A WILLIAMS ANTHOLOGY
A Collection of the Verse and Prose of Williams College
EDWIN PARTRIDGE LEHMAN JULIAN PARK
EDITORS OF THE LITERARY MONTHLY 1910
The present work owes its existence to a conviction on the part of its editors that much material published by past Williams undergraduates in past and present literary periodicals of the college, deserves a resurrection from the threatening oblivion of musty library shelves. That this conviction has been justified by the quality of the verse and prose herein published, the editors believe; and they therefore submit this volume to the public without undue fear as to its reception, adding only the caution that its readers remember always the tender age of the writers of these pages.
The purpose of the editors was to collect material which might be adjudged to possess real literary merit; but in some cases in which the historical interest attaching to the production, either by reason of its subject or by reason of the fame attained in later years by its author, is obvious, this rule has been waived. Among such exceptions may be cited that of the Resolutions addressed to President Adams by the students, and copied herein from the pages of the Vidette. The matter has been arranged in the order of class seniority, with two exceptions. It has seemed fitting to the editors to begin the work with that immortal song, "The Mountains"; the second exception is that of the series of biographical sketches entitled "Nine Williams Alumni," which for obvious reasons were published as a whole.
The editors burrowed through all files of the college publications which the college library contains, files which are reasonably complete. In such a mass of material, some ninety volumes, it will be astounding indeed if some creditable work has not been passed inadvertently over. If such a mistake has occurred it is at least pardonable. The editors fear only the presence of some unworthy matter in this volume, a sin of commission and hence vastly more heinous.
In going over the works of their academic ancestors the editors have been struck by several very interesting facts. The literary quality of the poetry, as all will recognize, has made a steady advance, until the last six years of the Lit. have seen the magazine second to none, for verse at least, in the intercollegiate press. Dutton, Westermann, Gibson, Holley, all of the same collegiate generation—they are names which are widely known and which have brought the college renown of a nature which, ordinarily, she is apt to obtain rather by athletic than by intellectual means. It is striking, too, to notice how the college poetry has changed during the seventy years of its existence, as the present compilers have known it. There are specimens of the "poetry" of the early days included herein, which find a place, as is intimated elsewhere, not so much for their intrinsic merit as for the interest attaching to them in other directions; and as for the prose of the Quarterly and the Vidette, it was, indeed, like the essays of the college press to-day, carefully written and with a degree of that indescribable something called "style"; but so philosophical, heavy, and devoid of any human interest that we cannot imagine the average student going through the magazine at a sitting as (despite all reports to the contrary) is done with the college papers to-day.
An interesting light on the alteration in undergraduate problems that has gradually come about is furnished by a reading of Mr. Mabie's essay included herein. At the time of its production Mr. Mabie saw the need of a greater degree of organization among the students, in order that the college might thereby become more of a community. How directly opposed the present-day cry is! Student organization has to-day so spread and so wound itself about the very life of the college, that it threatens to hide the intellectual aims for which the college exists. The editors venture to express the opinion that, had Mr. Mabie written when they are writing, his essay would perhaps have had a different tone.
The college has indeed much to be proud of in its literature and journalism—for it has been enriched with names like Bryant, Prime, Franklin Carter, Mabie, Stoddard, Scudder, Alden, Gladden, G.L. Raymond, L.W. Spring, G. Stanley Hall, H.L. Nelson, G.E. MacLean, Cuthbert Hall, Isaac Henderson, Bliss Perry, F.J. Mather, Rollo Ogden: many of them are represented here; and we are glad for the college that their fame had its beginnings, even if often modest, in our student publications.
For the purpose of embodying the literary history of the college as completely as possible in one volume, the compilers have added an appendix containing the names of the editors of the Literary Monthly for the twenty-six years of its existence. For the same purpose, they quote below a chronological sketch of the various publications, which appeared in the Gulielmensian of the class of 1908. The present editors cannot vouch for all the facts there set forth.
"So far as is known, the earliest periodical published by Williams undergraduates was The Adelphi, a bi-weekly, of which the first issue appeared August 18, 1831, and the last June 21, 1832. After twelve years The Williams Monthly Miscellany was started in July, 1844, and continued until September, 1845. After another lapse of several years, The Williams Quarterly Magazine was founded in July, 1853, and continued publication until June, 1872. Meantime, April 13, 1867, The Williams Vidette had been started, and in 1872, the older Quarterly was merged into it. The Vidette was published fortnightly until June, 1874, when it, together with The Williams Review, a tri-weekly, started in June, 1870, was united to form the fortnightly Williams Athenoeum, the first issue of which appeared October 10, 1874. In May, 1881, another fortnightly, The Argo, was started, which, with The Athenoeum, appeared in alternate weeks until April, 1885, when the two gave place simultaneously to The Williams Literary Monthly and The Fortnight. Two years later, April, 1887, The Fortnight was reorganized into The Williams Weekly. In 1904 The Williams Weekly became The Williams Record.
"Volume I of the Gulielmensian appeared in the early spring of 1857."
To these must be added two more, whose existences have begun since the above was published. A humorous monthly, The Purple Cow, first saw the light in the fall of 1907 and has since prospered. Two volumes have appeared of Coffee Club Papers, containing productions read before the meetings of that body. The first volume bears the date of 1909 and the second of 1910. Every class on its graduation publishes its Class Book and these sometimes attain a degree of literary merit; hence any review of the literary interests of the college would be incomplete without at least mention of them.
