knows - Wherefore in love these weary fools rejoice, - And grasp at stars in their uncertain way. - - Yet I would rather be a fool, and love, - Than drink of wisdom, and forget the stars; - I’d rather tear life from Time’s calendars - Than lose thy face, which I am dreaming of. - Thus have I given all to be thy slave, - And now I ask that thou remember this: - ’Tis better to be mortal in a kiss, - Than to be called immortal in a grave. - - RUSSELL W. DAVENPORT. - - - - -_About It and About_ - - - What made you speak so, Youth, just now before - These elders, men much nearer to the thing - You touch on? - Ah, but no. They claim it so - Yet I deny, for Graybeards grudge to have - Youth whisper, “Death” ... because they feel it close? - And Youth’s poor boldness makes it still more close? - Youth always speaks on death by proper right; - He has but left it when he enters life - While Graybeard’s years have dulled the sense that knew - Prenatal death, and now its imminence - Stifles his speech.... While Youth, Youth only dares! - So I ... hearing such bootless thoughts on death, - Oblivion, rest, eternal pain, reward.... - Somehow they think death lasts, and seek to lie - Disposed at ease through aeons, or perhaps - Send on their proper sandal-size ahead - To heaven’s commissary. Thus Graybeards. - And yet, Youth also misconstrues its sort, - Makes it a vale deep-shadowed, where within - Ghosts glide ’neath cloistering cypress trees and sup - Of honey cakes in tombs wisteria-hung: - Cloaked lovers stroll through hazel groves and come - To Lethe’s bank ... or in another mood, - Visioning death as ugly, conjures up - A creatured sprite bent on a tarnished scythe. - - But death, and such my death will be, is naught - To stop a soul’s drive nor to even check - Its impetus. Death is transition, well, - Transition’s but a word ... or say it thus, - It simply lies, a gap between two rails - The drive wheel rushes over unaware. - - K. A. CAMPBELL, JR. - - - - -_The Meditations of a Non-Thinker_ - - -Look at your nose. It is smooth and round, and red and shiny. Possibly -’tis flat, obtuse, snub, Roman, or Jew. Or in case you happen to think -of some other qualification, it is that. So with your eyes—if only you -will apply suitable adjectives. And also with your chin, mouth, hair, -ears, jowls, or whatever. The reason I suggest this, is in order to add -the insinuation that, if you regard any of these members in a mirror for -some length of time, their aspect changes. For instance—you, my kind -sir of the snub nose, affirm that your nose did not appear beautiful -at first? But you will as well admit that its grossness lessened in -accordance with the time spent in contemplating it. You got to know it -just a little better than you knew it before. Or you who wear the slight -scraggly beard—no, not you, madam—, will you kindly step forward to the -glass and observe how your impression of that fringe changeth from the -disgust of a reformed highwayman to the pride of a father? If we but had -the time, we should spend a delightful afternoon, dear reader, watching -such profitable changes in expression. Human nature is fascinating, is it -not? But verily all of this—for I shall leave aside even the proposition -of how such an outward change affects the spiritual grace—is merely to -remark that by taking thought on any part of your person, no matter how -small, you become acquainted correspondingly with such a part. - -This is indeed great. For the action pleases the gazer supremely with -his personality. Yet I hasten to assure you, my dear reader, that such a -phenomenon is quite natural—because after all, we are all of us pretty -much fools, and generally when a fool becomes better acquainted with -himself, he becomes more endeared to himself. As to the question of the -right or wrong of this human attribute, I make no advances, for it is -aside from my position as recorder. But from what I have heard wise men -say, I should judge it to be a lamentable weakness, especially lamentable -since the whole evil appears to issue from a person’s having thought too -much. As a child I was taught to respect thought. And actually I once -believed this to be a worthy hypothesis. But now, as I linger on the -verge of a dreary grave, my old head is fearsomely shaken with doubt. Ah -yes, to think that—but I had better not think! - -When we think, we do not observe the golden mean. We rush in where -angels fear to tread. We are not humble, as Christians. We are exalted, -as fools—and as such we love ourselves. So when we are in the act of -thinking, we will not leave off with any sane or wholesome solution. We -believe such a conclusion not good enough for us. We call it barren. -We must needs explore further. After finding a cliff at the edge of -a rational plane of thought, we urge on and grope into the outer -darkness. For the little time that faith supports we continue safely—and -blindly—enough, and then—fall down on the rocks, where we proceed lame -and disorderly—or like Peter, sink absolutely into an offended sea—and -are not saved. - -You must allow that when you work yourself into such a state, the effect -on your feelings is far from pleasant, far from elegant even. I should -imagine that one in the grip of mental excesses is not unlike the -habitual user of drugs—the morphinomaniac, opium-eater, or alcoholic. The -mood is surely delirious, grotesquely fanciful, spirit-ridden. Possibly -you believe it is pitiful to see a strong and normal man slowly gathered -in by some subtle influence to become a slave grovelling bestially before -a false and gilded—but an all-compelling—idol. Aye! this is pitiful. -But the pity of it is not the greatest part. Here are you, possessed of -abilities, ambitions, loving friends, philanthropy of the highest kind, -delighted with this world, and enchanted with the prospect of the next. -You hope everything and you fear nothing. By some insidious trick of -fate—a fate that preys upon an insignificant weakness of yours—you feel -yourself subdued slightly by the nod of some dim gigantic animal. But -you are not afraid. For your interests are so worthily turned elsewhere -that you know the Thing to have little power compared to your own—and -you do not care. Oh, therein lives the fearful irony! You may indulge -in your morphine, your opium, or your thinking largely to aid your -powers and your works. The undermining influence is not felt—until too -late. Yes, too late.... The degraded wretch moaning and whimpering, and -shivering all over spasmodically as he tries to get up on his feet, -and his rotted nerves will not respond—can you imagine the inner state -of such a fellow? Do you not conceive that one day he may have been as -fine—or a far finer—person than you? Imagine, then, the turbulence in -his heart! He dreams back to old days, perceiving the former integrity -of his character, the power of his mind and body—and compares all with -the present. Maybe he fashions images of what to-day he might have -been—beautiful glowing things, full of the light of heaven and of -loveliness! He starts from his vile gutter, repelled by horror, and is -about to rise magnificently—when a fit of the passion seizes him, and you -watch him grovel in the nauseous mire. Happy beast he is—now. But the -torture of his mind will return. - - * * * * * - -The agony which thinking induces by such means as I have outlined above -leads me to consider for a trice its alternative, because it is joyous -and fruitful. Can you imagine a green and yellow countryside, with a -little white farmhouse amidst a cluster of dark oaks? Willows are near a -cove in the stream below, which ripples its way coolly through the hot -day. Do you hear the dry voice of a locust, or a cricket? Perhaps the -bird in that isolated pine tree will be singing soon. Breathe deeply, for -the sun is low over the hill and a colder, fairer wind blows from the -dark woodland. You sense its fragrance, feel a thrill, and are deeply -delighted with the whole atmosphere. But stay, I hear a slow cowbell and -the barking of a collie.... The colors of the sunset are delicate and -marvelously blended.—And winding down the path comes a small boy, with -pails to fill at the brook for his mother. So it goes on. However clumsy -the little picture, I have tried to indicate slightly the pleasure met -with when you _feel_. These emotions of yours are sacred because they are -unfathomable. And they are more beautiful than anything else you will -ever know. As for the fruitfulness of imagination, I must let you judge -more for yourself: I will only say that, when people are wearied out, the -beauty of nature has ever been found more of a balm to their spirits than -the futility of overheated thought. Thought and emotion are living in -eternal conflict within you. As one fills your life you have less room -for the other. Any choosing.... - -The psychologist, that enigmatic rabbit born recently amid a litter of -new ideas, maintains thought to be the only respect in which we differ -from animals. Now in the light of this last word I had better not have -used the term “rabbit”; but, however.... I should like to suggest (though -I am not sure whether you will call me a squirrel or a guinea-pig) that -we differ still more from animals in our power of imagination. You -certainly have seen cartoons entitled “Wonder what a lobster _thinks_ -about,” but it is always you who do the wondering and not the lobster -(no inference that you are one, sir). And you never see “_Think_ what a -jellyfish _wonders_ about”! Furthermore, if the psychologist is entirely -right, you who have followed so assiduously this essay—which is largely -devoid of thought—are at least for the time being largely an animal. Are -you? - - L. HYDE. - - - - -_Selima_ - - -There was a mystery about Captain Knox’s wife. Of course, everyone in -Gull Harbor knew there had been a Mrs. Knox, but according to the best -accounts no one had ever seen her. There were a few facts, however, upon -which one could rely. Some thirty or forty years before, the captain, -returning after a long voyage to the East, had announced himself a -widower of recent bereavement. The existence of the captain’s spouse in -Gull Harbor had begun, therefore, simultaneously with the knowledge of -her decease. - -A short time after the captain’s return, a neat gravestone was erected -on the Knox farm, in the old burial lot, in which had already been laid -to rest the bodies of the captain’s parents, two brothers, and an uncle. -Upon the stone, by the captain’s order, was carved in plain lettering, -“In memory of Selima, my beloved wife.” - -The captain himself would often refer to her. “She was a pretty cretur, -she was.” Beyond this, however, discussion of her was not tolerated in -his presence. - -By the time I came to know Gull Harbor, the captain’s seafaring career -was over. The people of the village had long since recovered from the -first excitement caused by the mystery of the captain and his wife, and -conversation had drifted back into familiar channels of interest as to -why Mel Hibbard’s sister had given up her flock of Plymouth Rocks, or -speculations as to the color Mrs. Lovell, wife of the minister of the -Adventist Church, would choose for her new front room carpet. - -I had always felt a prejudice for the Maine coast and from the moment -the Portland boat rounded the big rocky cove, I knew I should like -Gull Harbor. There was a restful peace about the place peculiar to the -seaboard of New England. The smell of low tide and drying codfish hung -about the wharf. Almost immediately one felt at home. - -I had not been two weeks in the town before I knew all that Gull Harbor -had to tell about their distinguished captain. Didn’t I know Captain -’Thiel Knox, the man who commanded the first seven-masted schooner to -sail the sea? Why, he had been to “Chiny” half a dozen times, and the -Lord knows how many he has crossed the ocean. As a further mark of -distinction he was the proud possessor of two long-haired cats which he -had brought with him from Persia. - -One day I happened to ask my landlady, Mrs. Simmons, an old resident and -a noted gossip, if the captain was a widower, and then I learned of the -mystery. “For it’s my opinion,” she added, after telling me the story, -“that she was a Chiny woman, or mebbe a princess from Persy, though -nobody’ll ever know. The captain he would never say a word; quiet’s a -mouse on the subject. You oughter see him, Mr. Fitch. He’s real nice, -and a great hand for company; all kinds, it don’t matter to him,” she -finished in a tone which meant to include even the summer people. - -A “fortnit” later (one can see how easily I slipped into the vernacular -of the place), I was out sailing in a borrowed dory. It was a clear -August morning; the sky, a healthy blue and cloudless; the tall spruce -trees, interspersed here and there by a monumental pine, guarded the -water’s edge. - -By the time I had rounded the long point that lay between the harbor and -the back bay beyond, a stiff breeze had sprung up. The churning blue -stretched oceanward for miles, blotched by myriads of foamy white caps. -The little dory rocked and twisted in the choppy waves. The sail, which -was home-made, proved an easy victim of the wind, and I soon found to my -dismay that I was drifting helplessly down the bay toward a stretch of -shore that I had not yet visited. The boat moved rapidly. The trees along -the shore were soon followed by a broad green field, which stretched -up from a tiny harbor almost surrounded by a protecting arm of the sea -toward which I was being driven. Gradually the water became shallower, -and the wind reluctantly let me slip from its grasp. I was able to look -about me. It was a very beautiful harbor. - -Suddenly I was conscious of an old man in a dory, rowing towards me. He -might have been Father Neptune risen from the depths of the ocean for -all I knew. Without a word he pulled my dilapidated boat ashore. Safely -landed, I thanked him. He was an old man with a long white beard. He had -on a tarpaulin and looked like a sailor. - -“Ay-es,” he said pleasantly, when he had moored the two boats to the -wharf (he gave me no opportunity to assist him). “I thought you was -a landlubber, the moment I set eyes on you. Ye can’t tack without a -center-board,” he added with a smile, the first he had given me. I -blushed feebly at my hopeless mistake. - -“I thought,” I began weakly, but he didn’t wait for me to finish. - -“Won’t you come into the house for a bit?” he asked kindly. “You’re -wet through, ain’t ye?” And he led the way to the little low shingled -structure, fronted by a long porch upon which sat a large Persian cat, -the handsomest I had ever seen. - -“Thar, thar, Daisy bird, you’ve had enough pettin’ for one day,” as he -brushed her gently aside, adding, as he noticed my admiration, “Got -another, better lookin’ of the two, in the kitching. Won’t ye come in?” - -“You’re not Captain Knox, are you?” I asked. - -“Right you be! Salathiel Knox, captain, retired you call it, don’t ye?” -and he smiled again. - -While my clothes were drying, we sat around the fire and talked, the -captain still in his tarpaulin, while I languished in a richly figured -rug which he had produced from a locked cupboard in the kitchen. “Bought -it in Singapore twenty-four years ago,” he added by way of dismissal of -my compunction at wearing so valuable a possession. The captain smoked -mildly while I told him who I was, making few comments, but when I tried -to lead the conversation around to his own life he proved a poor subject -for questioning. As Mrs. Simmons said to me afterwards, “The captain can -talk when he’s a mind to, but land sakes, when he ain’t, it’s no use.” - -The captain did remark, as I was leaving, that although he lived alone -he wasn’t a bachelor; his wife, he said, was dead. “She was a pretty -creatur, she was,” he added, half regretfully, as he laid down his pipe. - -On my way home, my path led not far from the burial lot. I found the -stone without difficulty and read the inscription. - - * * * * * - -The following summer, soon after we arrived, I paid my second visit to -the Knox farm. I found the captain sitting on his porch, smoking. He -didn’t remember me at first; but suddenly he burst out with, “Wall, I -swan! You’re the young man that was tryin’ to tack in a dory without -a center-board. I remember you, o’ course. Pretty good stuff, eh,” he -added, “to tackle such a wind when you knew next to nothin’ o’ the sea. -You’d make a good one, I’ll warrant.” - -After that I often went to see him. He became quite loquacious at times -and recounted some of his adventures. Always I expected he would run up -against the mystery, but he never did. Few women were to be found in his -stories. - -One day I was surprised to see the captain at my door, seated in a new -motor car. He had come to take me for a drive. I looked the machine over -carefully. - -“How does she go?” I asked. - -“She sets all right,” he replied, cheerfully, “but she’s a bit wide in -the stern.” - -As we drove off together, he seemed in the best of spirits, although he -admitted he was a “little nervous navigatin’ the new craft.” - -On the way back, the captain became confidential. His story this time was -concerned chiefly with a long sickness he had had in the Far East, and -his romantic experience with a Malay girl. “She was a ripper, she was,” -he added by way of comment. - -“What was her name?” I inquired, with suppressed excitement, but he was -intent upon turning a corner and did not answer. The next moment we were -at the door of my house. He waved me good-bye as he disappeared around a -bend in the road. - -“Another opportunity lost,” I thought, as I walked up the path. - - * * * * * - -“It’s the Malay girl, Selima, I’ll be bound. That’s the mystery, Mr. -Fitch. Didn’t he tell you she was a great beauty, all done up in rings -and jewels?” - -“Yes,” I answered absently. - -This conversation took place about a week after my drive with the -captain, while Mrs. Simmons was removing the breakfast dishes. I was -reading the paper in the next room and did not like to be interrupted. - -“I never heard him tell that story,” she continued, raising her voice -above the clatter of the dishes. “He has taken you into his confidence, -Mr. Fitch.” - -“Then I fear I have more woefully betrayed it,” I replied without looking -up. - -Later I took a walk to the post office. The thought of the mystery, -although I would have hesitated to acknowledge it even to myself, was -making me positively uncomfortable. - -“Was she really the Malay girl, after all?” I pictured the captain, young -and handsome, walking up to the altar of a Buddhist temple with a Malay -princess, dazzling with rings and jewels, leaning on his arm, her pale -skin—no, the Malays were brown. I cursed my superior knowledge. Perhaps -their princesses were not so dark. But my vision had faded; I was gazing -at the floor of the Gull Harbor post office. - -I took the road back which led by the captain’s. There was no sign of -anyone as I passed. I wandered up by the burial lot. I wondered if Malay -princesses were ever named Selima. On the way home I passed the captain. -He waved to me pleasantly, as he rattled by. - -“I will go to see him to-night,” I said to myself. It was after nine when -I reached his house. The captain was still up. He was sitting in front -of the kitchen fire, a long-haired cat on either side. He seemed glad to -see me. We sat and smoked. The logs crackled cheerfully. They reminded me -somehow of my host. An hour flew by; conversation was gradually relaxing -into silent contemplation. Suddenly I burst forth: - -“Captain,” I said, desperately, “you remember the Malay woman you told me -of the other day. Was her name Selima?” - -For a moment I was afraid I had offended him. All of a sudden he began to -laugh. Little by little his merriment increased, until his whole powerful -frame was shaking. He trembled so that his glasses bobbed up and down on -his nose like a cork. His chair creaked. Even his beard looked merry. - -“Selima! Selima!” and he went off into another gale. Then, seeing my -doubtful expression, he tried to pull himself together. “Selima! Selima! -She was a pretty creetur’, she was,” and he laughed again. I was forced -to join with him; his humor was catching. - -“I know what’s a-worrying you,” he said. “It’s the mystery. There -never was a boarder within twelve miles of this town whom they haven’t -filled up with the story of my mysterious weddin’. They’re half curious -themselves, though the Lord knows they’d oughter have more sense. -Selima!” He laughed, the tears filling his eyes as he began again. -“Selima! There never was any sech person! To think I