* * * * *
And now the editors have done their task. It has been pleasant work; may the results prove as pleasant to those before whose literary palates they are spread. It remains only to thank the alumni for their loyal financial support through the subscription blanks sent out in June, and the library staff of the college for the generosity with which more than the ordinary facilities of the library have been tendered.
Williamstown, Massachusetts, November 1, 1910.
A WILLIAMS ANTHOLOGY
WASHINGTON GLADDEN '59
O, proudly rise the monarchs of our mountain land, With their kingly forest robes, to the sky, Where Alma Mater dwelleth with her chosen band, Where the peaceful river floweth gently by.
Chorus. The mountains! the mountains! we greet them with a song! Whose echoes, rebounding their woodland heights along, Shall mingle with anthems that winds and fountains sing, Till hill and valley gaily, gaily ring.
The snows of winter crown them with a crystal crown, And the silver clouds of summer round them cling; The autumn's scarlet mantle flows in richness down; And they revel in the garniture of spring. Chorus.
O, mightily they battle with the storm-king's pow'r; And, conquerors, shall triumph here for aye; Yet quietly their shadows fall at evening hour, While the gentle breezes round them softly play. Chorus.
Beneath their peaceful shadows may old Williams stand, Till suns and mountains never more shall be, The glory and the honor of our mountain land, And the dwelling of the gallant and the free. Chorus.
ADDRESS OF THE STUDENTS OF WILLIAMS COLLEGE TO THE PRESIDENT OF THE UNITED STATES
From the Hampshire Gazette, Northampton, Mass., July 25, 1798
Sir,—Though members of an infant Institution and of little comparative weight in the scale of the Union, we feel for the interest of our country. It becomes every patriotic youth in whose breast there yet remains a single principle of honour, to come forward calmly, boldly, and rationally to defend his country. When we behold, Sir, a great and powerful nation exerting all its energy to undermine the vast fabrics of Religion and Government, when we behold them inculcating the disbelief of a Deity, of future rewards and punishments; when we behold them discarding every moral principle and dissolving every tie which connects men together in Society, which sweetens life and renders it worthy enjoying; when we behold them brutalizing man that they may govern him,—as friends to Humanity; as sharers in the happiness of our fellow-men, as Citizens of the world, our feelings are deeply affected. We commiserate the fate of our European Brethren; we weep over the awful calamities of anarchy and atheism.
But when we behold this Nation, not contented with its vast European dominions, but endeavouring to extend its Colossean empire across the Atlantic, every passion is roused; our souls are fired with indignation. We see that their object is universal domination; we see that nothing less than the whole world, nothing less than the universal degradation of man, will satisfy these merciless destroyers. But be assured, Sir, we will oppose them with all our youthful energy and risk our lives in defence of our country.
Untaught in the school of adulation, or the courts of sycophants, we speak forth the pure sentiments of Independence. We give you our warmest approbation. We behold with true patriotic pride the dignified conduct of our Chief Magistrate at this alarming crisis. We are highly pleased with the moderation, candor, and firmness which have uniformly characterized your administration. Though measures decisive and energetic will ever meet with censure from the unprincipled, the disaffected, and the factious, yet virtue must eternally triumph. It is this alone that can stand the test of calumny; and you have this consolation, that the disapprobation of the wicked is solid praise.
At this eventful period our eyes are fixed upon you, Sir, as our political Father, and under Providence we rely on your wisdom and patriotism, with the co-operation of our national Council, to perpetuate our prosperity; and we solemnly engage, that, while our Government is thus purely and virtuously administered, we will give it our whole Support.
These, Sir, are the unanimous sentiments of the Members of Williams College, who, though convinced of the evils of War, yet despise peace when put into competition with National Freedom and Sovereignty.
Signed by a Committee in behalf of one hundred and thirty Students of Williams College—
DAVID L. PERRY. SAMUEL COWLS. SOLOMON STRONG. SILAS HUBBELL.
WILLIAMS COLLEGE, June 19, 1798.
From the Italian of T. Grossi by
WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT 1813
Swallow from beyond the sea! That, with every dawning day, Sitting on the balcony Utterest that plaintive lay! What is it that thou tellest me, Swallow from beyond the sea?
Haply thou, for him who went From thee and forgot his mate, Dost lament to my lament, Widowed, lonely, desolate. Ever then, lament with me, Swallow from beyond the sea!
Happier yet art thou than I,— Thee thy trusty wings may bear, Over lake and cliff to fly, Filling with thy cries the air, Calling him continually, Swallow from beyond the sea!
Could I too!—but I must pine, In this dungeon close and low, Where the sun can never shine, Where the breeze can never blow, Whence my voice scarce reaches thee, Swallow from beyond the sea!
Now September days are near, Thou to distant lands will fly, In another hemisphere; Other streams shall hear thy cry, Other hills shall answer thee, Swallow from beyond the sea!
Then shall I when daylight glows, Waking to the sense of pain, 'Midst the wintry frosts and snows, Think I hear thy notes again— Notes that seem to grieve for me, Swallow from beyond the sea!
Planted here upon the ground, Thou shalt find a cross in spring; There, as evening gathers 'round, Swallow, come and rest thy wing. Chant a strain of peace to me, Swallow from beyond the sea!
MARTIAL, BOOK X
WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT 1813
Oh fortunate Antonius! o'er whose head Calm days have flown and closed the sixtieth year, Back on this flight he looks and feels no dread To think that Lethe's waters flow so near. There is no day of all the train that gives A pang; no moment that he would forget. A good man's span is doubled; twice he lives Who, viewing his past life, enjoys it yet.
"Horace," Ode 30, Book III.
E.C. BENEDICT '21
I've a monument reared more enduring than brass, Which is higher than pyramids built by the kings, Through the rains and the tempests, unharmed, it shall pass, And the wear the corrosion of centuries brings. For, not all shall I die, but my greater part still Shall survive from the grave, and my fame shall increase Long as virgin and priest on the Capitol Hill Shall ascend to their altars in silence and peace. Where once Daunus of deserts and rustics was king, Where swift Aufidus roars, in my praise shall be told That, though humble in birth, I was foremost to bring Into Italy's songs the Greek music of old. Then, Melpomene, take to thyself all the pride Of the glory thy merits so justly declare, And now freely of Delphian laurel provide A fresh coronal wreath to encircle thy hair.
[Footnote 1: The Melpomene of Horace was, I suppose, the Greek muse of singing, not the muse of tragedy, nor a general muse.]
[Footnote 2: Died 1880.]
THE SCULPTOR TO HIS STATUE
JOHN J. INGALLS '55
"Thou silent, pallid dream, in marble stone! No rare, sweet phantasie which my divine And all unearthly-mingled soul has thrown Around a glowing form, art thou, where shine, As garlands wove about a kindled shrine, The beauties of a godlike art and more Etherial thought fashioned to high design, But a remembrance of that unknown shore Where youth and love eterne on spirit pinions soar.
"O'er the hushed vales and gulfy hills of Greece Night brooded on her darkly jewelled wing, Binding in drowsy chains of dewy peace Sweet birds, white flocks and every living thing, And lapsing streams which to the forest sing. Beneath that pillared fane which guards the place Where spirits twain sleep in the charmed ring, I slept after the banquet, and the rays Of a past heaven flashed on my soul's astonished gaze.
"The emerald isles that sail a silver sea, Caverned by plumy groves of sunny palm, Broke on my startled vision suddenly; When as but quickly parted, sweet and calm, That long forgot yet ever haunting psalm Floated from lips that flew to greet me home. A meteor flamed; I woke in rude alarm; Above me orbed the temple's sullen dome; Around me swam the early morning's starless gloom.
"Of that fair dream thou art the memory, My genius, in its wildest fancy, bound And petrified to immortality! A holy presence seems to hover round The deep, perpetual loveliness, as crowned With angel radiance, and plumed for flight, Thy pinioned sandals spurn the flowerless ground, Striving to gain that far Olympian height Towards which in rapturous awe upturns thy longing sight.
"Why are thy parted lips so dumb and cold? Else with my eager arms about thee thrown And folded in thy soft embrace, had rolled The Lethean tide of love, in which, unknown And all unheeded in their state, had flown The future and the past, merged in that sea The present, whose far deeps are felt alone By the pale diver, reaching breathlessly Through pearled and coral caves concealed from mortal eye.
"Oh, shape divine! Such madd'ning grace must have A soul, a consciousness of love and life Though tombed in pallor, with no epitaph But silence! What mighty spell with power rife Can wake thee into Being's passion strife? Yet if there be such, let it rest unsought; For every boon thou couldst from breath derive I would not wrest from thee that higher lot, The need of deathlessness, thou pale, embodied thought!
"Great poet souls and people yet unborn Shall lay their speechless homage at thy feet, And still thy life be in its rosy dawn, Whose eve eternity alone shall greet. While I, to whom thy changeless smile were sweet As heaven, long mingled with earth's vilest mould, Shall be forgot! What wealth of fame can mete The loss of love? None, none! Thy fate is cold, But oh, what starry treasures might it not unfold!"
He ceased. A lambent halo seemed to play About her head, as lightnings round the moon; Her marble tresses streamed in golden spray— A tremor throbbed along her limbs of stone, And sky-hued veins with life's warm pulses shone. One thought of wordless love beamed from her eyes, Then, gently floating from her shining throne 'Mid blushing smiles half drowned in tearful sighs, She faded slowly heavenward through the sunset skies.
[Footnote 1: Died 1900.]
JOHN J. INGALLS '55
Master of human destinies am I; Fame, love, and fortune on my footsteps wait. Cities and fields I walk; I penetrate Deserts and seas remote, and, passing by Hovel and mart and palace, soon or late, I knock unbidden once on every gate. If sleeping, wake; if feasting, rise before I turn away; it is the hour of fate, And they who follow me reach every state Mortals desire, and conquer every foe Save death; but those who doubt or hesitate, Condemned to failure, penury, and woe, Seek me in vain and uselessly implore; I answer not, and I return no more.
The date of first appearance of this sonnet is not known to the editors. It is extracted here from Professor A.L. Perry's Williamstown and Williams College, (1899), and of it Dr. Perry remarks "Ingalls also wrote a notable sonnet on 'Opportunity,' which will no doubt survive, for it has a fine form and considerable literary merit, though godless in every line."