have fooled this -town for fifty years! It’s too much. I laugh about it nights.” Again -catching my strained face, “Still curious?” he inquired with a twinkle. - -“I’ll tell ye, but you mustn’t spoil my joke. D’ye understand? I guess I -can trust ye,” he added confidentially, and settling himself in his chair -he began. - -“It’s not a long story,” he said, glancing at his watch. “About forty -years ago, or mebbe more, when I was perhaps half as old as I am now, I -lived here alone, when I warn’t on the water, which warn’t very much. -It was close on to September, only a day or two or mebbe three before I -was to sail from ‘Porchmouth’. She was a five-master, a beauty ef there -ever was a handsome vessel.” The captain paused as if to recall her more -vividly. “Gullnair was her name, brand new that year. Wall, it was a day -or two before I was to sail, as I was tellin’ ye. I was out here in the -pasture right over yonder by the old spring”—he pointed with a sailor’s -thumb—“I had been gatherin’ berries and after a bit I lay down under a -tree. I had been lobsterin’ all mornin’ and was tired. When I woke up I -heard two women talkin’. They’re both dead now, but in their day they wuz -the gol-durndest busybodies that ever I heard tell on. They was berryin’ -and talkin’—about me, would you believe it? Speculatin’ as to why a nice -lookin’ man (I hadn’t sech a bad complexion in those days,” added the -captain reflectively as he rubbed his hand over his rough face)—“they was -a wonderin’ why I didn’t get married. Was it because I had a hidden life? -Did the girls object to my swearin’? Was I—the Lord preserve us, what -didn’t they say? They came to the conclusion that I didn’t marry because -no one would have me. I could have strangled them both at that. I was hot -headed in those days.” All the fun had faded from the captain’s face. - -“After they went away,” he continued, “I began to think it over. At first -I cal’lated I had better get married right away. There were a dozen of -’em hereabouts that very minute who would have taken me with a whoop. I -had always tried to steer clear of the women heretofore. Second thoughts, -thinks I, why not let the matter go driftin’ for awhile, anyway? So I -did. But all the time that I was at sea it bothered me. On the home’ard -voyage we struck a bad storm and the Gullnair went to the bottom after -a brave fight, sir, after a brave fight! Most of the crew was drownded. -I was saved by a miracle. Never mind about that now! Wall, sir, after I -was picked up—she was a freighter bound for New York, as luck would have -it—there come to me a big idea. - -“When I got home I let them know I was a widower, married while I was -away. Of course they understood she had been drownded on the ship. I -wore a black band on my arm for a time. Seein’ as there as warn’t no -suspicions in the wind, ‘I’ll make a full job of it,’ I says to myself. -‘I’ll set up a stone in the burial lot to her memory’. And that’s what I -did. Wall, they come to write the inscription; I told them the words, but -when they asked me for the name, I said kind o’ flustered like, ‘Selima’. -It was the first one that popped into my head. That’s all.” The captain -smiled, turning his gaze into the fire. - -“Then you weren’t ever in love?” I said, with the faintest inflection in -my voice. - -The captain blew out a great puff of smoke, looked at me over the top of -his glasses, and smiled. - - MYLES WHITING. - - - - -_Portfolio_ - - -_Beauty_ - - I. - - Beauty! thy name were counted less than dust - That warriors’ tombs with sullen grace enfold, - Save that thou strip man’s arrant love of lust - And cloak his tarnished soul with sudden gold. - - II. - - Beauty! thy price has been a nation’s spoil,— - A wizard’s epitaph, a child’s grim plea; - And yet a peasant bought thee with his toil, - A poet lived with thee in penury. - - HERBERT W. HARTMAN, JR. - - -_Fear of God_ - -“I’ve never told anyone how I happened to become a priest because, -for the first few years after ordination I didn’t like to recall the -circumstances surrounding it, and afterwards, when they had lost most -of their sting, the whole thing was so deeply buried in the past that I -never resurrected it. But now, since I’m reaching that point where the -events of my life appear to me more as interesting stories than anything -else, I may as well tell it to you from that point of view. - -“To begin with, I had, at twenty, a pretty definite philosophy. I thought -of life and all its functions, as created by the divine hand of God, to -be essentially perfect. Man was created, according to the teaching of -the Church, in God’s image and likeness. The very highest good, to me, -was to live in an accord as close as possible to the universal laws of -nature. Man’s natural state is good, and when he violates this state he -undergoes a physical reaction, called shame, over which he has no control -whatsoever. I had this underlying belief, which was clarified more or -less by reading Walt Whitman and Carlyle, though I added some ideas of my -own which I found in neither of these. But I can’t swear that they aren’t -there. I drew no such sharp lines as are generally drawn between physical -and spiritual love, but visualized, or rather, believed in, an ideal -love in which both are combined, and which, by this combination raise -each other to far higher levels, both collectively and individually. I -rejected a purely abstract affection of the spirit as weakness, since -it does accept and is out of tune with nature. That was Carlyle. And -there was the only point of the whole matter that I have since come to -question, though I have not actually put it aside. I wonder if I could -still hold to it had I married. But if I reject this, the whole thing -breaks down, so I must cling to it, though it does waver. I had always -been a Catholic, and as far as I could see there was no conflict between -my doctrine and that of the Church. In addition, though I realized that -this was a personal viewpoint and couldn’t be brought to bear too closely -on the other, beauty was to me rarely seductive. My moments of desire -were, for the most part, connected with the most intense ugliness. - -“At this time I was in love with a girl who was exactly the ideal of -it all. She too was a Catholic and had been educated in a convent for -the greater part of her life. She had not the clarity of feature that -generally characterizes beauty, but possessed something infinitely more -subtle than this. If you’ve ever seen one of those glorious green Irish -hills that look as if they’ve been drawn up fresh from the depths of the -earth by the hand of God, you’ll understand what I mean. She had the same -original force of beauty in the rough mold of her face, which was at the -same time miraculously soft, and free from cold line. Her whole head -was clothed in a sort of cloudiness, like Venus, the mother of Aeneas, -appearing to her son. Her body, and mind, and voice were so harmonious an -expression of good that goodness was with her almost a physical quality. -She had almost never come in contact with wrong, but I know she would -have been the same under any circumstances. It’s easy to understand how I -could hold to my beliefs here; I loved her as much for her body as for -her spirit. She had the same sweet curves and moved with the same music -as a green, young tree bent in the wind.” - -He was silent for a moment, and gazed into the thick purple sky, -underneath which the sea beat tirelessly at the rocks which fringed the -bottom of the cliff. - - * * * * * - -“Unfortunately, she didn’t love me, but had the same sort of affection a -girl has for a very good friend of the opposite sex. However, as we were -both quite young (she eighteen) I had plenty of hope that as soon as I -was in a position to ask her to marry me, she would accept. - -“Then, in the summer after her graduation from the convent, I learned -that she was determined to return there in the fall as a nun! For two -or three days after this discovery I was in a state of almost continual -mental anguish, that she, a creature so beautifully alive, should -keep the precious gift of herself from the world, and especially from -me,—though curiously enough I looked at it from the general rather than -the individual point of view. I was completely stunned. - -“I had never definitely settled in my mind the question of priests and -nuns remaining unmarried. This was through nothing more nor less than -overlooking it, which I cannot understand, since it should have been so -vital to me. But now I came out dead against it. To me it seemed that, -since those who served God and were supposed to be leading the highest -life possible to man were not permitted to marry, the Church put a mark -of disapproval on the married state and the begetting of children. It -was not the actual celibacy of the priests and nuns that concerned me -most, but the disapprobation of what I considered the most spiritual act -of life. I suppose I should have gone to a priest to learn the defense -for it, but I became so prejudiced myself that I imagined that his point -of view or any explanation he might make could be nothing else but -prejudiced.” - -He paused again, this time to light his pipe, which he pulled on for many -long seconds before resuming the story, while I held my tongue and gazed -into the vast plain of darkness. - -“After a while the pain ceased, and I lapsed into a state almost of -indifference, though the day she was to leave for the convent was pretty -nearly always on my mind. Strangely enough I can’t for the life of me -think what it was now, though I shall never forget what happened on the -day itself. - -“I went to her home, which was quite a large estate, to bid her good-bye. -I still had the indifferent feeling, though my mind had that queer, -detached sensation one gets in a fever, and felt, somehow, as if it were -outside of the rest of me. Her brothers and sisters and I sat about -talking constrainedly until the time came for her departure. She was -to go off in the carriage to the station with no one accompanying her -save the coachman. It rolled up to the door and they all crowded out to -see her off. They were a rather grim lot, standing there, though no one -was weeping. As for her, her face had the strangest mixture of joy and -sorrow, which was exactly mirrored in her mother’s. The rest were all -frankly and achingly unhappy. I was relapsing more and more and more into -a dazed condition. - -“When she said good-bye to me, I took her hand, quite unconsciously, and -kissed it. It was trembling, which pierced my heart and made me gasp -violently. I have no recollection at all of her actual departure, but -when she was gone I must have been overcome by it, for I heard some one -say, ‘He’s going to faint,’ and then one of her brothers took me inside -and gave me a drink. I had several more, which increased my state of -mental detachment, but did not affect my mental processes in the least. -After a while I went outside the house and wandered about the lawn, until -finally I sat down on a bench bordering a wide patch of grass on which -there were no trees or shrubbery of any kind. I don’t think I noticed it, -but night had practically fallen, and darkness was gradually enveloping -the place. The thought of her trembling hand kept coming back to me, -making the blood in my head throb violently, when suddenly, with a wrench -that shook my whole body, my head cleared absolutely. I realized then, -for the first time, that she was irretrievably gone, and the realization -flung me into a rage. I cursed God in unutterable vileness for taking -her from me, for making of life such a deceiving, rotten thing, and -for setting me down in the midst of it! I am neither a savage, nor a -superstitious idiot, but as I stand here, I wonder I wasn’t struck down -by His almighty hand for the filth and blasphemy I put upon my tongue -that night! - -“Then, out on the very center of the lawn before me, appeared a column -of cottony-white smoke which, by indescribable foldings, formed itself -into a woman of the most unearthly and terrible beauty. She was naked, -and each particle of her white skin seemed to be shouting the fact of her -nakedness aloud. The steely outline of her bare flesh cut the stuff of -night away, and flashed out its blinding brilliance. - -“She commenced to sing. There is a certain way of striking a harp which -gives it a shuddering noise, and this, magnified beyond measure, is the -nearest thing to a description I can give of the beginning of her song, -which poured out of her lips in a thick flame of sound. It pressed down -on me with the volume of a thousand storms, when suddenly I realized -that she was singing in a man’s voice! Without thought, the conviction -flashed on me that this was undoubtedly the devil, and that all her -beauty was false. With a shriek of awful fear I called on God to protect -me! Immediately the song caught in the throat of the thing, man or beast, -whatever it was, and the body commenced to distort into sheer ugliness -without form. I don’t know how it finally disappeared, for I went into a -raving delirium and swooned. - -“The next two months I spent in a sanitarium on the verge of insanity. -All I can remember of this is an occasional flash of miraculous fear, -when I seemed to be vainly fleeing the avenging hand of God. As soon -afterward as I was able, I joined the priesthood, and I don’t mind saying -that it was through an actual, original fear of God and nothing else.” - -“What about your philosophy?” I asked. - -“I still have that,” he answered. “And it required very little -reconciliation to keep it. The realization of the part of celibacy -in it came to me about a year after I was ordained, as a feeling, or -conviction. Of course the refutation of my argument is that the Church -makes marriage a sacrament. I suppose most men have this explained to -them before they become priests, but I never found it necessary.” - -“Is the girl a nun now?” I pursued. - -“No,” he said, a faint smile lurking about the corners of his mouth. “She -never took the final vows, but left the convent and married. She has five -very beautiful children, one of whom, the eldest, I’m marrying next week. -In fact, he’s named for me.” - -This time the silence was longer and seemed almost a conclusion, until I -broke it with one last question. - -“Do you think that was actually the devil who appeared to you, or an -illusion brought on by the state of your mind?” - -He answered me very quietly. “The hand of God is seen in strange places.” - - ROBERT CRUISE MCMANUS. - - -_Ballade_ - -(Translated from a fifteenth century lyric of Charles d’Orleans) - - Once in the weary wood of dull Distress - Where Fate condemned my leaden feet to stray - It chanced that Venus, now my comfortress, - Besought to know where I did take my way. - Then I replied, “My fortune’s gone astray, - And I long exiled ’mid this wood’s repose, - It happens I am one of whom men say, - ‘A man astray, uncertain where he goes.’” - - Then she, all smiles and godlike graciousness, - “Tell me, my friend, the reason, oh I pray. - Why is it you are lost in black Distress? - I may have power to set you on your way. - Long have I sought love’s pleasures to display - Unto your heart—I knew not of your woes. - Nor can I bear to see you thus to-day, - A man astray, uncertain where he goes.” - - And I, “Alas! Most sovereign Princess! - You know my state: shall I repeat it? Nay! - ’Twas Death—who doth all men alike oppress— - ’Twas Death that stole my darling love away. - She who so guided me upon my way— - My only love, more lovely than the rose— - That while she lived no one of me might say, - ‘A man astray, uncertain where he goes.’” - - For I am blind—I catch no spark of day— - Nor but with tapping staff can find my way. - So tapping here and there the wanderer goes. - It is indeed a pity they must say, - “A man astray, uncertain where he goes.” - - LAIRD GOLDSBOROUGH. - - - - -_Notabilia_ - - -The most important action of the University in its relation to the -student body is the Sunday chapel regulation, that eleven o’clock -non-sectarian Christian service and sermon is compulsory for all Yale -College undergraduates and members of the common Freshman year. In this -change of hour lies a change of issue. Before, the ten-minute ten o’clock -service was a bit of tolerated hypocrisy to keep undergraduates in New -Haven over the weekend. This compulsory attendance at Divine Worship is -an intolerable religious offence. - -Religion is a matter of individual opinion; compulsion is opposed to -individuality. Compulsory religion then by our own inherited conception -of that word is an impossibility. There can be no religion for an -intelligent person in Woolsey Hall. To those who are not Christians it is -intellectual persecution. - -We are amused at the news that there was some discussion as to whether -there should be plants or members of the faculty on the platform during -the service. Plants seem to us the better choice; being more inanimate, -they are less hypocritical. - -Really it is astonishing how Yale can be as much of an institution of -learning as it is, and still practice such stupidity in administration. - - * * * * * - -We should like to bring to our readers’ attention the following terse -facts about Commons. Commons has a compulsory patronage amounting to -approximately 900 men. It can count on a few hundred more men who are -working their way through. After its seating capacity has thus been -filled once, it need not (and does not) accommodate any more for that -meal; it can therefore calculate with perfect accuracy, so that no food -need be wasted. It requires cash _in advance_, or bills sent home; it has -therefore no credit to carry on its books. At the present writing, it -will allow no one to sign out: meals taken elsewhere are wasted money -for its customers. Its overhead is reduced to a minimum—far more so than -that of any other eating house in college. And, added to this, it has the -faculty to protect it. - -Yet, what is happening? The charges for food are $9.00 per week, without -rebate for cash. The service is slow whenever the hall is crowded. The -food, while sometimes good, is by no means always so, and if maintained -at the present standard would be intolerable as a year’s diet. - -Considering the fact that, for nine hundred of its customers, it requires -no table runners, thereby saving approximately $800 per week ($25,000 per -year); there it is only $1.00 per week cheaper than some eating houses, -and 50 cents cheaper than most; that its food is not as good as any of -the others—considering these things, we suggest that an investigation be -made. We are anxious to be fair in the matter and not judge too harshly a -project which is as yet young. But the college seems to be of the opinion -that considerable improvement must be shown by the Yale Dining Hall if it -is to continue its somewhat shaky career. - - * * * * * - -Taking the same paternal stand as they have taken in the case of Commons, -the faculty has decreed that the Liberal Club must ask “permission” -before inviting speakers to address their meetings. Just what the Liberal -Club will do about this, no one as yet knows. Certainly it conflicts with -the very principles and ideals of that club, and represents a trend, on -the part of the Yale faculty, to which the club is especially opposed. - - - - -_Book Reviews_ - - -_Tutor’s Lane._ By WILMARTH LEWIS. (Knopf.) - -Imagine Yale College without appendages, and New Haven without slums -or business section, and life just as it is now and you will have the -setting for Mr. Lewis’ ’17 first novel, “Tutor’s Lane”. - -You are given as hero a young English instructor, a graduate from about -the same class as Mr. Lewis, probably with a Chi Delta Theta charm, and -a heroine not greatly sophisticated, of good family, mildly fond of -“doing good” to “the people.” These two fondly follow a Quixotic scheme -of uplift (which he doesn’t even like, and about which she’s a fool), and -come out of it ashamed but at one in their shame. The inevitable marriage -ensues. The plot is the weakness of the book. It is a thin-spun web, and -disappointing. - -But the non-plot characters, and the phrasing of the Syllabus, and the -satire scattered through the pages are features over which no one can -pass without delight. Mrs. Norris talks, the reader is amused; Mr. Lewis -talks, the reader is wholly captivated. It is not the genial gay humor -of Punch; it is something with a sharper touch than that, more witty, -more satirical. It is only when Mr. Lewis becomes sympathetic with his -character or with his reader that he fails. He is superb when he is -laughing at both simultaneously. - -If he ever gets hold of a plot, the result will be a fine novel. He has -the power of restraint and objectivity which most moderns lack. He is -refreshing in the midst of so much that is conspicuously heavy and bent -with the weight of the world. His product is not marred by continual -reference to the travail and labor its creation caused. He seems to have -enjoyed writing the book, and not to have written it in order to save -the world, or the destinies of nations. To amuse himself and his friends -seems to be his only purpose in writing, which is probably why “Tutor’s -Lane” will also amuse so many other people. - - M. E. F. - - -_Young Peoples Pride._ By STEPHEN VINCENT BENÉT. (Henry Holt & Co.) - -There are probably very few men now at Yale who are destined to look -back, after an equally short span of years, upon a more enviable literary -record than that already possessed by Stephen Vincent Benét. And yet, -we had to read a good deal of “Young Peoples Pride” before we began to -enjoy it. Perhaps the reason was that we had expected another “serious -novel” or “character study” somewhat along the lines of Mr. Benét’s “The -Beginning of Wisdom”. The rather affectedly “super smart” illustrations -with which the present book is garnished annoyed us, and the occurrence -of passages like the following caused us to fear that Mr. Benét, -with an eye to the box office, had joined the Fitzgeraldine ranks of -tale-tellers-out-of-school. - - “‘The trouble with Art is that it doesn’t pay a decent living - wage unless you’re willing to commercialize—’ - - ‘The trouble with Art is that it never did, except for a few - chance lucky people—’ - - ‘The trouble with Art is Women.’ - - ‘The trouble with Women is Art.’ - - ‘The trouble with Art—with women I mean—change signals! What do - I mean?’” - -But there is not much of that sort of “cleverism”. In fact, in so far as -“We Wild Young People” enter, Mr. Benét holds the mirror very sanely and -skillfully up to nature. - -However, “Young Peoples Pride” scarcely requires all this analyzing. It -is not an “important novel” anyway—simply a rattling good yarn, and must -be judged as such. For sheer sustained excitement we have seldom read -anything better than the long scene in the apartment of Mrs. Severance -and the gentleman whom Mr. Benét so quaintly calls “Mr. Severance”. It -is a scene that we shall hope to see on Broadway later, when its author -becomes a playwright—if he ever does. Read the book for that, by all -means—and you’ll like a good deal of the rest. - - L. S. G. - - -_Books and Characters._ By LYTTON STRACHEY. (Harcourt, Brace & Company, -New York.) - -A reference, in the present volume, to Thomas Beddoes as “the last -Elizabethan” suggests, at once, Mr. Lytton Strachey’s preëminent right -to the title of “the last Victorian”—using the word in its best sense, -to denote an individual very far removed indeed from any desire to go -“tobaggoning down Parnassus”. Mr. Strachey’s bland progress through the -realm of letters is, in fact, the very antithesis of that adopted by the -tobaggoning school of modern critics. To analyze the characteristics of -his style is to call up a host of adjectives long all but forgotten amid -the present scramble for pseudo-culture. He is scholarly without being -pedantic, erudite without being obscure. And the queer, musing, almost -anecdotal manner in which he rambles from Johnson’s wit to Madame du -Deffand’s, from Shakespeare’s tragedies to Voltaire’s, is always giving -way to lightning flashes of true critical insight expressed with the -netteté of a Racine. - -As might be gathered from the foregoing remarks, “Books and Characters” -is a volume of collected critical essays, which first appeared -individually between the years 1905 and 1919 in various publications, -such as the _Edinburgh Review_. Incidentally, it is a book which should -have an especial and peculiar appeal to the college man. For the books -and characters touched upon are, one or two excepted, the very ones -with which the reading essential to a college course has made him most -familiar. He will thus have freshly in mind the background of literary -acquaintanceships, which the guileless Mr. Strachey apparently supposes -is possessed by everyone, and upon which he proceeds to etch his -portraits with the aid of a wit so delightful and so acutely sharpened as -to be quite irresistible. For it was true wit, in the Victorian sense, -mingled with a quaint, sly humor, which made Strachey’s “Queen Victoria” -the consummate master-portrait that it is, and which reappears in “Books -and Characters”. Perhaps a quotation from the chapter entitled, “The -Lives of the Poets”, may show what we mean: - - “Johnson’s aesthetic judgments are almost invariably subtle, or - solid, or bold; they have always some good quality to recommend - them—except one. They are never right. That is an unfortunate - deficiency; but no one can doubt that Johnson has made up for - it, and that his wit has saved all. He has managed to be wrong - so cleverly, that nobody minds. When Gray, for instance, points - the moral to his poem on Walpole’s cat with a reminder to the - fair that all that glisters is not gold, Johnson remarks that - this is ‘of no relation to the purpose; if what glistered had - been gold, the cat would not have gone into the water; and, if - she had, would no less have been drowned.’ Could anything be - more ingenious, or more neatly put, or more obviously true? But - then, to use Johnson’s own phrase, could anything be of less - ‘relation to the purpose’?” - -Well, we only restrain ourselves with difficulty from seeming to commit -sacrilege upon Johnson by proclaiming the rightness of Mr. Strachey’s -aesthetic judgments, as well as their wit. - -The essays dealing with French life and letters, just prior to the -revolution, are equally a mine of interest. They are all brilliant -pieces of writing; from the flickering sidelights thrown upon the -undignified and incredible squabbles of Voltaire and Frederick the -Great, to the half-pitiful, half-comic details concerning the salon of -Madame du Deffande—Madame du Deffande, who was for twenty years, at -once, blind, hopelessly in love with Walpole, and the cultural autocrat -of Paris. Skeptics, all of them—and skeptics essentially Gallic, before -whose unabashed indifference to God, and cynical contempt for man the -Anglo-Saxon mind is apt to recoil, gymnastically unable to assume the -necessary shift in point of view. For instance, there is Madame La -Maréchale de Luxembourg: - - “‘Quel ton! Quel effroyable ton!’ she is said to have exclaimed - after a shuddering glance at the Bible. ‘Ah, Madame, quel - dommage que la Sainte Esprit eut aussi peu de gout!’” - -At least they seem to have been sincere, these most un-Victorian French. -And they round out Mr. Strachey’s book into something which really must -not be missed. - - L. S. G. - - -_This Freedom._ By A. S. M. HUTCHINSON. (Little, Brown & Co.) - -A. S. M. Hutchinson’s latest novel, “This Freedom,” is the life story of -an English girl. Brought up in an old-fashioned home where the duty of -the women is but to serve the men, she breaks from conventional ties and -becomes a thoroughly modern creature in thought and action. - -Her ideal is man’s position of social independence. This she attains to -the fullest measure in the business world. But trouble comes after she -has experienced love, marriage and the duties of a mother of a family. -After a series of crushing disasters, she discovers that modern teaching -does not tend to make for that home life to which she, in her youth, had -been accustomed, and from whose charm she had never really freed herself. - -The book has the same weak point as its predecessor, “If Winter Comes”. -Mr. Hutchinson does not seem to have the courage to write a tragedy. -After he has masterfully created a heap of wreckage, he vainly attempts -restoration in a few concluding paragraphs. It is as impossible for the -reader to conceive of recovery in the case of Rosalie and Harry as it was -to imagine a future happiness for Nona and Marco. - -It is to be hoped that we shall soon have a real tragedy from the pen of -this popular author, for then we shall put down the book perhaps sadder -but at least more impressed. - - M. T. - - -_Babbitt._ By SINCLAIR LEWIS. (Harcourt, Brace & Co.) - -If “Babbitt” is a better book than “Main Street”, as its publishers would -have us believe, then Mr. Lewis’ improvement is to be found in an even -greater application to the details; the minute cataloguing of commonplace -incident. It is infinitely painstaking. But for those of us who believe -that “Main Street” in itself showed an unnecessary virtuosity in that -talent, this is hardly to be rated as an advance. - -“Babbitt” is not so much to be considered as better or worse than “Main -Street”, as a companion volume in Mr. Lewis’ series of compendiums of -all that is tawdry, and hypocritical, and typical, in the contemporary -life of the American middle class. - -Babbitt is the “average” American business man; a real estate dealer -(“realtor”, as he pridefully insists on being called); a Rotarian, -Booster, member of the Athletic Club, and solid citizen. He has a -squabbling family; a wife whom he tolerates, and three children whom he -loves impatiently—because he cannot understand them. Little attention -is given to a plot; the development is rather in exhaustive study and -analysis. From the time when Babbitt gets up to shave, until the time -when he makes sure (for the second time) that all the doors in the house -are locked, no detail of his life, personal, family, business, or social, -is omitted. And each detail is analyzed. Sometimes it is satirized; and -often the attempted satirization becomes an over-done burlesque. - -Like Carol Kennicott, Babbitt is filled with dissatisfaction; and -a realization (more vague than hers, because he cannot understand -it) of the meaningless hypocrisy of his life. But his revolt is not -intellectual, and therefore the pain of frustration in the inevitable -defeat at the end is not so keen. - -I do not hold with those critics who condemn Mr. Lewis for presenting -only one side of his picture. I agree that he does present only -one side—but are there not a great many times as many authors who -write only of the so-called “pleasant” side? And are not Mr. Lewis’ -characterizations far closer to the actual verities? - -I think that they are; and that historians of the future will do well to -turn to such books as “Babbitt” for their data on the “typical” American -citizen of the third decade of the twentieth century. - - C. G. P. - - - - -_Editor’s Table_ - - -As the French say: All generalities are false, even this one. - - * * * * * - -“The Editor’s Table has no raison d’être,” I said. - -“Nor any pièce de résistance,” said my friend. - -“Nor is it ever a chef d’oeuvre,” I added. - - * * * * * - -But I know now that the French are right. - - CORY. - - - - -_Yale Lit. Advertiser._ - - * * * * * - -The Chase National Bank of the City of New York - -57 Broadway - - Capital $20,000,000 - Surplus and Profits 21,787,000 - Deposits (Sept. 15, 1922) 434,107,000 - -OFFICERS - - ALBERT H. WIGGIN, President - -Vice-Presidents: - - Samuel H. Miller - Carl J. Schmidlapp - Gerhard M. Dahl - Reeve Schley - Henry Ollesheimer - Alfred C. Andrews - Robert I. Barr - Sherrill Smith - -Assistant Vice-Presidents - - Edwin A. Lee - William E. Purdy - George H. Saylor - James L. Miller - Alfred W. Hudson - George Hadden - M. Hadden Howell - -Comptroller - - Thomas Ritchie - -Cashier - - William P. Holly - - * * * * * - -WINCHESTER - -Sportsmen’s Headquarters - -91 Church Street, Near Chapel - -Sportwear for All Occasions - -GUNS - -RADIO - -GAMES - - * * * * * - -HARRY RAPOPORT - -University Tailor - -Established 1884 - -Every Wednesday at Park Avenue Hotel, Park Ave. and 33rd St., New York - -1073 CHAPEL STREET - -NEW HAVEN, CONN. - - * * * * * - -The Best Stores Everywhere Show - -[Illustration: ESTABLISHED 1896 - -LANGROCK FINE CLOTHES - -NEW HAVEN, CONN.] - -INCORPORATED ELM STREET AT YALE CAMPUS - -English Accessories for men who appreciate quality and value - -NEW YORK OFFICE: 220 BROADWAY - - * * * * * - -The Brick Row Book Shop, Inc. - -Announces that Subscriptions are being taken for: - -The Manaton Edition of the Works of John Galsworthy - -Limited to 750 copies to be sold in this country, and printed on -specially water-marked rag paper. Mr. Galsworthy has written sixteen new -prefaces for this edition, and will inscribe the first volume of each set. - -The Collected Works of Herman Melville - -Limited to 650 copies, of which 300 only are to be sold in the United -States. This edition will appear in twelve volumes, six dollars the -volume. - - * * * * * - -As Individual as You Are - -From the bolt of cloth to the finished suit, we tailor your clothes -perfectly to the contour of your form. Every suit and overcoat tailored -to your individual measurements. Only through such service can you -receive such fine quality for so little cost. - -E. V. PRICE & CO. Tailoring for Men - -We’re now showing an impressive display of new Fall fabrics. Come in -early and make your selection. - -$45.00 UP TO $65.00 - -SHOP OF JENKINS - -Haberdashery—Knox Hats—Clothing Specialists - -940 Chapel Street, New Haven, Conn. - - * * * * * - -The Nonpareil Laundry Co. - -The Oldest Established Laundry to Yale - -We darn your socks, sew your buttons on, and make all repairs without -extra charge. - - * * * * * - -PACH BROS. - -_College Photographers_ - -1024 CHAPEL STREET - -NEW HAVEN, CONN. - - * * * * * - -NASH - -_Nash Leads the World in Motor Car Value_ - -$1645 - -_Completely equipped as shown_ - -[Illustration] - -THE NEW Nash Sport Model - -Here’s the latest addition to the Nash line—a popularly-priced, -smartly-fashioned sport model with the most complete equipment ever -put on a car. There’s nothing in its field to touch it. See it at your -dealers. - -FOURS _and_ SIXES - -Reduced Prices Range from $915 to $2190, f.o.b. Factory - -THE NASH MOTORS COMPANY - -KENOSHA, WISCONSIN - - * * * * * - -CHAS. MEURISSE & CO. 4638 Cottage Grove Ave., Chicago, Ill. - -POLO MALLETS, POLO BALLS, POLO SADDLES and POLO EQUIPMENT of every kind - -Catalog with book of rules on request - - * * * * * - -CHASE AND COMPANY - -_Clothing_ - -GENTLEMEN’S FURNISHING GOODS - -1018-1020 Chapel St., New Haven, Conn. - -Complete Outfittings for Every Occasion. For Day or Evening Wear. For -Travel, Motor or Outdoor Sport. Shirts, Neckwear, Hosiery, Hats and Caps. -Rugs, Bags, Leather Goods, Etc. - - * * * * * - -Tailors to College Men of Good Discrimination - -[Illustration: _Gus Alexander_ - -_DRESS_ TAILOR _SPORTING_] - -1123 CHAPEL STREET - -NEW HAVEN, CONN. - - * * * * * - -Established 1852 - -I. KLEINER & SON - -TAILORS - -1098 Chapel Street - -NEW HAVEN, CONN. - -Up Stairs - - * * * * * - -The Lit. - -is a Yale magazine—leader in literature among undergraduates. A local -effort, it can be but “one of the leaders” in the nation. - -We Can - -not take many pictures outside of New Haven because we, too, are a local -institution. But like the Lit., we lead here at home—in Yale and New -Haven. - -Roger Sherman Studio - -“Just across from Vanderbilt” - - * * * * * - -Reliance Typewriter Co., Inc. - -74-76 CENTER STREET - -Phone Colony 1569 - -AGENTS - -L. C. Smith & Bros. Typewriters. Rebuilt Typewriters of All Makes. -Special Rental Rates to Students. - - * * * * * - -HUGH M. BEIRNE - -227 Elm Street - -_Men’s Furnishings_ - -“Next to the Gym.” - - * * * * * - -FRAPPIER’S BARBER SHOP - -100 per cent. CLEAN - -Manicure - -Shoe Shine - -211 ELM STREET - -Next to Gym. - - * * * * * - -VAN DYCK & CO. Incorporated - -PRINTERS - -121-123 Olive Street - -New Haven, Conn. - - * * * * * - -The Standard of Quality which we maintain in our Merchandise insures -you against purchasing articles of wearing apparel of inferior quality -and workmanship. We demand the best quality in all our hats, sweaters, -hosiery, neckwear, shirts and underwear. - -May we show you this standard of quality. - -John F. Fitzgerald - -Hotel Taft Bldg. NEW HAVEN, CONN. - - * * * * * - -UNIVERSITY SMOKE SHOP - -(Opposite Osborn Hall) - -“The Rendezvous of Yale Men” - -Pipes, Smokers’ Articles, Tobaccos, Soda Fountain, Sandwiches. - -Ticker Service - - * * * * * - -MOTOR MART GARAGE - -OLIVE AND WOOSTER STS. - -Oils and Gasoline - -Turn-auto Repair Service - - * * * * * - -COMPLIMENTS OF A FRIEND - - * * * * * - -[Illustration] - -NEW HAVEN CONNECTICUT - -522 FIFTH AVENUE NEW YORK CITY - -YALE UNIVERSITY PRESS - -_Announces the Publication of the following New Verse_— - -_Lyra Levis_ - -By Edward Bliss Reed - -In this attractive little volume Mr. Reed describes in humorous verse the -faculty, the undergraduates, and the life in an American university town. -The book will appeal to anyone who knows college communities. - -_Price_ $1.00 - -Hidden Waters - -By Bernard Raymund - - “These songs be carven from - Dear days we knew, - Green days, and windy days and some - Wild with the flames that used to come - When love was new.” - -_In the Yale Series of Younger Poets_ - -_Price_ $1.25 - -Attitudes - -By Paul Tanaquil - - “Here are my songs, - Such as I make them; - Each one belongs - Unto you: take them.” - -_In the Yale Series of Younger Poets_ - -_Price_ $1.25 - -In the Sky Garden - -By Stephen Moylan Bird - -Selected and arranged with a Biographical Sketch by Charles Wharton Stork. - - “Like a cool vapor falling - The voice of Death is calling: - ‘In my dim land is Peace, - By Lethe-languid fountains - In my mist-shrouded mountains - All cares and clamors cease.’” - -The collected verse of the young West Point cadet who in a fit of -despondency probably took his own life. - -_Price_ $1.50 - -Yankee Notions - -By George S. Bryan - -These diverting poems are by none other than the G. S. B. who—by his -initials—is known to thousands through his association with F. P. A.’s -column in the New York Tribune. - -*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE YALE LITERARY MAGAZINE -(VOL. LXXXVIII, NO. 1) *** - -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will -be renamed. - -Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright -law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, -so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the -United States without permission and without paying copyright -royalties. Special rules, set forth in the General Terms of Use part -of this license, apply to copying and distributing Project -Gutenberg-tm electronic works to protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm -concept and trademark. 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- vertical-align: middle; -} - -.smaller { - font-size: 80%; -} - -.smcap { - font-variant: small-caps; - font-style: normal; -} - -.spacer { - margin-left: 3em; -} - -.x-ebookmaker img { - max-width: 100%; - width: auto; - height: auto; -} - -.x-ebookmaker .poetry { - display: block; - margin-left: 1.5em; -} - -.x-ebookmaker .blockquote { - margin: 1.5em 5%; -} - -.x-ebookmaker p.dropcap:first-letter { - float: none; - margin: 0; - font-size: 100%; -} - - </style> - </head> -<body> -<p style='text-align:center; font-size:1.2em; font-weight:bold'>The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Yale Literary Magazine (Vol. LXXXVIII, No. 1), by (Students of Yale)</p> -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and -most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions -whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms -of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online -at <a href="https://www.gutenberg.org">www.gutenberg.org</a>. If you -are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the -country where you are located before using this eBook. -</div> - -<p style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:1em; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Title: The Yale Literary Magazine (Vol. LXXXVIII, No. 1)</p> -<p style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:0; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Author: (Students of Yale)</p> -<p style='display:block; text-indent:0; margin:1em 0'>Release Date: May 8, 2022 [eBook #68019]</p> -<p style='display:block; text-indent:0; margin:1em 0'>Language: English</p> - <p style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:0; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em; text-align:left'>Produced by: hekula03 and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This book was produced from images made available by the HathiTrust Digital Library.)</p> -<div style='margin-top:2em; margin-bottom:4em'>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE YALE LITERARY MAGAZINE (VOL. LXXXVIII, NO. 1) ***</div> - -<div class="cover"> - -<div class="cover-inner"> - -<p class="center smaller">Vol. LXXXVIII <span class="spacer">No. 1</span></p> - -<p class="center mt2 larger"><span class="smaller">The</span><br /> -Yale Literary Magazine</p> - -<p class="center mid"><span class="smaller">Conducted by the</span><br /> -Students of Yale University.</p> - -<div class="figcenter" style="width: 400px;"> -<img src="images/cover-img.jpg" width="400" height="375" alt="" /> -</div> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">“Dum mens grata manet, nomen laudesque <span class="smcap">Yalenses</span></div> - <div class="verse indent0">Cantabunt <span class="smcap">Soboles</span>, unanimique <span class="smcap">Patres</span>.”</div> - </div> -</div> -</div> - -<div class="figcenter" style="width: 200px;"> -<img src="images/cover-line.jpg" width="200" height="15" alt="" /> -</div> - -<p class="center">October, 1922.</p> - -<div class="figcenter" style="width: 200px;"> -<img src="images/cover-line.jpg" width="200" height="15" alt="" /> -</div> - -<p class="center">New Haven: Published by the Editors.<br /> -<span class="smaller">Printed at the Van Dyck Press, 121-123 Olive St., New Haven.</span></p> - -<div class="figcenter" style="width: 200px;"> -<img src="images/cover-line.jpg" width="200" height="15" alt="" /> -</div> - -<p class="center">Price: Thirty-five Cents.</p> - -<p class="center smaller"><i>Entered as second-class matter at the New Haven Post Office.</i></p> - -</div> - -</div> - -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="adbox"> - -<p class="center larger"><b>THE YALE<br /> -LITERARY MAGAZINE</b></p> - -<p class="center">has the following amount of trade at a 10% -discount with these places:</p> - -<table summary=" " class="bold"> - <tr> - <td>CHASE—Men’s Furnishings</td> - <td class="tdr">$30.00</td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td>GAMER—Tailors</td> - <td class="tdr">32.00</td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td>KNOX-RAY—Silverware</td> - <td class="tdr">$16.00</td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td>PACH—Photographers</td> - <td class="tdr">24.00</td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td>PALLMAN—Kodaks</td> - <td class="tdr">32.00</td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td>ROGER SHERMAN—Photographers</td> - <td class="tdr">63.00</td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td>YALE CO-OP.</td> - <td class="tdr">63.00</td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td>YALE UNIVERSITY PRESS—Books</td> - <td class="tdr">125.00</td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td>KIRBY—Jewelers</td> - <td class="tdr">63.00</td> - </tr> -</table> - -<p>If you want any of this drop a card to the -Business Manager, Yale Station, and a trade -slip will be returned on the same day.</p> - -</div> - -<div class="adbox"> - -<p class="center"><b>ESTABLISHED 1818</b></p> - -<div class="figcenter"> -<img src="images/ad-brooks.jpg" width="500" height="200" alt="Brooks Brothers, -CLOTHING, Gentlemen’s Furnishing Goods." /> -</div> - -<p class="center"><b>MADISON AVENUE COR. FORTY-FOURTH STREET -NEW YORK</b></p> - -<p class="center"><i>Telephone Murray Hill 8800</i></p> - -<p class="center">Clothing Ready made or to Measure for Autumn</p> - -<ul class="center smaller"> -<li>Evening Clothes, Cutaways, Sack Suits</li> -<li>Sporting Clothes and Medium-weight Overcoats</li> -<li>English and Domestic Hats & Furnishings</li> -<li>Boots and Shoes for Dress, Street and Outdoor Sport</li> -<li>Trunks, Bags & Leather Goods</li> -</ul> - -<p class="center"><i>Send for “New Directory of Brooks Brothers’ Building”</i></p> - -<p class="center"><b><span class="mid">BOSTON</span><br /> -<span class="smcap">Tremont cor. Boylston</span></b></p> - -<p class="center"><b><span class="mid">NEWPORT</span><br /> -<span class="smcap">220 Bellevue Avenue</span></b></p> - -</div> - -<div class="adbox"> - -<p class="center larger"><b>THE YALE CO-OP.</b></p> - -<p class="center mid"><i>A Story of Progress</i></p> - -<p>At the close of the fiscal year, July, 1921, the -total membership was 1187.</p> - -<p>For the same period ending July, 1922, the -membership was 1696.</p> - -<p>On October 5th, 1922, or one week after the -opening of college the membership was 1752, and -men are still joining.</p> - -<p>Why stay out when a membership will save -you manifold times the cost of the fee.</p> - -</div> - -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<h1>THE YALE LITERARY MAGAZINE</h1> - -<h2 class="nobreak">Contents</h2> - -<p class="center">OCTOBER, 1922</p> - -</div> - -<table summary="Contents"> - <tr> - <td>Leader</td> - <td class="tdr"><span class="smcap">Maxwell E. Foster</span></td> - <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Leader">1</a></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td>Truth</td> - <td class="tdr"><span class="smcap">Maxwell E. Foster</span></td> - <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Truth">6</a></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td>Poem</td> - <td class="tdr"><span class="smcap">Russell W. Davenport</span></td> - <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Poem">8</a></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td>About It and About</td> - <td class="tdr"><span class="smcap">K. A. Campbell, Jr.</span></td> - <td class="tdpg"><a href="#About_It_and_About">11</a></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td>The Meditations of a Non-Thinker</td> - <td class="tdr"><span class="smcap">L. Hyde</span></td> - <td class="tdpg"><a href="#The_Meditations_of_a_Non-Thinker">12</a></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td>Selima</td> - <td class="tdr"><span class="smcap">Myles Whiting</span></td> - <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Selima">16</a></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td>Portfolio:</td> - <td class="tdr"></td> - <td class="tdpg"></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class="tdsub">Beauty</td> - <td class="tdr"><span class="smcap">Herbert W. Hartman, Jr.</span></td> - <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Beauty">23</a></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class="tdsub">Fear of God</td> - <td class="tdr"><span class="smcap">Robert Cruise McManus</span></td> - <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Fear_of_God">23</a></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class="tdsub">Ballade</td> - <td class="tdr"><span class="smcap">Laird Goldsborough</span></td> - <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Ballade">27</a></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td>Notabilia</td> - <td class="tdr"></td> - <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Notabilia">30</a></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td>Book Reviews</td> - <td class="tdr"></td> - <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Book_Reviews">32</a></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td>Editor’s Table</td> - <td class="tdr"></td> - <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Editors_Table">38</a></td> - </tr> -</table> - -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_1"></a>[1]</span></p> - -<h2>The Yale Literary Magazine</h2> - -<div class="masthead"> - -<div class="masthead-inner"> - -<table summary=" " class="mh"> - <tr> - <td><span class="smcap">Vol. LXXXVIII</span></td> - <td class="tdc">OCTOBER, 1922</td> - <td class="tdr"><span class="smcap">No. 1</span></td> - </tr> -</table> - -</div> - -<div class="masthead-inner"> - -<p class="center"><i>EDITORS</i></p> - -<table summary=" "> - <tr> - <td class="tdc" colspan="3">MAXWELL EVARTS FOSTER</td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td colspan="2">RUSSELL WHEELER DAVENPORT</td> - <td class="tdr">WINFIELD SHIRAS</td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td>ROBERT CHAPMAN BATES</td> - <td colspan="2" class="tdr">FRANCIS OTTO MATTHIESSEN</td> - </tr> -</table> - -<p class="center"><i>BUSINESS MANAGERS</i></p> - -<table summary=" "> - <tr> - <td>CHARLES EVANDER SCHLEY</td> - <td> </td> - <td>HORACE JEREMIAH VOORHIS</td> - </tr> -</table> - -</div> - -</div> - -</div> - -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<h2 class="nobreak" id="Leader"><i>Leader</i></h2> - -</div> - -<p class="dropcap">Every generation is a foible. It is born of whim, and educated -on fantasy. In adulthood it is naturally a freak. This -younger generation in this year of our Lord 1922 is no exception. -We were born of respectability, educated on pedantry. In adulthood -we are revolutionaries. Could anything be more natural, -more un-Victorian?</p> - -<p>We were born secretly. God knows how such things happened -in that age. Perhaps the Stork brought us, nicely done up in—well—baby-clothes. -We were brought up on platitudes. Most of -them were dressed up as Christian. We hid our meanings in -pretty words, and our sense in a blush. The word sex was -unheard of. We didn’t talk much about anything dirty. We -never swore. We said our prayers. With goodness we were -replete; it made our lives hideous. Ultimately it was our virtue -that drove us to sin. We were too good for this world. Forced -to live in it by the tyranny of our parents—we adjusted ourselves, -and became bad.</p> - -<p>As soon as lies become platitudes they are doomed. The next -passer-by will see through their disguise and expose them. You -can fool yourself with your own lie; but if your neighbors catch -the habit from you, and begin fooling themselves with the same -lie, in no time that lie becomes a platitude. The Victorians fooled -themselves into thinking that anything you could forget didn’t<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_2"></a>[2]</span> -exist any more. So were we born into a Virgin world. Our -beloved ancestry had forgotten there was any sin; for us then -there would not be any. We were their realized dream.</p> - -<p>But unfortunately these little cherubim, these little seraphim -grew up into adolescence, learnt things about sex by groping in -dark corners, learnt shocking social problems by looking up words -in Dictionaries; learnt in so doing to disbelieve every word the -Victorians uttered. They had put their faith in that sort of -royalty once too often. Genuinely they became skeptics. Because -they had been taught by liars they could not afford to believe -anything—without testing its verity. They are generous in their -estimate of the society into which they are born. Instead of -saying, “We are born into a world of liars,” they restrain themselves, -consider the question rationally and say, “No, only into a -world of fools.” And out of these Fools’ Paradise the younger -generation has toddled. To them it was a hell.</p> - -<p>Their first independent action was to set up Truth as their God. -They had had enough of lies. Truth was their panacea. Ignorance -was the abiding sin of mortality. Their battle was for the -Tree of Knowledge of Good and Evil, not for the beautiful garden -of Eden—where nakedness did not prevail upon innocence and -blushing was unknown.</p> - -<p>Part of this knowledge surely was scientific. The health of the -body was all important: Biology, Hygiene, sex education. For -these they cried out. They talked eagerly of germ-plasm and -genetics; defiantly of birth-control, the double-standard.</p> - -<p>An equality between man and woman had suddenly been decreed -politically; philanthropists were already talking about it morally; -the younger generation carrying the movement one step further is -experimenting with it intellectually. What they think, they say. -Does it matter who is there? Bah! Victorian prudery. There -are no secrets now between the sexes.</p> - -<p>But part of this knowledge of good and evil was common sense—when -once the Puritan and Victorian nonsense had been destroyed. -It is only to a sex-maniac that the shortening of skirts -can possibly do any harm. What, cries the younger generation, -is the difference between showing one’s legs, and one’s arms; -bobbing one’s hair is the same, or smoking, or drinking, or<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_3"></a>[3]</span> -swearing. If they aren’t good for the physique—well and good, -they are bad; but if they are only bad because our Puritan or -Victorian ancestry say so—or because Moses fell down the mountain -with some tombstones under his arm—what the hell?—they -aren’t bad at all.</p> - -<p>So the gentlemen and ladies of the past lift their monocles and -their lorgnettes to watch these semi-nude girls, these godless men. -“Dear, dear,” they say. “Gracious me. That’s not a nice young -man.”</p> - -<p>What really has happened, say the younger generation, is that -America for some time has been living up to ideals which they -have never expressed, and have expressed, in lieu of these, ideals -which they have never lived down to. Silly little superficial rules, -and some hideous inhibitions grew up out of these expressed -ideals. Otherwise they have been like corpses rotting before the -very eyes of those who created them. They were never alive at -all, say the younger generation. So it considers itself a generation -of building, not of destroying. With frankness a dominant characteristic -it must express the futility of the old expressed, as well -as the strength of the old unexpressed ideals. But it lays the -emphasis on the old unexpressed. For instance, it is not proud -that it has torn down the absurd anthropomorphic God of the -literature of the Past, but it is proud, that, having gotten rid of -that miasma, it has proceeded to the conclusion that God is but -the vision of the potentiality of mankind realized. That with -Thomas Hardy it can go forward</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent14">“with dependence placed</div> - <div class="verse indent0">On the human heart’s resource alone,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">In brotherhood bonded close, and graced</div> - <div class="verse indent0">With loving kindness fully blown,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">And visioned help unsought, unknown.”</div> - </div> -</div> -</div> - -<p class="noindent">It is not proud of having torn the veil off the carefully draped -Victorian womanhood, but having done so it is proud of the constructive -results, that no longer having ignorance, it can see the -beauty and purity in the nakedness of the sex. It has torn down -the ugly lies that covered the world with a respectable and morne -garland of fig-leaves, but out of the ruins of this demolition it is -creating a naked sanity, of which it is reasonably proud.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_4"></a>[4]</span></p> - -<p>Thirty years ago “Jude the Obscure” was called “Jude the -Obscene”. To-day Jude is considered a masterpiece, dealing in -an intensely honest way with God and the divine right of the -marriage service. Marriage has become a less eternal and a more -kindly institution. Divorcees are considered less heinous people -than before. For better or for worse is no longer a very powerful -condemnation. In the Victorian era the sexual became an obsession -because it was over-emphasized by being left unmentioned. -In reaction, for a moment, under the Freudian influence it became -an obsession from the exactly opposite reason. With the younger -generation it is taking its place like hunger and thirst in the category -of normal desires. The relations between girl and boy are -more open, more real than in the past. There is no longer the -hideous restraint before marriage, causing unhappy lives. It is -an easier matter to know whom one is to marry among the younger -generation. More and more they are being honest with one -another. More and more they are coming to consider themselves -rational, kind-hearted people.</p> - -<p>I am not justified in defending or attacking the younger generation. -I am doing my duty only in attempting to express the ideals -we live by, the ideals they teach me. Too long has the ridiculous -idea been current that they have no ideals. I have set myself to -define them. Because they are different from the past, they are -not non-existent. We are not, as a generation, more dishonest, -more dishonorable than our predecessors. Yet we have no ideals? -That is out of the mouths of fools only.</p> - -<p>No, the Victorians thought that not knowing, or pretending not -to know, about things unpleasant was the way to destroy them—by -a slow process of forgetting. The younger generation thinks -that knowing, and everyone knowing thoroughly about things -unpleasant, will eventually arouse the race to do something about -them; to clean energetically the Augean stables. You can see there -is a fundamental difference in each generation’s idea of Humanity. -The Victorians thought that knowledge of sin tainted the virtuous -flower of innocence by rousing thoughts and passions for evil, -which could only be killed by long disusage. Mankind fundamentally, -said the Victorians to themselves, has a bad streak. We -must carefully avoid mentioning things that would start that<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_5"></a>[5]</span> -streak going. If man is not naturally bad, he naturally has some -bad in him. We must starve the devil out of him. The younger -generation denies this. Man is naturally good; anyway, fundamentally -so. Evil is an outgrowth of our own civilization, and -social scheme. Most, if not all, criminals are insane. Society is -to blame for insanity. We must study the causes of the insanities; -must publish them broadcast. People must know. If they know, -they will improve. We must educate ourselves up to knowing -what is good, what is bad. We must know the worst to do the -best.</p> - -<p>Consciously, the Victorians were living by the theories of -church dogma, believing in original sin; unconsciously, the younger -generation is living by the theories of the romantic spirit, believing -in natural good. They are idealists beyond the common run of -mankind; and they are ruthless in the following of their ideals.</p> - -<p class="author">MAXWELL E. FOSTER.</p> - -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_6"></a>[6]</span></p> - -<h2 class="nobreak" id="Truth"><i>Truth</i></h2> - -</div> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0"><span class="dropcap">T</span>he Truth that lingers in the heart’s secret places,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">The Truth that gleams of a sudden on Grail-faces,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">The Truth that has run so many torch-lit races,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Shone suddenly on me,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">And henceforth was to be</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Bone of my bone, flesh of my flesh, soul of my soul, unto that last far dawn which is eternity.</div> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">Our souls were worn like a gaunt dungeon-keep</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Washed by the sea; we sowed not, nor did reap;</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Our Gods were on a journey or asleep;—</div> - <div class="verse indent0">When like a surging fire</div> - <div class="verse indent0">A spirit from earth’s ages did suspire,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">And each soul’s tower put forth leaves and blossomed,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Like a young tree, and in our souls again there was desire.</div> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">The Spring lay luxuriantly the earth over,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">White roses broke like foam, and the hot clover</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Seemed heavy with spent passion like a lover</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Languorous, till the night</div> - <div class="verse indent0">And the swift breezes white</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Came like a cooling bell and rain, and our eyes grew brighter</div> - <div class="verse indent0">With the new gleam of that celestial light.</div> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">Suddenly there was Romance laughing again,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">And poetry in the strange ancient ways of men,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">We were as ones on peaks in Darien,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">And Love with a new glory</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Opened in song and story,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Like a flower in a wan waste by the sea,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">And we with our wide eyes looked forward from our star-touched promontory.