JAMES A. GARFIELD '56
Old Autumn thou art here! upon the Earth And in the heavens, the signs of death are hung; For o'er the Earth's brown breast stalks pale decay, And 'mong the lowering clouds the wild winds wail, And, sighing sadly, chant the solemn dirge O'er summer's fairest flowers, all faded now. The Winter god, descending from the skies, Has reached the mountain tops, and decked their brows With glittering frosty crowns, and breathed his breath Among the trumpet pines, that herald forth His coming.
Before the driving blast The mountain oak bows down his hoary head, And flings his withered locks to the rough gales That fiercely roar among the branches bare, Uplifted to the dark unpitying heavens. The skies have put their mourning garments on And hung their funeral drapery on the clouds. Dead Nature soon will wear her shroud of snow And lie entombed in Winter's icy grave.
Thus passes life. As hoary age comes on The joys of youth—bright beauties of the spring, Grow dim and faded, and the long dark night Of Death's chill Winter comes. But as the spring Rebuilds the ruined wrecks of Winter's waste, And cheers the gloomy earth with joyous light, So o'er the tomb, the Star of Hope shall rise, And usher in an ever during day.
[Footnote 1: Died 1881.]
IN THE FOREST
We lie beneath the forest shade Whose sunny tremors dapple us; She is a proud-eyed Grecian maid And I am Sardanapalus; A king uncrowned whose sole allegiance Resides in dusky forest regions.
How cool and liquid seems the sky; How blue and still the distance is! White fleets of cloud at anchor lie And mute are all existences, Save here and there a bird that launches A shaft of song among the branches.
Within this alien realm of shade We keep a sylvan Passover; We happy twain, a wayward maid, A careless, gay philosopher; But unto me she seems a Venus And Paphian grasses nod between us.
Her drooping eyelids half conceal A vague, uncertain mystery; Her tender glances half reveal A sad, impassioned history; A tale of hopes and fears unspoken Of thoughts that die and leave no token.
"Oh braid a wreath of budding sprays And crown me queen," the maiden says; "Queen of the shadowy woodland ways, And wandering winds, whose cadences Are unto thee that tale repeating Which I must perish while secreting!"
I wove a wreath of leaves and buds And flowers with golden chalices, And crowned her queen of summer woods And dreamy forest palaces; Queen of that realm whose tender story Makes life a splendor, death a glory.
A lonely island in the South, it shows Its frosted brow, and waves its shaggy woods, And sullenly above the billow broods. Here he that shook the frighted world arose. 'Twas here he gained the strength the wing to plume, To swoop upon the Arno's classic plains, And drink the noblest blood of Europe's veins— His eye but glanced and nations felt their doom! Alas! "how art thou fall'n, oh Lucifer, Son of the morning!" thou who wast the scourge And glory of the earth—whose nod could urge. Proud armies deathward at the trump of war! And did'st thou die on lone Helena's isle? And art thou nought but dust and ashes vile?
WASHINGTON GLADDEN '59
From one who belonged in a remote antiquity to the fraternity of college editors, a contribution to this centennial number has been solicited. Perhaps I can do no better than to recall a few impressions of my own life in college. Every year, at the banquet, I observe that I am pushed a little nearer to the border where the almond tree flourishes, and I shall soon have a right to be reminiscent and garrulous. At the next centennial I shall not be called on; this is my last chance.
I came to college in the fall of 1856. My class had been in college for a year, so that the vicissitudes of a freshman are no part of my memory. I shall never forget that evening when I first entered Williamstown, riding on the top of the North Adams stage. The September rains had been abundant, and the meadows and slopes were at their greenest; the atmosphere was as nearly transparent as we are apt to see it; the sun was just sinking behind the Taconics, and the shadows were creeping up the eastern slopes of Williams and Prospect; as we paused on the little hill beyond Blackinton the outline of the Saddle was defined against a sky as rich and deep as ever looked down at sunset on Naples or Palermo. I thought then that I had never seen a lovelier valley, and I have had no occasion to revise that judgment. To a boy who had seen few mountains that hour was a revelation. On the side of the picturesque, the old way of transportation was better than the new. The boy who is dumped with his trunks at the station near the factory on the flat gets no such abundant entrance into Williamstown as was vouchsafed to the boy who rode in triumphantly on the top of Jim Bridges' stage.
The wide old street was as hospitable then as now; if the elms were something less paternal in their benediction their stature was fair and their shade was ample; but the aspect of the street—how greatly changed since then! There were two or three fine old colonial houses, which are standing now and are not likely to be improved upon; but most of the dwellings were of the orthodox New England village pattern, built, I suppose, to square with the theology of the Shorter Catechism, or perhaps with the measurements of the New Jerusalem, the length and breadth and height of which are equal. The front yards were all enclosed with fences, none of which were useful and few of which were ornamental. The broad-shouldered old white Congregational meeting-house stood at the top of the street in Field Park; it was the goal of restless Sophomores for several hours every Sunday, and it was also the goal of all ambitious contestants for college honors. Griffin Hall was then chapel, museum, laboratories, and recitation-rooms; East, South, and West Colleges, with Kellogg Hall, on the West lawn,—"factories of the muses," in Lowell's expressive phrase,—stood forth in their naked practicality much as they stand to-day. Lawrence Hall library, in its earlier, wingless character of colossal ink-pot, Jackson Hall and the little magnetic observatory, still standing, completed the catalogue of the college buildings.