</div><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_7"></a>[7]</span> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">The hands that moulded dust out of the dust,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Scorching the sky with the iron that turns to rust,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Fashioning brazen Gods to feed their lust,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">These with their feet of clay,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">In the slow alchemy of a timeless day,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Caught like the hunter of the east new beauty</div> - <div class="verse indent0">And were like figures of the dawn and spray.</div> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">Time has not memory enough for these.</div> - <div class="verse indent0">De Gustibus through shadowy autumn trees,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Drinking life fully to its twisted lees,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Nor Time, nor drear regret</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Holds enough memory ever to forget,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">These that are metaphors of immortality,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Enduring beyond the finality of any long and last sunset.</div> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">The Truth that lingers in the heart’s secret places,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">For this is there an hour glass that effaces,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Or waves to wash away to sunless spaces</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Truth that is more than Time,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">More than the mere infernal and sublime,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Truth that is strong as Death, and light as Life,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">And passionate as the last great poet’s last rhyme?</div> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="author">MAXWELL E. FOSTER.</div> - </div> -</div> -</div> - -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_8"></a>[8]</span></p> - -<h2 class="nobreak" id="Poem"><i>Poem</i></h2> - -</div> - -<p class="center">“<i>The sane man is nowhere at all when he -enters into rivalry with the madman.</i>”</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0"><span class="dropcap">G</span>oddess, the rocks are crumbling into sand;</div> - <div class="verse indent0">The moonlight trembles hesitant, as though</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Winter with all his winds and hoary snow</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Were gathering. Goddess, thy hand,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Which has created shore and rock and ocean</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Within my heart, seems cold;</div> - <div class="verse indent0">I fear lest thou art growing old</div> - <div class="verse indent0">With me—the shattered wreck of my devotion.</div> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">Goddess, there is no love in heaven or earth</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Without thee, and the stars grow dim with age</div> - <div class="verse indent0">When thine eyes are averted, and the rage</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Of winter winds turns luxury to dearth.</div> - <div class="verse indent0">What will it profit if we love no more</div> - <div class="verse indent0">(For I know thou hast loved in thine own way)?</div> - <div class="verse indent0">What will it profit, if for yesterday</div> - <div class="verse indent0">We substitute to-morrow, with its store</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Of sorrow?</div> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">What is a dream for goddess?—not to be</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Immortal once is to be dead forever!</div> - <div class="verse indent0">And shall our eyes go blind and our lips never</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Meet? What is eternity,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">If not that moment of a wild embrace,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">When two souls recognize</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Their first bewildered contact, and two eyes</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Drink the white radiance of a lover’s face?</div><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_9"></a>[9]</span> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">Oh, ere the evening lights go gathering like fire</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Across the western portals—ere the sun</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Proclaims that life and life’s short tasks are done—</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Be thou the mistress of my pure desire,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Be thou the goddess of my heart!</div> - <div class="verse indent0">A man cannot forget a woman’s eyes,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">If he has kissed them (as I have thine own</div> - <div class="verse indent0">In dreams). Love is an art</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Which men do not forget, when they have known</div> - <div class="verse indent0">The way a woman takes toward paradise.</div> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">What weary fools we are! Dust is the same,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Whether alive, or whether dead and rotten;</div> - <div class="verse indent0">And love is love, remembered or forgotten;</div> - <div class="verse indent0">And life is life, although it be a name.</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Let sorrow come, with many tears; or shame</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Alight upon my brow; or age deny</div> - <div class="verse indent0">What fiery youth would fain assert or die;</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Let even death wash all my dreams away</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Like sand—still I am I,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">To-morrow and to-day, and yesterday.</div> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">Therefore I am immortal; and thy face</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Which I have called mine own, must live, must be</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Immortal with the very heart of me.</div> - <div class="verse indent0">On whatsoever shore, or in what place,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Whether among the gods, or on the earth,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Wherever man finds truth, or woman grace,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Or Sorrow tears, or Laughter tears of mirth;</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Wherever love is, goddess, I shall be;</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Wherever I am, thou—the heart of me!</div><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_10"></a>[10]</span> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">Ah, we are weary fools—</div> - <div class="verse indent0">We men who talk of love and sorrow,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">And build philosophy upon old schools,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">And yearn for paradise to-morrow.</div> - <div class="verse indent0">We are insane! Creation dimly flows</div> - <div class="verse indent0">About us, yet like children do we play</div> - <div class="verse indent0">With our uncomprehended toys;</div> - <div class="verse indent0">And no one knows</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Wherefore in love these weary fools rejoice,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">And grasp at stars in their uncertain way.</div> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">Yet I would rather be a fool, and love,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Than drink of wisdom, and forget the stars;</div> - <div class="verse indent0">I’d rather tear life from Time’s calendars</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Than lose thy face, which I am dreaming of.</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Thus have I given all to be thy slave,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">And now I ask that thou remember this:</div> - <div class="verse indent0">’Tis better to be mortal in a kiss,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Than to be called immortal in a grave.</div> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="author">RUSSELL W. DAVENPORT.</div> - </div> -</div> -</div> - -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_11"></a>[11]</span></p> - -<h2 class="nobreak" id="About_It_and_About"><i>About It and About</i></h2> - -</div> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0"><span class="dropcap">W</span>hat made you speak so, Youth, just now before</div> - <div class="verse indent0">These elders, men much nearer to the thing</div> - <div class="verse indent0">You touch on?</div> - <div class="verse indent14">Ah, but no. They claim it so</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Yet I deny, for Graybeards grudge to have</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Youth whisper, “Death” ... because they feel it close?</div> - <div class="verse indent0">And Youth’s poor boldness makes it still more close?</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Youth always speaks on death by proper right;</div> - <div class="verse indent0">He has but left it when he enters life</div> - <div class="verse indent0">While Graybeard’s years have dulled the sense that knew</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Prenatal death, and now its imminence</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Stifles his speech.... While Youth, Youth only dares!</div> - <div class="verse indent2">So I ... hearing such bootless thoughts on death,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Oblivion, rest, eternal pain, reward....</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Somehow they think death lasts, and seek to lie</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Disposed at ease through aeons, or perhaps</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Send on their proper sandal-size ahead</div> - <div class="verse indent0">To heaven’s commissary. Thus Graybeards.</div> - <div class="verse indent0">And yet, Youth also misconstrues its sort,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Makes it a vale deep-shadowed, where within</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Ghosts glide ’neath cloistering cypress trees and sup</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Of honey cakes in tombs wisteria-hung:</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Cloaked lovers stroll through hazel groves and come</div> - <div class="verse indent0">To Lethe’s bank ... or in another mood,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Visioning death as ugly, conjures up</div> - <div class="verse indent0">A creatured sprite bent on a tarnished scythe.</div> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">But death, and such my death will be, is naught</div> - <div class="verse indent0">To stop a soul’s drive nor to even check</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Its impetus. Death is transition, well,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Transition’s but a word ... or say it thus,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">It simply lies, a gap between two rails</div> - <div class="verse indent0">The drive wheel rushes over unaware.</div> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="author">K. A. CAMPBELL, JR.</div> - </div> -</div> -</div> - -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_12"></a>[12]</span></p> - -<h2 class="nobreak" id="The_Meditations_of_a_Non-Thinker"><i>The Meditations of a Non-Thinker</i></h2> - -</div> - -<p class="dropcap">Look at your nose. It is smooth and round, and red and -shiny. Possibly ’tis flat, obtuse, snub, Roman, or Jew. Or -in case you happen to think of some other qualification, it is that. -So with your eyes—if only you will apply suitable adjectives. -And also with your chin, mouth, hair, ears, jowls, or whatever. -The reason I suggest this, is in order to add the insinuation that, -if you regard any of these members in a mirror for some length -of time, their aspect changes. For instance—you, my kind sir -of the snub nose, affirm that your nose did not appear beautiful -at first? But you will as well admit that its grossness lessened -in accordance with the time spent in contemplating it. You got -to know it just a little better than you knew it before. Or you -who wear the slight scraggly beard—no, not you, madam—, will -you kindly step forward to the glass and observe how your impression -of that fringe changeth from the disgust of a reformed -highwayman to the pride of a father? If we but had the time, -we should spend a delightful afternoon, dear reader, watching -such profitable changes in expression. Human nature is fascinating, -is it not? But verily all of this—for I shall leave aside -even the proposition of how such an outward change affects the -spiritual grace—is merely to remark that by taking thought on -any part of your person, no matter how small, you become acquainted -correspondingly with such a part.</p> - -<p>This is indeed great. For the action pleases the gazer supremely -with his personality. Yet I hasten to assure you, my dear reader, -that such a phenomenon is quite natural—because after all, we -are all of us pretty much fools, and generally when a fool becomes -better acquainted with himself, he becomes more endeared to -himself. As to the question of the right or wrong of this human -attribute, I make no advances, for it is aside from my position as -recorder. But from what I have heard wise men say, I should -judge it to be a lamentable weakness, especially lamentable since -the whole evil appears to issue from a person’s having thought<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_13"></a>[13]</span> -too much. As a child I was taught to respect thought. And -actually I once believed this to be a worthy hypothesis. But now, -as I linger on the verge of a dreary grave, my old head is fearsomely -shaken with doubt. Ah yes, to think that—but I had -better not think!</p> - -<p>When we think, we do not observe the golden mean. We rush -in where angels fear to tread. We are not humble, as Christians. -We are exalted, as fools—and as such we love ourselves. So -when we are in the act of thinking, we will not leave off with -any sane or wholesome solution. We believe such a conclusion -not good enough for us. We call it barren. We must needs -explore further. After finding a cliff at the edge of a rational -plane of thought, we urge on and grope into the outer darkness. -For the little time that faith supports we continue safely—and -blindly—enough, and then—fall down on the rocks, where we -proceed lame and disorderly—or like Peter, sink absolutely into -an offended sea—and are not saved.</p> - -<p>You must allow that when you work yourself into such a state, -the effect on your feelings is far from pleasant, far from elegant -even. I should imagine that one in the grip of mental excesses -is not unlike the habitual user of drugs—the morphinomaniac, -opium-eater, or alcoholic. The mood is surely delirious, grotesquely -fanciful, spirit-ridden. Possibly you believe it is pitiful -to see a strong and normal man slowly gathered in by some subtle -influence to become a slave grovelling bestially before a false and -gilded—but an all-compelling—idol. Aye! this is pitiful. But -the pity of it is not the greatest part. Here are you, possessed -of abilities, ambitions, loving friends, philanthropy of the highest -kind, delighted with this world, and enchanted with the prospect -of the next. You hope everything and you fear nothing. By -some insidious trick of fate—a fate that preys upon an insignificant -weakness of yours—you feel yourself subdued slightly by -the nod of some dim gigantic animal. But you are not afraid. -For your interests are so worthily turned elsewhere that you know -the Thing to have little power compared to your own—and you -do not care. Oh, therein lives the fearful irony! You may -indulge in your morphine, your opium, or your thinking largely -to aid your powers and your works. The undermining influence<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_14"></a>[14]</span> -is not felt—until too late. Yes, too late.... The degraded wretch -moaning and whimpering, and shivering all over spasmodically -as he tries to get up on his feet, and his rotted nerves will not -respond—can you imagine the inner state of such a fellow? Do -you not conceive that one day he may have been as fine—or a far -finer—person than you? Imagine, then, the turbulence in his -heart! He dreams back to old days, perceiving the former -integrity of his character, the power of his mind and body—and -compares all with the present. Maybe he fashions images of -what to-day he might have been—beautiful glowing things, full -of the light of heaven and of loveliness! He starts from his vile -gutter, repelled by horror, and is about to rise magnificently—when -a fit of the passion seizes him, and you watch him grovel in -the nauseous mire. Happy beast he is—now. But the torture -of his mind will return.</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>The agony which thinking induces by such means as I have -outlined above leads me to consider for a trice its alternative, -because it is joyous and fruitful. Can you imagine a green and -yellow countryside, with a little white farmhouse amidst a cluster -of dark oaks? Willows are near a cove in the stream below, -which ripples its way coolly through the hot day. Do you hear -the dry voice of a locust, or a cricket? Perhaps the bird in that -isolated pine tree will be singing soon. Breathe deeply, for the -sun is low over the hill and a colder, fairer wind blows from the -dark woodland. You sense its fragrance, feel a thrill, and are -deeply delighted with the whole atmosphere. But stay, I hear a -slow cowbell and the barking of a collie.... The colors of the -sunset are delicate and marvelously blended.—And winding down -the path comes a small boy, with pails to fill at the brook for his -mother. So it goes on. However clumsy the little picture, I -have tried to indicate slightly the pleasure met with when you <i>feel</i>. -These emotions of yours are sacred because they are unfathomable. -And they are more beautiful than anything else you will -ever know. As for the fruitfulness of imagination, I must let -you judge more for yourself: I will only say that, when people -are wearied out, the beauty of nature has ever been found more -of a balm to their spirits than the futility of overheated thought. -Thought and emotion are living in eternal conflict within you.<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_15"></a>[15]</span> -As one fills your life you have less room for the other. Any -choosing....</p> - -<p>The psychologist, that enigmatic rabbit born recently amid a -litter of new ideas, maintains thought to be the only respect in -which we differ from animals. Now in the light of this last -word I had better not have used the term “rabbit”; but, however.... -I should like to suggest (though I am not sure whether you -will call me a squirrel or a guinea-pig) that we differ still more -from animals in our power of imagination. You certainly have -seen cartoons entitled “Wonder what a lobster <i>thinks</i> about,” but -it is always you who do the wondering and not the lobster (no -inference that you are one, sir). And you never see “<i>Think</i> -what a jellyfish <i>wonders</i> about”! Furthermore, if the psychologist -is entirely right, you who have followed so assiduously this -essay—which is largely devoid of thought—are at least for the -time being largely an animal. Are you?</p> - -<p class="author">L. HYDE.