The faculty of that day can be recalled without difficulty: President Hopkins, whose clear and venerable name no eulogy of mine shall here disfigure; his stern-faced but great-hearted brother Albert; Emmons the geologist; Griffin, Tatlock, Lincoln, and Chadbourne, who succeeded Hopkins in the presidency; Bascom, the only survivor to-day, and Perry, the best-known of them all. I have taken no pains to refresh my memory of the faculty of 1856, but I am confident that here are no omissions. It will be somewhat less easy for undergraduates to-day, writing so many eventful years after their entrance, to recall the names of their teachers. One only of our memorable nine is now in service, and long may he serve the community! All these were ranked as professors; there had been tutors and instructors before our days, but none in our time.
The Gul of those days was a four-page sheet containing in briefest form the membership and official lists of the various fraternities and associations; it sold for ten cents a copy. The only other college publication was the Quarterly, a solid magazine of about one hundred pages. None of the fraternities then existing, I think, possessed a chapter-house; their rooms were in more or less obscure quarters, over stores or in private houses. There was quite as much rivalry between them then as now, and poorer spirit. There was also an Anti-Secret Confederation, of which General Garfield in his time was the leader; it mixed freely in college politics and was no less clannish than the other fraternities. The absence of chapter-houses and the less fully developed social life of the fraternities left room for a stronger class feeling and perhaps a more sympathetic college spirit than exists to-day. The smallness of the classes and the absence of the electives, too, aided the cultivation of class feeling; the classes ranged from forty-five to sixty, and the whole class was held solidly together during the whole course, all reciting in the same room three times a day from the beginning of freshman year to the end of senior.
College singing was hearty and spirited, but our repertoire was limited. I recall many evenings of blameless hilarity on the benches under the trees in front of East College. For more ambitious musical performance we had our "Mendelssohn Society," whose concerts were not probably so classical as we then esteemed them, but whose rehearsals gave us not a little pleasure. Athletics had hardly a name to live. Now and then a football was mysteriously dropped into the West College yard, and kicked about in a very promiscuous fashion; the freshmen and sophomores generally had a match of what was by courtesy called base-ball. The only intercollegiate contest of which I had any recollection, and as it seems the first ever to take place, was a ball game at Pittsfield between Williams and Amherst. Amherst was the challenging party, and the college by vote selected its team with much care and went forth to the contest with strong hopes. The game was not lacking in excitement. It was none of your new-fangled, umpire-ridden matches: the modern type of base-ball had not, of course, been invented. Foul balls were unknown, the sphere could be knocked toward any quarter of the earth or sky; runners between bases could be pelted with it by any of the outfielders. I think that the score stood something like 60 to 40, and it was not in favor of Williams. It was a melancholy company that trailed homeward after this contest past the Lanesboro pond; but since then I understand that times have changed.
[Dr. Gladden has embodied his college reminiscences more fully in his recent volume Recollections, wherein is told also the story of "The Mountains." (Houghton Mifflin Company, 1909.)]
Literary Monthly, 1893.
[Footnote 1: October, 1893.]
[Footnote 2: Demolished in 1908.]
TO THE MOUNTAINS OF WILLIAMSTOWN
ON THE INTRODUCTION OF THE NEW RAILROAD
Ye guardian mountains of the western world, Enthroned like monarchs of primeval days! Ye that hold lofty converse with the stars, And bind your shaggy brows with clustering clouds As if with wreaths of laurel! ye that count Your years by thousands, and your bosoms robe With all the pageantry of Autumn's gold, And lull your sleep of ages with the wild And murmurous drone of woodland waterfalls, And multitudinous song of windy groves!
What spell hath bound ye now? what lethargy O'ercomes your ancient power? that undisturbed Ye slumber on, as if ye heeded not The piercing shriek from yonder fuming car, Which saith that even here presumptuous man Has dared intrude upon the green domain, Which ye inherited when Time was born. Awake! arise! are ye forever dumb? Let Greylock, most majestic of your band, Stand up and shout aloud to Audubon, Until from peak to peak the sound rolls round, Until yon mountain that o'erlooks the west Takes up the cry, of vengeance upon him Whose strange devices break your long repose.
In vain! ye are indeed forever dumb, Obedient to the will of Destiny, Who sits enthroned among the stars of heaven, And unto man's inquiring vision points Toward the westering sun forevermore. Such is the law that rules the universe;— Planets and systems, e'en the sun himself, Around one common point progressive move. And thus a few millenniums more shall man Proclaim the march of mind, and when ye pass Into oblivion with your weight of years, When galaxies and suns are quenched in gloom, Th' unshackled soul of man, itself a star Lit by the smile of God, shall wing through space, The destined heir to immortality.
THE YELLOW JASMINE
FRANKLIN CARTER '62
Ye golden bells, that toss your heaven-born fragrance On air around, And know to make the most harmonious music Without a sound!
Ye fragile flowers, whose delicate, dear tendrils Upward do climb, Reveal to us the sweet, mysterious secret Of love sublime!
Entwining with your gentle cunning fingers The ragged tree, Ye leave behind ye crowns and chaplets wondrous, Of jewelry!
Not pearls nor diamonds of a radiance peerless, Not amethyst. When softly swaying on the human bosom, Or flexile wrist,
Can add to life and beauty lustrous splendor, With grace divine, As when ye wreathe on gnarled oak and holly Your trailing vine!