</p> - -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_16"></a>[16]</span></p> - -<h2 class="nobreak" id="Selima"><i>Selima</i></h2> - -</div> - -<p class="dropcap">There was a mystery about Captain Knox’s wife. Of course, -everyone in Gull Harbor knew there had been a Mrs. Knox, -but according to the best accounts no one had ever seen her. There -were a few facts, however, upon which one could rely. Some -thirty or forty years before, the captain, returning after a long -voyage to the East, had announced himself a widower of recent -bereavement. The existence of the captain’s spouse in Gull -Harbor had begun, therefore, simultaneously with the knowledge -of her decease.</p> - -<p>A short time after the captain’s return, a neat gravestone was -erected on the Knox farm, in the old burial lot, in which had -already been laid to rest the bodies of the captain’s parents, two -brothers, and an uncle. Upon the stone, by the captain’s order, -was carved in plain lettering, “In memory of Selima, my beloved -wife.”</p> - -<p>The captain himself would often refer to her. “She was a -pretty cretur, she was.” Beyond this, however, discussion of her -was not tolerated in his presence.</p> - -<p>By the time I came to know Gull Harbor, the captain’s seafaring -career was over. The people of the village had long since -recovered from the first excitement caused by the mystery of the -captain and his wife, and conversation had drifted back into -familiar channels of interest as to why Mel Hibbard’s sister had -given up her flock of Plymouth Rocks, or speculations as to the -color Mrs. Lovell, wife of the minister of the Adventist Church, -would choose for her new front room carpet.</p> - -<p>I had always felt a prejudice for the Maine coast and from the -moment the Portland boat rounded the big rocky cove, I knew I -should like Gull Harbor. There was a restful peace about the -place peculiar to the seaboard of New England. The smell of low -tide and drying codfish hung about the wharf. Almost immediately -one felt at home.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_17"></a>[17]</span></p> - -<p>I had not been two weeks in the town before I knew all that -Gull Harbor had to tell about their distinguished captain. Didn’t -I know Captain ’Thiel Knox, the man who commanded the first -seven-masted schooner to sail the sea? Why, he had been to -“Chiny” half a dozen times, and the Lord knows how many he -has crossed the ocean. As a further mark of distinction he was -the proud possessor of two long-haired cats which he had brought -with him from Persia.</p> - -<p>One day I happened to ask my landlady, Mrs. Simmons, an old -resident and a noted gossip, if the captain was a widower, and then -I learned of the mystery. “For it’s my opinion,” she added, after -telling me the story, “that she was a Chiny woman, or mebbe a -princess from Persy, though nobody’ll ever know. The captain -he would never say a word; quiet’s a mouse on the subject. You -oughter see him, Mr. Fitch. He’s real nice, and a great hand for -company; all kinds, it don’t matter to him,” she finished in a tone -which meant to include even the summer people.</p> - -<p>A “fortnit” later (one can see how easily I slipped into the -vernacular of the place), I was out sailing in a borrowed dory. -It was a clear August morning; the sky, a healthy blue and cloudless; -the tall spruce trees, interspersed here and there by a monumental -pine, guarded the water’s edge.</p> - -<p>By the time I had rounded the long point that lay between the -harbor and the back bay beyond, a stiff breeze had sprung up. -The churning blue stretched oceanward for miles, blotched by -myriads of foamy white caps. The little dory rocked and twisted -in the choppy waves. The sail, which was home-made, proved an -easy victim of the wind, and I soon found to my dismay that I -was drifting helplessly down the bay toward a stretch of shore -that I had not yet visited. The boat moved rapidly. The trees -along the shore were soon followed by a broad green field, which -stretched up from a tiny harbor almost surrounded by a protecting -arm of the sea toward which I was being driven. Gradually the -water became shallower, and the wind reluctantly let me slip from -its grasp. I was able to look about me. It was a very beautiful -harbor.</p> - -<p>Suddenly I was conscious of an old man in a dory, rowing -towards me. He might have been Father Neptune risen from<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_18"></a>[18]</span> -the depths of the ocean for all I knew. Without a word he pulled -my dilapidated boat ashore. Safely landed, I thanked him. He -was an old man with a long white beard. He had on a tarpaulin -and looked like a sailor.</p> - -<p>“Ay-es,” he said pleasantly, when he had moored the two boats -to the wharf (he gave me no opportunity to assist him). “I -thought you was a landlubber, the moment I set eyes on you. Ye -can’t tack without a center-board,” he added with a smile, the first -he had given me. I blushed feebly at my hopeless mistake.</p> - -<p>“I thought,” I began weakly, but he didn’t wait for me to finish.</p> - -<p>“Won’t you come into the house for a bit?” he asked kindly. -“You’re wet through, ain’t ye?” And he led the way to the little -low shingled structure, fronted by a long porch upon which sat a -large Persian cat, the handsomest I had ever seen.</p> - -<p>“Thar, thar, Daisy bird, you’ve had enough pettin’ for one day,” -as he brushed her gently aside, adding, as he noticed my admiration, -“Got another, better lookin’ of the two, in the kitching. -Won’t ye come in?”</p> - -<p>“You’re not Captain Knox, are you?” I asked.</p> - -<p>“Right you be! Salathiel Knox, captain, retired you call it, -don’t ye?” and he smiled again.</p> - -<p>While my clothes were drying, we sat around the fire and -talked, the captain still in his tarpaulin, while I languished in a -richly figured rug which he had produced from a locked cupboard -in the kitchen. “Bought it in Singapore twenty-four years ago,” -he added by way of dismissal of my compunction at wearing so -valuable a possession. The captain smoked mildly while I told -him who I was, making few comments, but when I tried to lead -the conversation around to his own life he proved a poor subject -for questioning. As Mrs. Simmons said to me afterwards, “The -captain can talk when he’s a mind to, but land sakes, when he ain’t, -it’s no use.”</p> - -<p>The captain did remark, as I was leaving, that although he lived -alone he wasn’t a bachelor; his wife, he said, was dead. “She -was a pretty creatur, she was,” he added, half regretfully, as he -laid down his pipe.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_19"></a>[19]</span></p> - -<p>On my way home, my path led not far from the burial lot. I -found the stone without difficulty and read the inscription.</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>The following summer, soon after we arrived, I paid my second -visit to the Knox farm. I found the captain sitting on his porch, -smoking. He didn’t remember me at first; but suddenly he burst -out with, “Wall, I swan! You’re the young man that was tryin’ -to tack in a dory without a center-board. I remember you, o’ -course. Pretty good stuff, eh,” he added, “to tackle such a wind -when you knew next to nothin’ o’ the sea. You’d make a good -one, I’ll warrant.”</p> - -<p>After that I often went to see him. He became quite loquacious -at times and recounted some of his adventures. Always I expected -he would run up against the mystery, but he never did. Few -women were to be found in his stories.</p> - -<p>One day I was surprised to see the captain at my door, seated -in a new motor car. He had come to take me for a drive. I -looked the machine over carefully.</p> - -<p>“How does she go?” I asked.</p> - -<p>“She sets all right,” he replied, cheerfully, “but she’s a bit wide -in the stern.”</p> - -<p>As we drove off together, he seemed in the best of spirits, -although he admitted he was a “little nervous navigatin’ the new -craft.”</p> - -<p>On the way back, the captain became confidential. His story -this time was concerned chiefly with a long sickness he had had in -the Far East, and his romantic experience with a Malay girl. -“She was a ripper, she was,” he added by way of comment.</p> - -<p>“What was her name?” I inquired, with suppressed excitement, -but he was intent upon turning a corner and did not answer. The -next moment we were at the door of my house. He waved me -good-bye as he disappeared around a bend in the road.</p> - -<p>“Another opportunity lost,” I thought, as I walked up the path.</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>“It’s the Malay girl, Selima, I’ll be bound. That’s the mystery, -Mr. Fitch. Didn’t he tell you she was a great beauty, all done -up in rings and jewels?”</p> - -<p>“Yes,” I answered absently.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_20"></a>[20]</span></p> - -<p>This conversation took place about a week after my drive with -the captain, while Mrs. Simmons was removing the breakfast -dishes. I was reading the paper in the next room and did not -like to be interrupted.</p> - -<p>“I never heard him tell that story,” she continued, raising her -voice above the clatter of the dishes. “He has taken you into his -confidence, Mr. Fitch.”</p> - -<p>“Then I fear I have more woefully betrayed it,” I replied -without looking up.</p> - -<p>Later I took a walk to the post office. The thought of the mystery, -although I would have hesitated to acknowledge it even to -myself, was making me positively uncomfortable.</p> - -<p>“Was she really the Malay girl, after all?” I pictured the -captain, young and handsome, walking up to the altar of a -Buddhist temple with a Malay princess, dazzling with rings and -jewels, leaning on his arm, her pale skin—no, the Malays were -brown. I cursed my superior knowledge. Perhaps their princesses -were not so dark. But my vision had faded; I was gazing -at the floor of the Gull Harbor post office.</p> - -<p>I took the road back which led by the captain’s. There was no -sign of anyone as I passed. I wandered up by the burial lot. I -wondered if Malay princesses were ever named Selima. On the -way home I passed the captain. He waved to me pleasantly, as -he rattled by.</p> - -<p>“I will go to see him to-night,” I said to myself. It was after -nine when I reached his house. The captain was still up. He -was sitting in front of the kitchen fire, a long-haired cat on either -side. He seemed glad to see me. We sat and smoked. The logs -crackled cheerfully. They reminded me somehow of my host. -An hour flew by; conversation was gradually relaxing into silent -contemplation. Suddenly I burst forth:</p> - -<p>“Captain,” I said, desperately, “you remember the Malay woman -you told me of the other day. Was her name Selima?”</p> - -<p>For a moment I was afraid I had offended him. All of a sudden -he began to laugh. Little by little his merriment increased, -until his whole powerful frame was shaking. He trembled so -that his glasses bobbed up and down on his nose like a cork. His -chair creaked. Even his beard looked merry.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_21"></a>[21]</span></p> - -<p>“Selima! Selima!” and he went off into another gale. Then, -seeing my doubtful expression, he tried to pull himself together. -“Selima! Selima! She was a pretty creetur’, she was,” and he -laughed again. I was forced to join with him; his humor was -catching.</p> - -<p>“I know what’s a-worrying you,” he said. “It’s the mystery. -There never was a boarder within twelve miles of this town whom -they haven’t filled up with the story of my mysterious weddin’. -They’re half curious themselves, though the Lord knows they’d -oughter have more sense. Selima!” He laughed, the tears filling -his eyes as he began again. “Selima! There never was any sech -person! To think I have fooled this town for fifty years! It’s -too much. I laugh about it nights.” Again catching my strained -face, “Still curious?” he inquired with a twinkle.</p> - -<p>“I’ll tell ye, but you mustn’t spoil my joke. D’ye understand? -I guess I can trust ye,” he added confidentially, and settling himself -in his chair he began.</p> - -<p>“It’s not a long story,” he said, glancing at his watch. “About -forty years ago, or mebbe more, when I was perhaps half as old -as I am now, I lived here alone, when I warn’t on the water, -which warn’t very much. It was close on to September, only a -day or two or mebbe three before I was to sail from ‘Porchmouth’. -She was a five-master, a beauty ef there ever was a handsome -vessel.” The captain paused as if to recall her more vividly. -“Gullnair was her name, brand new that year. Wall, it was a -day or two before I was to sail, as I was tellin’ ye. I was out -here in the pasture right over yonder by the old spring”—he -pointed with a sailor’s thumb—“I had been gatherin’ berries and -after a bit I lay down under a tree. I had been lobsterin’ all -mornin’ and was tired. When I woke up I heard two women -talkin’. They’re both dead now, but in their day they wuz the -gol-durndest busybodies that ever I heard tell on. They was -berryin’ and talkin’—about me, would you believe it? Speculatin’ -as to why a nice lookin’ man (I hadn’t sech a bad complexion in -those days,” added the captain reflectively as he rubbed his hand -over his rough face)—“they was a wonderin’ why I didn’t get -married. Was it because I had a hidden life? Did the girls -object to my swearin’? Was I—the Lord preserve us, what didn’t<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_22"></a>[22]</span> -they say? They came to the conclusion that I didn’t marry because -no one would have me. I could have strangled them both -at that. I was hot headed in those days.” All the fun had faded -from the captain’s face.</p> - -<p>“After they went away,” he continued, “I began to think it -over. At first I cal’lated I had better get married right away. -There were a dozen of ’em hereabouts that very minute who -would have taken me with a whoop. I had always tried to steer -clear of the women heretofore. Second thoughts, thinks I, why -not let the matter go driftin’ for awhile, anyway? So I did. But -all the time that I was at sea it bothered me. On the home’ard -voyage we struck a bad storm and the Gullnair went to the bottom -after a brave fight, sir, after a brave fight! Most of the crew -was drownded. I was saved by a miracle. Never mind about -that now! Wall, sir, after I was picked up—she was a freighter -bound for New York, as luck would have it—there come to me -a big idea.</p> - -<p>“When I got home I let them know I was a widower, married -while I was away. Of course they understood she had been -drownded on the ship. I wore a black band on my arm for a -time. Seein’ as there as warn’t no suspicions in the wind, ‘I’ll make -a full job of it,’ I says to myself. ‘I’ll set up a stone in the burial -lot to her memory’. And that’s what I did. Wall, they come -to write the inscription; I told them the words, but when they -asked me for the name, I said kind o’ flustered like, ‘Selima’. It -was the first one that popped into my head. That’s all.” The -captain smiled, turning his gaze into the fire.</p> - -<p>“Then you weren’t ever in love?” I said, with the faintest -inflection in my voice.</p> - -<p>The captain blew out a great puff of smoke, looked at me over -the top of his glasses, and smiled.</p> - -<p class="author">MYLES WHITING.</p> - -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_23"></a>[23]</span></p> - -<h2 class="nobreak" id="Portfolio"><i>Portfolio</i></h2> - -</div> - -<h3 id="Beauty"><i>Beauty</i></h3> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="center">I.</div> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0"><span class="dropcap">B</span>eauty! thy name were counted less than dust</div> - <div class="verse indent2">That warriors’ tombs with sullen grace enfold,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Save that thou strip man’s arrant love of lust</div> - <div class="verse indent2">And cloak his tarnished soul with sudden gold.</div> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="center">II.</div> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">Beauty! thy price has been a nation’s spoil,—</div> - <div class="verse indent2">A wizard’s epitaph, a child’s grim plea;</div> - <div class="verse indent0">And yet a peasant bought thee with his toil,</div> - <div class="verse indent2">A poet lived with thee in penury.</div> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="author">HERBERT W. HARTMAN, JR.</div> - </div> -</div> -</div> - -<h3 id="Fear_of_God"><i>Fear of God</i></h3> - -<p class="dropcap">“I’ve never told anyone how I happened to become a priest -because, for the first few years after ordination I didn’t like -to recall the circumstances surrounding it, and afterwards, when -they had lost most of their sting, the whole thing was so deeply -buried in the past that I never resurrected it. But now, since -I’m reaching that point where the events of my life appear to me -more as interesting stories than anything else, I may as well tell -it to you from that point of view.</p> - -<p>“To begin with, I had, at twenty, a pretty definite philosophy. -I thought of life and all its functions, as created by the divine -hand of God, to be essentially perfect. Man was created, according -to the teaching of the Church, in God’s image and likeness. The -very highest good, to me, was to live in an accord as close as -possible to the universal laws of nature. Man’s natural state is<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_24"></a>[24]</span> -good, and when he violates this state he undergoes a physical -reaction, called shame, over which he has no control whatsoever. -I had this underlying belief, which was clarified more or less by -reading Walt Whitman and Carlyle, though I added some ideas -of my own which I found in neither of these. But I can’t swear -that they aren’t there. I drew no such sharp lines as are generally -drawn between physical and spiritual love, but visualized, or -rather, believed in, an ideal love in which both are combined, and -which, by this combination raise each other to far higher levels, -both collectively and individually. I rejected a purely abstract -affection of the spirit as weakness, since it does accept and is out -of tune with nature. That was Carlyle. And there was the -only point of the whole matter that I have since come to question, -though I have not actually put it aside. I wonder if I could still -hold to it had I married. But if I reject this, the whole thing -breaks down, so I must cling to it, though it does waver. I had -always been a Catholic, and as far as I could see there was no -conflict between my doctrine and that of the Church. In addition, -though I realized that this was a personal viewpoint and couldn’t -be brought to bear too closely on the other, beauty was to me -rarely seductive. My moments of desire were, for the most part, -connected with the most intense ugliness.</p> - -<p>“At this time I was in love with a girl who was exactly the ideal -of it all. She too was a Catholic and had been educated in a -convent for the greater part of her life. She had not the clarity -of feature that generally characterizes beauty, but possessed something -infinitely more subtle than this. If you’ve ever seen one of -those glorious green Irish hills that look as if they’ve been drawn -up fresh from the depths of the earth by the hand of God, you’ll -understand what I mean. She had the same original force of -beauty in the rough mold of her face, which was at the same time -miraculously soft, and free from cold line. Her whole head was -clothed in a sort of cloudiness, like Venus, the mother of Aeneas, -appearing to her son. Her body, and mind, and voice were so -harmonious an expression of good that goodness was with her -almost a physical quality. She had almost never come in contact -with wrong, but I know she would have been the same under any -circumstances. It’s easy to understand how I could hold to my<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_25"></a>[25]</span> -beliefs here; I loved her as much for her body as for her spirit. -She had the same sweet curves and moved with the same music -as a green, young tree bent in the wind.”</p> - -<p>He was silent for a moment, and gazed into the thick purple -sky, underneath which the sea beat tirelessly at the rocks which -fringed the bottom of the cliff.</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>“Unfortunately, she didn’t love me, but had the same sort of -affection a girl has for a very good friend of the opposite sex. -However, as we were both quite young (she eighteen) I had -plenty of hope that as soon as I was in a position to ask her to -marry me, she would accept.