Oh, love of God! in gracious ways unnumbered, With gentlest touch, Thou teachest men and pitifully showest Of patience much!
We pray, dear Father, teach thine erring children This lesson meet— To climb through fragile, earth born, human tendrils To life complete.
AFTER DINNER SPEECHES
FRANKLIN CARTER '62
According to common opinion Americans are the nation most addicted to speechmaking. Laboulaye makes a good point by representing the son of a leading character in "Paris in America" discovered by his father before a large audience, in the full tide of political speech, and maintaining afterwards to the old gentleman that it is the common practice among all the boys to make a speech on every possible occasion, that they may thus fit themselves for public life.
In New York, which tends rapidly to become the center of activity for most of the important influences of our country, there are every year many dinners, anniversaries, and assemblies, at which oratory of an ephemeral nature finds expression and attention. All the nationalities, all the religious and literary societies, all the clubs, all the distinguished foreigners, and all the leading and following colleges, must have a dinner, and every dinner must have at least a dozen speeches. Most of these speeches are more eloquent to the opinion of their authors than to the minds of their hearers.
It certainly is one of the best moral illustrations of the first law of motion that in spite of all the heroism necessary to endure such a volume of speech, the patient public seems (if we may judge from the increase in volume) every year more and more willing to sit at the tables and listen to this flow of sound. Perhaps this patience is only apparent, for competition for an opportunity to speak is said to be lively. Possibly every one of the thousands who listen is secretly comparing the eloquence of the speaker with his own skilful ability, and not quite calmly biding the time when he shall enrapture, where the present speaker wearies and annoys.
Yet not every speech made on those occasions is dull. Now and then the happy mingling of fun and sense really lifts the company out of the tiresome monotony. Were it not for these addresses beautiful and rare, we can believe that dinner speeches would be abandoned, or exchanged for a single oration from one competent to delight.
For the distinguishing mark of the dinner speech should be that it amuse not in the rough, coarse way of the demagogue, but in the subtle, fine way of the man of culture.
The dinner speeches with which the readers of this paper are perhaps most familiar, those made when the alumni of a noble college gather around the table of their alma mater, ought to be characterized by the broad sympathy, the quick insight, the flexible grace and the genial humor of the thoroughly educated man. Although to make fine dinner speeches can never be an aim worthy of an earnest man, yet to have the power and culture from which such a speech usually comes, is the highest aim in a literary regard that any man can have. It is a short-sighted and one-sighted earnestness that despises the wit and banter of society, and affects the isolation and grandeur of pure thought. The mountain summit is too far removed from the walks of men to make it possible for the recluse to wield all the influence that his powers may entitle him to exert. The metaphysician less than the poet, the country minister less than the successful lawyer, is the autocrat of the dinner-table.
Because Williams and Yale have produced great and useful men, it does not follow that their commencement dinners are always marked by the finest flow of wit and wisdom, nor that pioneers in civilization who bring great honor to their alma mater should always and everywhere speak for her. Dinner-speaking is a fine art, not one for which men need absolutely European travel and study, but one which is never mastered except by those who love and perhaps know how to reach all the beautiful thoughts of every age and clime. It is the cultured gentleman of social experience, who may or may not be a man of great ability, but who knows how to weave the poetic and humorous and commonplace into beautiful or grotesque forms, that delights and surprises a dinner company. Social experience and good abilities will not alone make the successful speaker. Underneath and back of all must be the gentleman. A lawyer, though of splendid position, can ill afford to say at the festal table of his alma mater, "Harvard takes great poets and historians to fill her vacant professorships; my college takes boys, who have proved their qualifications by getting their windows broken." Those who go deeper than the surface will perhaps surmise that Harvard has had better material to work upon than some colleges; not perhaps material of finer abilities, but material that has been more under the influence of sweetness and light. Possibly her graduates are as superior at making dinner speeches as are her trustees in choosing professors.
A gentleman must make the happy dinner-speech, for only he can perceive the proprieties of the situation. He will neither improve the occasion to give the corporation advice as to the management of the college, nor try to point out to a company of Unitarians the superior advantages of the orthodox faith, nor exhibit to invited guests the rags of his alma mater's poverty. He may, perhaps, avoid the commonplace by so doing, but he will certainly transgress the rules of propriety. The commonplace at a dinner, repeated every year under so nearly similar conditions, cannot be avoided, but can be transformed by the art of the master.
What could be more difficult than the duty of presiding at the dinner of the New England Society and rehearsing the threadbare story of the landing of the Pilgrims and dilating upon it in such a way as to entertain New Englanders, who ever since their childhood have heard the declamations of Webster, Everett, Winthrop, and the rest, about that heroic band? Yet by a mixture of shrewd wit and eloquence Mr. Choate, a Harvard graduate, went over again, last year, at the sixty-fourth anniversary of the society, the main facts of the history, and dwelt upon the relations of New Englanders to New York, making a speech that, printed, fills ten octavo pages but which the audience found charming from beginning to end.