</p> - -<p>“Then, in the summer after her graduation from the convent, I -learned that she was determined to return there in the fall as a -nun! For two or three days after this discovery I was in a state -of almost continual mental anguish, that she, a creature so beautifully -alive, should keep the precious gift of herself from the -world, and especially from me,—though curiously enough I looked -at it from the general rather than the individual point of view. -I was completely stunned.</p> - -<p>“I had never definitely settled in my mind the question of -priests and nuns remaining unmarried. This was through nothing -more nor less than overlooking it, which I cannot understand, -since it should have been so vital to me. But now I came out -dead against it. To me it seemed that, since those who served -God and were supposed to be leading the highest life possible to -man were not permitted to marry, the Church put a mark of -disapproval on the married state and the begetting of children. -It was not the actual celibacy of the priests and nuns that concerned -me most, but the disapprobation of what I considered the -most spiritual act of life. I suppose I should have gone to a -priest to learn the defense for it, but I became so prejudiced -myself that I imagined that his point of view or any explanation -he might make could be nothing else but prejudiced.”</p> - -<p>He paused again, this time to light his pipe, which he pulled -on for many long seconds before resuming the story, while I held -my tongue and gazed into the vast plain of darkness.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_26"></a>[26]</span></p> - -<p>“After a while the pain ceased, and I lapsed into a state almost -of indifference, though the day she was to leave for the convent -was pretty nearly always on my mind. Strangely enough I -can’t for the life of me think what it was now, though I shall -never forget what happened on the day itself.</p> - -<p>“I went to her home, which was quite a large estate, to bid her -good-bye. I still had the indifferent feeling, though my mind -had that queer, detached sensation one gets in a fever, and felt, -somehow, as if it were outside of the rest of me. Her brothers -and sisters and I sat about talking constrainedly until the time -came for her departure. She was to go off in the carriage to the -station with no one accompanying her save the coachman. It -rolled up to the door and they all crowded out to see her off. They -were a rather grim lot, standing there, though no one was weeping. -As for her, her face had the strangest mixture of joy and sorrow, -which was exactly mirrored in her mother’s. The rest were all -frankly and achingly unhappy. I was relapsing more and more -and more into a dazed condition.</p> - -<p>“When she said good-bye to me, I took her hand, quite unconsciously, -and kissed it. It was trembling, which pierced my heart -and made me gasp violently. I have no recollection at all of her -actual departure, but when she was gone I must have been overcome -by it, for I heard some one say, ‘He’s going to faint,’ and -then one of her brothers took me inside and gave me a drink. I -had several more, which increased my state of mental detachment, -but did not affect my mental processes in the least. After a while -I went outside the house and wandered about the lawn, until -finally I sat down on a bench bordering a wide patch of grass on -which there were no trees or shrubbery of any kind. I don’t -think I noticed it, but night had practically fallen, and darkness -was gradually enveloping the place. The thought of her trembling -hand kept coming back to me, making the blood in my head throb -violently, when suddenly, with a wrench that shook my whole -body, my head cleared absolutely. I realized then, for the first -time, that she was irretrievably gone, and the realization flung me -into a rage. I cursed God in unutterable vileness for taking her -from me, for making of life such a deceiving, rotten thing, and -for setting me down in the midst of it! I am neither a savage,<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_27"></a>[27]</span> -nor a superstitious idiot, but as I stand here, I wonder I wasn’t -struck down by His almighty hand for the filth and blasphemy -I put upon my tongue that night!</p> - -<p>“Then, out on the very center of the lawn before me, appeared -a column of cottony-white smoke which, by indescribable foldings, -formed itself into a woman of the most unearthly and terrible -beauty. She was naked, and each particle of her white skin -seemed to be shouting the fact of her nakedness aloud. The -steely outline of her bare flesh cut the stuff of night away, and -flashed out its blinding brilliance.</p> - -<p>“She commenced to sing. There is a certain way of striking -a harp which gives it a shuddering noise, and this, magnified -beyond measure, is the nearest thing to a description I can give -of the beginning of her song, which poured out of her lips in a -thick flame of sound. It pressed down on me with the volume -of a thousand storms, when suddenly I realized that she was -singing in a man’s voice! Without thought, the conviction flashed -on me that this was undoubtedly the devil, and that all her beauty -was false. With a shriek of awful fear I called on God to protect -me! Immediately the song caught in the throat of the thing, -man or beast, whatever it was, and the body commenced to distort -into sheer ugliness without form. I don’t know how it finally -disappeared, for I went into a raving delirium and swooned.</p> - -<p>“The next two months I spent in a sanitarium on the verge of -insanity. All I can remember of this is an occasional flash of -miraculous fear, when I seemed to be vainly fleeing the avenging -hand of God. As soon afterward as I was able, I joined the -priesthood, and I don’t mind saying that it was through an actual, -original fear of God and nothing else.”</p> - -<p>“What about your philosophy?” I asked.</p> - -<p>“I still have that,” he answered. “And it required very little -reconciliation to keep it. The realization of the part of celibacy -in it came to me about a year after I was ordained, as a feeling, -or conviction. Of course the refutation of my argument is that -the Church makes marriage a sacrament. I suppose most men -have this explained to them before they become priests, but I -never found it necessary.”</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_28"></a>[28]</span></p> - -<p>“Is the girl a nun now?” I pursued.</p> - -<p>“No,” he said, a faint smile lurking about the corners of his -mouth. “She never took the final vows, but left the convent and -married. She has five very beautiful children, one of whom, the -eldest, I’m marrying next week. In fact, he’s named for me.”</p> - -<p>This time the silence was longer and seemed almost a conclusion, -until I broke it with one last question.</p> - -<p>“Do you think that was actually the devil who appeared to you, -or an illusion brought on by the state of your mind?”</p> - -<p>He answered me very quietly. “The hand of God is seen in -strange places.”</p> - -<p class="author">ROBERT CRUISE MCMANUS.</p> - -<h3 id="Ballade"><i>Ballade</i></h3> - -<p class="center">(Translated from a fifteenth century -lyric of Charles d’Orleans)</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0"><span class="dropcap">O</span>nce in the weary wood of dull Distress</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Where Fate condemned my leaden feet to stray</div> - <div class="verse indent0">It chanced that Venus, now my comfortress,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Besought to know where I did take my way.</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Then I replied, “My fortune’s gone astray,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">And I long exiled ’mid this wood’s repose,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">It happens I am one of whom men say,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">‘A man astray, uncertain where he goes.’”</div> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">Then she, all smiles and godlike graciousness,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">“Tell me, my friend, the reason, oh I pray.</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Why is it you are lost in black Distress?</div> - <div class="verse indent0">I may have power to set you on your way.</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Long have I sought love’s pleasures to display</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Unto your heart—I knew not of your woes.</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Nor can I bear to see you thus to-day,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">A man astray, uncertain where he goes.”</div><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_29"></a>[29]</span> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">And I, “Alas! Most sovereign Princess!</div> - <div class="verse indent0">You know my state: shall I repeat it? Nay!</div> - <div class="verse indent0">’Twas Death—who doth all men alike oppress—</div> - <div class="verse indent0">’Twas Death that stole my darling love away.</div> - <div class="verse indent0">She who so guided me upon my way—</div> - <div class="verse indent0">My only love, more lovely than the rose—</div> - <div class="verse indent0">That while she lived no one of me might say,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">‘A man astray, uncertain where he goes.’”</div> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">For I am blind—I catch no spark of day—</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Nor but with tapping staff can find my way.</div> - <div class="verse indent0">So tapping here and there the wanderer goes.</div> - <div class="verse indent0">It is indeed a pity they must say,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">“A man astray, uncertain where he goes.”</div> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="author">LAIRD GOLDSBOROUGH.</div> - </div> -</div> -</div> - -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_30"></a>[30]</span></p> - -<h2 class="nobreak" id="Notabilia"><i>Notabilia</i></h2> - -</div> - -<p class="dropcap">The most important action of the University in its relation to -the student body is the Sunday chapel regulation, that eleven -o’clock non-sectarian Christian service and sermon is compulsory -for all Yale College undergraduates and members of the common -Freshman year. In this change of hour lies a change of issue. -Before, the ten-minute ten o’clock service was a bit of tolerated -hypocrisy to keep undergraduates in New Haven over the weekend. -This compulsory attendance at Divine Worship is an -intolerable religious offence.</p> - -<p>Religion is a matter of individual opinion; compulsion is opposed -to individuality. Compulsory religion then by our own -inherited conception of that word is an impossibility. There can -be no religion for an intelligent person in Woolsey Hall. To -those who are not Christians it is intellectual persecution.</p> - -<p>We are amused at the news that there was some discussion as -to whether there should be plants or members of the faculty on -the platform during the service. Plants seem to us the better -choice; being more inanimate, they are less hypocritical.</p> - -<p>Really it is astonishing how Yale can be as much of an institution -of learning as it is, and still practice such stupidity in -administration.</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>We should like to bring to our readers’ attention the following -terse facts about Commons. Commons has a compulsory patronage -amounting to approximately 900 men. It can count on a few -hundred more men who are working their way through. After -its seating capacity has thus been filled once, it need not (and -does not) accommodate any more for that meal; it can therefore -calculate with perfect accuracy, so that no food need be wasted. -It requires cash <i>in advance</i>, or bills sent home; it has therefore -no credit to carry on its books. At the present writing, it will -allow no one to sign out: meals taken elsewhere are wasted money<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_31"></a>[31]</span> -for its customers. Its overhead is reduced to a minimum—far -more so than that of any other eating house in college. And, -added to this, it has the faculty to protect it.</p> - -<p>Yet, what is happening? The charges for food are $9.00 per -week, without rebate for cash. The service is slow whenever the -hall is crowded. The food, while sometimes good, is by no means -always so, and if maintained at the present standard would be -intolerable as a year’s diet.</p> - -<p>Considering the fact that, for nine hundred of its customers, -it requires no table runners, thereby saving approximately $800 -per week ($25,000 per year); there it is only $1.00 per week -cheaper than some eating houses, and 50 cents cheaper than most; -that its food is not as good as any of the others—considering -these things, we suggest that an investigation be made. We are -anxious to be fair in the matter and not judge too harshly a -project which is as yet young. But the college seems to be of the -opinion that considerable improvement must be shown by the -Yale Dining Hall if it is to continue its somewhat shaky career.</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>Taking the same paternal stand as they have taken in the case -of Commons, the faculty has decreed that the Liberal Club must -ask “permission” before inviting speakers to address their meetings. -Just what the Liberal Club will do about this, no one as -yet knows. Certainly it conflicts with the very principles and -ideals of that club, and represents a trend, on the part of the Yale -faculty, to which the club is especially opposed.</p> - -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_32"></a>[32]</span></p> - -<h2 class="nobreak" id="Book_Reviews"><i>Book Reviews</i></h2> - -</div> - -<h3 class="book"><i>Tutor’s Lane.</i> By <span class="smcap">Wilmarth Lewis</span>. (Knopf.)</h3> - -<p class="dropcap">Imagine Yale College without appendages, and New Haven -without slums or business section, and life just as it is now -and you will have the setting for Mr. Lewis’ ’17 first novel, -“Tutor’s Lane”.</p> - -<p>You are given as hero a young English instructor, a graduate -from about the same class as Mr. Lewis, probably with a Chi -Delta Theta charm, and a heroine not greatly sophisticated, of -good family, mildly fond of “doing good” to “the people.” These -two fondly follow a Quixotic scheme of uplift (which he doesn’t -even like, and about which she’s a fool), and come out of it -ashamed but at one in their shame. The inevitable marriage -ensues. The plot is the weakness of the book. It is a thin-spun -web, and disappointing.</p> - -<p>But the non-plot characters, and the phrasing of the Syllabus, -and the satire scattered through the pages are features over which -no one can pass without delight. Mrs. Norris talks, the reader is -amused; Mr. Lewis talks, the reader is wholly captivated. It is -not the genial gay humor of Punch; it is something with a sharper -touch than that, more witty, more satirical. It is only when Mr. -Lewis becomes sympathetic with his character or with his reader -that he fails. He is superb when he is laughing at both -simultaneously.</p> - -<p>If he ever gets hold of a plot, the result will be a fine novel. -He has the power of restraint and objectivity which most moderns -lack. He is refreshing in the midst of so much that is conspicuously -heavy and bent with the weight of the world. His product -is not marred by continual reference to the travail and labor its -creation caused. He seems to have enjoyed writing the book, and -not to have written it in order to save the world, or the destinies -of nations. To amuse himself and his friends seems to be his -only purpose in writing, which is probably why “Tutor’s Lane” -will also amuse so many other people.</p> - -<p class="author">M. E. F.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_33"></a>[33]</span></p> - -<h3 class="book"><i>Young Peoples Pride.</i> By <span class="smcap">Stephen Vincent Benét</span>. (Henry -Holt & Co.)</h3> - -<p class="dropcap">There are probably very few men now at Yale who are -destined to look back, after an equally short span of years, -upon a more enviable literary record than that already possessed -by Stephen Vincent Benét. And yet, we had to read a good deal -of “Young Peoples Pride” before we began to enjoy it. Perhaps -the reason was that we had expected another “serious novel” or -“character study” somewhat along the lines of Mr. Benét’s “The -Beginning of Wisdom”. The rather affectedly “super smart” -illustrations with which the present book is garnished annoyed us, -and the occurrence of passages like the following caused us to -fear that Mr. Benét, with an eye to the box office, had joined the -Fitzgeraldine ranks of tale-tellers-out-of-school.</p> - -<div class="blockquote"> - -<p>“‘The trouble with Art is that it doesn’t pay a decent -living wage unless you’re willing to commercialize—’</p> - -<p>‘The trouble with Art is that it never did, except for a -few chance lucky people—’</p> - -<p>‘The trouble with Art is Women.’</p> - -<p>‘The trouble with Women is Art.’</p> - -<p>‘The trouble with Art—with women I mean—change -signals! What do I mean?’”</p> - -</div> - -<p class="noindent">But there is not much of that sort of “cleverism”. In fact, in so -far as “We Wild Young People” enter, Mr. Benét holds the -mirror very sanely and skillfully up to nature.</p> - -<p>However, “Young Peoples Pride” scarcely requires all this -analyzing. It is not an “important novel” anyway—simply a -rattling good yarn, and must be judged as such. For sheer sustained -excitement we have seldom read anything better than the -long scene in the apartment of Mrs. Severance and the gentleman -whom Mr. Benét so quaintly calls “Mr. Severance”. It is -a scene that we shall hope to see on Broadway later, when its -author becomes a playwright—if he ever does. Read the book -for that, by all means—and you’ll like a good deal of the rest.</p> - -<p class="author">L. S. G.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_34"></a>[34]</span></p> - -<h3 class="book"><i>Books and Characters.</i> By <span class="smcap">Lytton Strachey</span>. (Harcourt, -Brace & Company, New York.)</h3> - -<p class="dropcap">A reference, in the present volume, to Thomas Beddoes as -“the last Elizabethan” suggests, at once, Mr. Lytton -Strachey’s preëminent right to the title of “the last Victorian”—using -the word in its best sense, to denote an individual very far -removed indeed from any desire to go “tobaggoning down -Parnassus”. Mr. Strachey’s bland progress through the realm -of letters is, in fact, the very antithesis of that adopted by the -tobaggoning school of modern critics. To analyze the characteristics -of his style is to call up a host of adjectives long all but -forgotten amid the present scramble for pseudo-culture. He is -scholarly without being pedantic, erudite without being obscure. -And the queer, musing, almost anecdotal manner in which he -rambles from Johnson’s wit to Madame du Deffand’s, from -Shakespeare’s tragedies to Voltaire’s, is always giving way to -lightning flashes of true critical insight expressed with the netteté -of a Racine.</p> - -<p>As might be gathered from the foregoing remarks, “Books and -Characters” is a volume of collected critical essays, which first -appeared individually between the years 1905 and 1919 in various -publications, such as the <i>Edinburgh Review</i>. Incidentally, it is a -book which should have an especial and peculiar appeal to the -college man. For the books and characters touched upon are, -one or two excepted, the very ones with which the reading essential -to a college course has made him most familiar. He will thus -have freshly in mind the background of literary acquaintanceships, -which the guileless Mr. Strachey apparently supposes is possessed -by everyone, and upon which he proceeds to etch his portraits -with the aid of a wit so delightful and so acutely sharpened as to -be quite irresistible. For it was true wit, in the Victorian sense, -mingled with a quaint, sly humor, which made Strachey’s “Queen -Victoria” the consummate master-portrait that it is, and which -reappears in “Books and Characters”. Perhaps a quotation from<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_35"></a>[35]</span> -the chapter entitled, “The Lives of the Poets”, may show what -we mean:</p> - -<div class="blockquote"> - -<p>“Johnson’s aesthetic judgments are almost invariably -subtle, or solid, or bold; they have always some good -quality to recommend them—except one. They are never -right. That is an unfortunate deficiency; but no one can -doubt that Johnson has made up for it, and that his wit has -saved all. He has managed to be wrong so cleverly, that -nobody minds. When Gray, for instance, points the moral -to his poem on Walpole’s cat with a reminder to the fair -that all that glisters is not gold, Johnson remarks that this -is ‘of no relation to the purpose; if what glistered had been -gold, the cat would not have gone into the water; and, if -she had, would no less have been drowned.’ Could anything -be more ingenious, or more neatly put, or more obviously -true? But then, to use Johnson’s own phrase, could -anything be of less ‘relation to the purpose’?”</p> - -</div> - -<p class="noindent">Well, we only restrain ourselves with difficulty from seeming to -commit sacrilege upon Johnson by proclaiming the rightness of -Mr. Strachey’s aesthetic judgments, as well as their wit.</p> - -<p>The essays dealing with French life and letters, just prior to -the revolution, are equally a mine of interest. They are all brilliant -pieces of writing; from the flickering sidelights thrown upon -the undignified and incredible squabbles of Voltaire and Frederick -the Great, to the half-pitiful, half-comic details concerning the -salon of Madame du Deffande—Madame du Deffande, who was -for twenty years, at once, blind, hopelessly in love with Walpole, -and the cultural autocrat of Paris. Skeptics, all of them—and -skeptics essentially Gallic, before whose unabashed indifference to -God, and cynical contempt for man the Anglo-Saxon mind is apt -to recoil, gymnastically unable to assume the necessary shift in -point of view. For instance, there is Madame La Maréchale de -Luxembourg:</p> - -<div class="blockquote"> - -<p>“‘Quel ton! Quel effroyable ton!’ she is said to have -exclaimed after a shuddering glance at the Bible. ‘Ah, -Madame, quel dommage que la Sainte Esprit eut aussi peu -de gout!’”</p> - -</div> - -<p class="noindent">At least they seem to have been sincere, these most un-Victorian -French. And they round out Mr. Strachey’s book into something -which really must not be missed.</p> - -<p class="author">L. S. G.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_36"></a>[36]</span></p> - -<h3 class="book"><i>This Freedom.</i> By <span class="smcap">A. S. M. Hutchinson</span>. (Little, Brown & -Co.)</h3> - -<p class="dropcap">A. S. M. Hutchinson’s latest novel, “This Freedom,” is -the life story of an English girl. Brought up in an old-fashioned -home where the duty of the women is but to serve the -men, she breaks from conventional ties and becomes a thoroughly -modern creature in thought and action.</p> - -<p>Her ideal is man’s position of social independence. This she -attains to the fullest measure in the business world. But trouble -comes after she has experienced love, marriage and the duties of -a mother of a family. After a series of crushing disasters, she -discovers that modern teaching does not tend to make for that -home life to which she, in her youth, had been accustomed, and -from whose charm she had never really freed herself.</p> - -<p>The book has the same weak point as its predecessor, “If Winter -Comes”. Mr. Hutchinson does not seem to have the courage to -write a tragedy. After he has masterfully created a heap of -wreckage, he vainly attempts restoration in a few concluding -paragraphs. It is as impossible for the reader to conceive of -recovery in the case of Rosalie and Harry as it was to imagine -a future happiness for Nona and Marco.</p> - -<p>It is to be hoped that we shall soon have a real tragedy from -the pen of this popular author, for then we shall put down the -book perhaps sadder but at least more impressed.</p> - -<p class="author">M. T.</p> - -<h3 class="book"><i>Babbitt.</i> By <span class="smcap">Sinclair Lewis</span>. (Harcourt, Brace & Co.)</h3> - -<p class="dropcap">If “Babbitt” is a better book than “Main Street”, as its publishers -would have us believe, then Mr. Lewis’ improvement -is to be found in an even greater application to the details; the -minute cataloguing of commonplace incident. It is infinitely -painstaking. But for those of us who believe that “Main Street” -in itself showed an unnecessary virtuosity in that talent, this is -hardly to be rated as an advance.</p> - -<p>“Babbitt” is not so much to be considered as better or worse -than “Main Street”, as a companion volume in Mr. Lewis’ series<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_37"></a>[37]</span> -of compendiums of all that is tawdry, and hypocritical, and typical, -in the contemporary life of the American middle class.</p> - -<p>Babbitt is the “average” American business man; a real estate -dealer (“realtor”, as he pridefully insists on being called); a -Rotarian, Booster, member of the Athletic Club, and solid citizen. -He has a squabbling family; a wife whom he tolerates, and three -children whom he loves impatiently—because he cannot understand -them. Little attention is given to a plot; the development is rather -in exhaustive study and analysis. From the time when Babbitt -gets up to shave, until the time when he makes sure (for the -second time) that all the doors in the house are locked, no detail -of his life, personal, family, business, or social, is omitted. And -each detail is analyzed. Sometimes it is satirized; and often the -attempted satirization becomes an over-done burlesque.</p> - -<p>Like Carol Kennicott, Babbitt is filled with dissatisfaction; and -a realization (more vague than hers, because he cannot understand -it) of the meaningless hypocrisy of his life. But his revolt -is not intellectual, and therefore the pain of frustration in the -inevitable defeat at the end is not so keen.</p> - -<p>I do not hold with those critics who condemn Mr. Lewis for -presenting only one side of his picture. I agree that he does -present only one side—but are there not a great many times as -many authors who write only of the so-called “pleasant” side? -And are not Mr. Lewis’ characterizations far closer to the actual -verities?</p> - -<p>I think that they are; and that historians of the future will do -well to turn to such books as “Babbitt” for their data on the -“typical” American citizen of the third decade of the twentieth -century.</p> - -<p class="author">C. G. P.</p> - -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_38"></a>[38]</span></p> - -<h2 class="nobreak" id="Editors_Table"><i>Editor’s Table</i></h2> - -</div> - -<p>As the French say: All generalities are false, -even this one.</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>“The Editor’s Table has no raison d’être,” I said.</p> - -<p>“Nor any pièce de résistance,” said my friend.</p> - -<p>“Nor is it ever a chef d’oeuvre,” I added.</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>But I know now that the French are right.</p> - -<p class="author"><span class="smcap">Cory.</span></p> - -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<h2 class="nobreak"><i>Yale Lit. Advertiser.</i></h2> - -</div> - -<div class="adbox"> - -<p class="center"><b><span class="larger">The<br /> -Chase National Bank</span><br /> -of the City of New York</b></p> - -<p class="center"><b>57 Broadway</b></p> - -<table summary=" "> - <tr> - <td>Capital</td> - <td class="tdr">$20,000,000</td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td>Surplus and Profits</td> - <td class="tdr">21,787,000</td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td>Deposits (Sept. 15, 1922)</td> - <td class="tdr">434,107,000</td> - </tr> -</table> - -<p class="center">OFFICERS</p> - -<ul class="smaller"> -<li>ALBERT H. WIGGIN, President</li> -</ul> - -<p class="center smaller">Vice-Presidents:</p> - -<ul class="smaller"> -<li>Samuel H. Miller</li> -<li>Carl J. Schmidlapp</li> -<li>Gerhard M. Dahl</li> -<li>Reeve Schley</li> -<li>Henry Ollesheimer</li> -<li>Alfred C. Andrews</li> -<li>Robert I. Barr</li> -<li>Sherrill Smith</li> -</ul> - -<p class="center smaller">Assistant Vice-Presidents</p> - -<ul class="smaller"> -<li>Edwin A. Lee</li> -<li>William E. Purdy</li> -<li>George H. Saylor</li> -<li>James L. Miller</li> -<li>Alfred W. Hudson</li> -<li>George Hadden</li> -<li>M. Hadden Howell</li> -</ul> - -<p class="center smaller">Comptroller</p> - -<ul class="smaller"> -<li>Thomas Ritchie</li> -</ul> - -<p class="center smaller">Cashier</p> - -<ul class="smaller"> -<li>William P. Holly</li> -</ul> - -</div> - -<div class="adbox"> - -<p class="center larger"><b>WINCHESTER</b></p> - -<p class="center mid"><b>Sportsmen’s Headquarters</b></p> - -<p class="center smaller"><b>91 Church Street, Near Chapel</b></p> - -<p class="center">Sportwear for All Occasions</p> - -<p class="center">GUNS <span class="spacer">RADIO</span> <span class="spacer">GAMES</span></p> - -</div> - -<div class="adbox"> - -<p class="center larger"><b>HARRY RAPOPORT</b></p> - -<p class="center mid"><b>University Tailor</b></p> - -<p class="center smaller">Established 1884</p> - -<p class="center">Every Wednesday at Park Avenue Hotel,<br /> -Park Ave. and 33rd St., New York</p> - -<p class="center">1073 CHAPEL STREET <span class="spacer">NEW HAVEN, CONN.</span></p> - -</div> - -<div class="adbox"> - -<p class="center mid">The Best Stores Everywhere Show</p> - -<div class="figcenter" style="width: 325px;"> -<img src="images/ad-langrock.jpg" width="325" height="400" alt="ESTABLISHED 1896 -LANGROCK FINE CLOTHES NEW HAVEN, CONN." /> -</div> - -<p class="center smaller">INCORPORATED<br /> -ELM STREET AT YALE CAMPUS</p> - -<p class="center">English Accessories for men who appreciate quality -and value</p> - -<p class="center"><b>NEW YORK OFFICE: 220 BROADWAY</b></p> - -</div> - -<div class="adbox"> - -<p class="center larger"><b>The Brick Row Book Shop, Inc.</b></p> - -<p class="center">Announces that Subscriptions are being taken for:</p> - -<p class="center mid">The Manaton Edition of the Works of -John Galsworthy</p> - -<p class="noindent">Limited to 750 copies to be sold in this country, and printed -on specially water-marked rag paper. Mr. Galsworthy has -written sixteen new prefaces for this edition, and will inscribe -the first volume of each set.</p> - -<p class="center mid">The Collected Works of Herman -Melville</p> - -<p class="noindent">Limited to 650 copies, of which 300 only are to be sold in -the United States. This edition will appear in twelve -volumes, six dollars the volume.</p> - -</div> - -<div class="adbox"> - -<p class="center larger"><b>As Individual as You Are</b></p> - -<p class="noindent">From the bolt of cloth to the finished suit, we tailor your -clothes perfectly to the contour of your form. Every suit -and overcoat tailored to your individual measurements. -Only through such service can you receive such fine quality -for so little cost.</p> - -<p class="center mid">E. V. PRICE & CO.<br /> -Tailoring for Men</p> - -<p class="noindent">We’re now showing an impressive display of new Fall fabrics. -Come in early and make your selection.</p> - -<p class="center"><b>$45.00 UP TO $65.00</b></p> - -<p class="center larger"><b>SHOP OF JENKINS</b></p> - -<p class="center"><b>Haberdashery—Knox Hats—Clothing Specialists</b></p> - -<p class="center"><b>940 Chapel Street, New Haven, Conn.</b></p> - -</div> - -<div class="adbox"> - -<p class="center larger"><b>The Nonpareil Laundry Co.</b></p> - -<p class="center"><b>The Oldest Established -Laundry to Yale</b></p> - -<p class="noindent">We darn your socks, sew -your buttons on, and make -all repairs without extra -charge.</p> - -</div> - -<div class="adbox"> - -<p class="center larger"><b>PACH BROS.</b></p> - -<p class="center mid"><i>College -Photographers</i></p> - -<p class="center">1024 CHAPEL STREET<br /> -NEW HAVEN, CONN.</p> - -</div> - -<div class="adbox"> - -<p class="center larger"><b>NASH</b></p> - -<p class="center mid"><i>Nash Leads the World in Motor Car Value</i></p> - -<p class="larger noindent"><b>$1645</b></p> - -<p class="smaller noindent"><i>Completely equipped<br /> -as shown</i></p> - -<div class="figcenter" style="width: 500px;"> -<img src="images/ad-nash.jpg" width="500" height="200" alt="" /> -</div> - -<p class="center"><b><span class="mid">THE NEW</span><br /> -<span class="larger">Nash Sport Model</span></b></p> - -<p class="noindent">Here’s the latest addition to the Nash -line—a popularly-priced, smartly-fashioned -sport model with the most complete -equipment ever put on a car. There’s -nothing in its field to touch it. See it at -your dealers.</p> - -<p class="center">FOURS <i>and</i> SIXES</p> - -<p class="center"><b>Reduced Prices Range from $915 to $2190, f.o.b. Factory</b></p> - -<p class="center">THE NASH MOTORS COMPANY<br /> -KENOSHA, WISCONSIN</p> - -</div> - -<div class="adbox"> - -<p class="center"><span class="mid">CHAS. MEURISSE & CO.</span><br /> -4638 Cottage Grove Ave., Chicago, Ill.</p> - -<p class="center">POLO MALLETS, POLO BALLS, POLO SADDLES and -POLO EQUIPMENT of every kind</p> - -<p class="center">Catalog with book of rules on request</p> - -</div> - -<div class="adbox"> - -<p class="center mid">CHASE AND COMPANY</p> - -<p class="center mid"><i>Clothing</i></p> - -<p class="center">GENTLEMEN’S FURNISHING GOODS</p> - -<p class="center">1018-1020 Chapel St., New Haven, Conn.</p> - -<p class="noindent smaller">Complete Outfittings for Every Occasion. For Day or Evening -Wear. For Travel, Motor or Outdoor Sport. Shirts, Neckwear, -Hosiery, Hats and Caps. Rugs, Bags, Leather Goods, Etc.</p> - -</div> - -<div class="adbox"> - -<p class="center"><b>Tailors to College Men of Good Discrimination</b></p> - -<div class="figcenter" style="width: 500px;"> -<img src="images/ad-gus-alexander.jpg" width="500" height="125" alt="Gus Alexander -. DRESS . TAILOR . SPORTING" /> -</div> - -<p class="center">1123 CHAPEL STREET <span class="spacer">NEW HAVEN, CONN.</span></p> - -</div> - -<div class="adbox"> - -<p class="center smaller">Established 1852</p> - -<p class="center mid">I. KLEINER & SON</p> - -<p class="center">TAILORS</p> - -<p class="center">1098 Chapel Street<br /> -NEW HAVEN, <span class="spacer">CONN.</span></p> - -<p class="center">Up Stairs</p> - -</div> - -<div class="adbox"> - -<p class="noindent larger"><b>The Lit.</b></p> - -<p class="noindent">is a Yale magazine—leader in literature -among undergraduates. A local effort, -it can be but “one of the leaders” in the -nation.</p> - -<p class="noindent larger"><b>We Can</b></p> - -<p class="noindent">not take many pictures outside of New -Haven because we, too, are a local -institution. But like the Lit., we lead -here at home—in Yale and New -Haven.</p> - -<p class="center larger"><b>Roger Sherman Studio</b></p> - -<p class="center"><b>“Just across from Vanderbilt”</b></p> - -</div> - -<div class="adbox"> - -<p class="center mid">Reliance -Typewriter Co., Inc.</p> - -<p class="center">74-76 CENTER STREET</p> - -<p class="center">Phone Colony 1569</p> - -<p class="center">AGENTS</p> - -<p class="noindent">L. C. Smith & Bros. Typewriters. -Rebuilt Typewriters -of All Makes. Special Rental -Rates to Students.</p> - -</div> - -<div class="adbox"> - -<p class="center larger"><span class="smcap">Hugh M. Beirne</span></p> - -<p class="center">227 Elm Street</p> - -<p class="center mid"><i>Men’s Furnishings</i></p> - -<p class="center">“Next to the Gym.”</p> - -</div> - -<div class="adbox"> - -<p class="center"><span class="larger">FRAPPIER’S</span><br /> -<span class="mid">BARBER SHOP</span></p> - -<p class="center">100 per cent. CLEAN</p> - -<p class="center">Manicure <span class="spacer">Shoe Shine</span></p> - -<p class="center">211 ELM STREET</p> - -<p class="center">Next to Gym.</p> - -</div> - -<div class="adbox"> - -<p class="center"><span class="smcap larger">Van Dyck & Co.</span><br /> -Incorporated</p> - -<p class="center">PRINTERS</p> - -<p class="center">121-123 Olive Street<br /> -New Haven, Conn.</p> - -</div> - -<div class="adbox"> - -<p>The Standard of Quality -which we maintain in our Merchandise -insures you against -purchasing articles of wearing -apparel of inferior quality and -workmanship. We demand the -best quality in all our hats, -sweaters, hosiery, neckwear, -shirts and underwear.</p> - -<p>May we show you this -standard of quality.</p> - -<p class="center mid">John F. Fitzgerald</p> - -<p class="center">Hotel Taft Bldg.</p> - -<p class="center">NEW HAVEN, CONN.</p> - -</div> - -<div class="adbox"> - -<p class="center larger"><span class="smcap">University -Smoke Shop</span></p> - -<p class="center">(Opposite Osborn Hall)</p> - -<p class="center mid">“The Rendezvous of -Yale Men”</p> - -<p class="noindent">Pipes, Smokers’ Articles, Tobaccos, -Soda Fountain, Sandwiches. Ticker Service</p> - -</div> - -<div class="adbox"> - -<p class="center larger"><span class="smcap">Motor Mart -Garage</span></p> - -<p class="center">OLIVE AND WOOSTER STS.</p> - -<p class="center">Oils and Gasoline</p> - -<p class="center">Turn-auto Repair Service</p> - -</div> - -<div class="adbox"> - -<p class="center larger"><span class="smcap">Compliments<br /> -of a<br /> -Friend</span></p> - -</div> - -<div class="figcenter" style="width: 450px;"> -<img src="images/cover-back.jpg" width="450" height="700" alt="" /> -</div> - -<div class="cover"> - -<table summary=" "> - <tr> - <td class="tdc">NEW HAVEN<br />CONNECTICUT</td> - <td class="tdc">522 FIFTH AVENUE<br />NEW YORK CITY</td> - </tr> -</table> - -<p class="center larger">YALE UNIVERSITY PRESS</p> - -<p class="center mid"><i>Announces the Publication of the following -New Verse</i>—</p> - -<p class="center mid mt2"><i>Lyra Levis</i></p> - -<p class="center">By Edward Bliss Reed</p> - -<p>In this attractive little volume Mr. Reed describes in humorous -verse the faculty, the undergraduates, and the life in an American -university town. The book will appeal to anyone who knows college -communities.</p> - -<p class="center"><i>Price</i> $1.00</p> - -<p class="center mid mt2">Hidden Waters</p> - -<p class="center">By Bernard Raymund</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">“These songs be carven from</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Dear days we knew,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Green days, and windy days and some</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Wild with the flames that used to come</div> - <div class="verse indent0">When love was new.”</div> - </div> -</div> -</div> - -<p class="center"><i>In the Yale Series of Younger -Poets</i></p> - -<p class="center"><i>Price</i> $1.25</p> - -<p class="center mid mt2">Attitudes</p> - -<p class="center">By Paul Tanaquil</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">“Here are my songs,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Such as I make them;</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Each one belongs</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Unto you: take them.”</div> - </div> -</div> -</div> - -<p class="center"><i>In the Yale Series of Younger -Poets</i></p> - -<p class="center"><i>Price</i> $1.25</p> - -<p class="center mid mt2">In the Sky Garden</p> - -<p class="center">By Stephen Moylan Bird</p> - -<p class="noindent">Selected and arranged with a -Biographical Sketch by Charles -Wharton Stork.</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">“Like a cool vapor falling</div> - <div class="verse indent0">The voice of Death is calling:</div> - <div class="verse indent0">‘In my dim land is Peace,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">By Lethe-languid fountains</div> - <div class="verse indent0">In my mist-shrouded mountains</div> - <div class="verse indent0">All cares and clamors cease.’”</div> - </div> -</div> -</div> - -<p class="noindent">The collected verse of the young -West Point cadet who in a fit -of despondency probably took -his own life.</p> - -<p class="center"><i>Price</i> $1.50</p> - -<p class="center mid mt2">Yankee Notions</p> - -<p class="center">By George S. Bryan</p> - -<p>These diverting poems are by -none other than the G. S. B. -who—by his initials—is known -to thousands through his association -with F. P. A.’s column -in the New York Tribune.</p> - -</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin-top:4em'>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE YALE LITERARY MAGAZINE (VOL. LXXXVIII, NO. 1) ***</div> -<div style='text-align:left'> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -Updated editions will replace the previous one—the old editions will -be renamed. -</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright -law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, -so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United -States without permission and without paying copyright -royalties. 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