This, like every other fine art, has something cosmopolitan in it. It eschews the local and narrow, refuses to belong to any sect or party, and appeals by the widest culture to men of culture. The dinner speeches of our own Bryant are thus liberal and catholic. So were those of Mr. Everett in the main, though one discovered the superb actor now and then arranging his robe or making use of his splendid presence and reputation to draw attention to himself. Of course, when such a man comes as a guest into a company somewhat foreign in thought and life to his own belongings, he can neglect the rules that good breeding imposes on those who compose the homogeneous circles and become narrow. But he must be narrow by praising not his own methods but the unexpected excellence of life found among his hosts—thus, while apparently dwarfing himself, he throws the dignity of his own reputation and history over that which he eulogizes and really exhibits the truest catholicity of spirit. To do this and perfectly conceal the satisfaction that one has, because he can do it, was perhaps difficult for Everett. Most men who heard him pardoned the failure. It was easier for Dickens. His life was in some sense less splendid but more real.
The amusement and good feeling which it is always the aim of the dinner speaker to create, were largely the aim of Dickens' life. The humor, the knowledge of human nature, that he always had at command, were employed in his writings and daily thoughts to enliven and cheer men. No wonder then that his speeches are models of breadth and sweetness and appositeness, and that good judges regarded him when living as in this department of expression unrivalled.
He who is so guided by the love of letters engrafted on the love of man as to give constant and ample expression to these motives, will be neither a reformer without grace nor a scholar without manliness. Give to such a man a flow of animal spirits and a dash of wit, and he should be not unapt to entertain even when poised on the dangerous wing of an after-dinner speech.
THE STUDENT COMMUNITY
HAMILTON WRIGHT MABIE '67
A very interesting and significant feature of university life in the early days was the great part played by students in the scholastic community. They were not only included in the group described by the word "faculty," but they were charged with administrative and executive functions. The movement toward self-government, which has already borne fruit in many of our colleges, is in no sense a modern influence; it is a return to a condition widely prevalent in the early history of university organization. Not only did the students share, through various deliberative bodies, in the determination of the gravest questions of academic policy, but, in many cases, the executive head of the university was not only chosen by them but was often one of their number. The rector of the Italian universities was in most instances a student, often under twenty-five years of age. The rector of the University of Paris, who was charged with the gravest administrative functions, took precedence of the archbishop, and sat at times in the royal councils with princes and nobles, was originally elected by the student communities, and was often a very young man; and yet Paris was essentially a university of professors. Bologna, which was a university of students, was governed directly by the general assembly of undergraduates. Whether governed by students or by masters,—alumni as we should say,—these historic institutions were essentially democratic, and the student seems on the whole to have been the most important figure; not only because at the beginning he formed the constituency for the popular teacher, but because later when these throngs of students formally organized he had the largest share of privileges and for a long time the controlling voice in the management of affairs.
"Universities," said Professor Croisat at the centenary of the University of Montpellier in 1889, "do not come into the world with a clatter. What we know least about in all our history is the precise moment when it (Montpellier) began." It is impossible, in many instances, to fix the date of organization of many of the foremost of the older institutions; they were not made, they grew. There was a deep necessity for their existence in the intellectual and spiritual condition of the times, and they sprang into being here and there, in Italy, France, Spain, and England, in response to that need. They were notable, at the beginning, not for academic calm, but for turbulence and vitality; for they were not universities of science, they were universities of persons. The differences of scholastic rank were not very sharply defined. In early days, whenever the university body was formally addressed by Pope or Emperor, the students were named in the same sentence as the masters.
It is unnecessary to recall here the changes in condition which have separated the student class sharply from the teaching body and divorced it almost entirely from governmental functions. What is significant for the purpose of this article is an apparent disposition in many quarters to recede from the extreme position of entire exclusion of the student body and a tendency to move in the other direction. That tendency may become very marked and lead to a very radical change of policy in the government of colleges, a change so radical as to be revolutionary in its effect. It is certain that the government of colleges, like that of states, must from time to time undergo marked modifications if it is to remain vitally representative of, and harmonious with, the growing and changing life of the college. In healthy institutional life there is free play and interaction of all the forces that go to make up the organic life, and a certain flexibility is involved in all growth. The student community, is, after all, in most institutions the prime object of interest. A few foundations exist for the pursuit of knowledge for its own sake, instruction being incidental; in most institutions, however, instruction is the foremost and absorbing function, and the student's welfare is, therefore, the controlling factor. In western colleges, where the edge of hunger for knowledge has not yet been dulled by opportunity, it is not an unknown thing for a committee of students to wait on a president or chancellor and announce the failure of some professor to prepare himself for recitations by fresh study of his subject. It would be well if students in eastern colleges would sometimes put on a similar boldness; they would help heads of colleges out of very trying difficulties with well-meaning but incompetent or indolent professors. Undergraduate popularity is often illusive and unstable, but undergraduate perception of incompetency is often very keen and discriminating.
But whether admitted to, or excluded from the government of the college, the student community plays a part not always recognized in its educational influence and work, and many men receive more influential impressions from the atmosphere in which they live and the men with whom they associate during their college career than from their instructors. Nothing is so pervasive as an atmospheric influence, and, in its way, nothing is so important. It is significant that foreign students rarely speak of Oxford without commenting on its atmosphere; something in the air of the old town which, although intangible in its operation, is a positive factor in the educational result. Specific courses of instruction are less numerous than in many other places, and such instruction as is offered is often defective in methods and spirit; but the life of the place is adjusted to intellectual work; the library facilities are great, the traditions which seem to be part of the very structure of the colleges are liberalizing and make for generous culture. In such an air it is easy to study by one's own impetus and to develop in ourselves the passion for perfection. Culture is so different from training or favoring the acquirement of knowledge that it is so often totally lacking in men who have carried both processes to great length; it is indeed rarely conveyed, though it may be greatly aided, by definite instruction. It cannot be said of the great mass of college graduates that they are men of culture. Culture comes, in a sense, by indirection, a man absorbs it and furnishes the conditions for its growth, but he cannot receive it directly from his teachers. There are, in every college, teachers, who stimulate culture in students not so much by reason of their scholarship as by reason of their attitude toward what they know. For culture is always a personal quality; a ripeness which comes from the generous enrichment of a man's nature by contact with the best things. In certain atmospheres men ripen, as in certain others they remain hard and unaffected.
The atmospheric quality of a college is determined largely by the character and traditions of undergraduate life. If that life has generous ideals, sound impulses, and traditions which appeal to the imagination, the atmosphere will do as much for many men as the formal instruction they receive. It will inspire self-respect, firm ambitions, and general dignity and nobleness of nature. Men will be drawn together by the sympathy of aspiration, rather than by mere congeniality of habit, and their daily association will have an educational influence of the most lasting kind. It is this association which often leaves its mark on men who have failed to make right use of the opportunities for specific instruction which surround them. A college education is complete, so far as any provisional education is complete, only when the student receives the strong impress of both teachers and associates; when instruction is competent and vital, and undergraduate life is wholesome, generous, and aspiring.
It is a significant fact that when a group of men develop creative gifts in later life it will generally be found that their undergraduate life together discovered strong sympathetic aspirations which bound them together and gave their intercourse a very stimulating quality. The action and reaction upon each other of a group of young men of generous aims are peculiarly delicate and influential, affecting the very sources of individual strength and impulse.
Such influences are intermittent and irregular; it would be a great gain if they could become continuous and, in a flexible sense, organic. Student life has been, at times, highly organized and penetrated by intellectual impulses. Colleges differ greatly in this respect, but in American institutions the student life of to-day does not anywhere near realize its rich possibilities. Its interest in athletics is so great that in this single field it may be said to be fairly well organized and fairly effective in securing the end for which it works; but in no other field is a similar activity discoverable, unless it be in that of journalism. One of the most interesting features of the intellectual and moral revival now going on in France is the notable change that has come over student life, a change shown in a revival of song, of old student customs, of solidarity of feeling, and of a generous enthusiasm for the common traditions and views. May not American students learn something from this contemporary illustration of the possibilities of organized student life?
Literary Monthly, 1893.
ALFRED C. CHAPIN '69
There are themes which no man can cope with. There are times when those ordinarily confident shrink back at the thought of grappling with the mighty issues that lie before them. There are minds of a structure so singularly complex and unique, that one leaves the study of them impressed only with a deep, abiding sense of his inability to fathom them. We have in our midst one such, the penetration of whose manifestations and phenomena is well calculated to baffle the most zealous investigator. Reared among the rugged hill-sides and verdant vales of Williamstown, his character and oratory bear the evident impress of his nurturing. If to Elihu Burritt belongs the title of "The Learned Blacksmith," not less to William Pratt is due that of "The Eloquent Wood-sawyer." Though he cannot, like Elihu, claim a knowledge of eight languages, he can at least use the one of which he is master, in a manner at once astounding and gratifying. No son of Williams needs to be told who he is; yet for the benefit of those unacquainted with his genius and oratorical ability, we will endeavor briefly to sketch his early career before enlarging upon the grander triumphs of his later years.
The subject of the present article was born not far from the year 1810. Whether or no any comet or other unusual heavenly phenomenon heralded his entrance upon the scenes of earth, is not recorded. If, however, the astronomical appearances which are said to accompany the birth of the mighty ones of the sons of earth are gauged with any degree of fairness, there should have been at least six large comets and any number of meteors distinctly visible. His early life glided by gently as the placid Hoosick, by which he frolicked. Several desperate attempts were made by various misguided individuals to educate him. From all these, however, he escaped unscathed, with the wings of his genius unfettered. At what precise period he began to exhibit symptoms of that highly original and forcible eloquence which he now possesses, we are unable to state. We presume that his first efforts were co-existent with the commencement of his career as a wood-sawyer. Certainly, at present, he is rarely filled with the divine afflatus except when plying his saw. He is unlike Shakespeare, as he often repeats. One utterance—"Ottah"—the coinage of his own brain, seems to be the attempt of his daring and unschooled genius to strike out not only into new lines of thought, but even to find a mystic mode of expression. This term is evidently a portion of a language wholly differing from our own. It is at once a noun, adjective, and verb, and, in the full flood of his eloquence, it changes from the one to the other with astounding rapidity.
The extreme versatility of his genius renders it peculiarly difficult to give any adequate idea of his oratory. He is equally bold in the expression of his sentiments on any subject. Perhaps for convenience in consideration we may roughly divide his oratory into wood-pile and conversational eloquence.
Specimens of his genuine wood-pile eloquence, though by no means uncommon, are yet not easily accessible to the biographical compiler. Very few of his sayings have ever found their way into print, and when thus presented they are of necessity shorn of much of their strength, and deprived of the impressiveness which they derive from the orator's gesticulation and delivery. We will, however, endeavor to present our readers with a few, selected at random, from discourses on various occasions and subjects.
It is morning. A group of students, just before going into recitation, cluster around Bill in the hope of getting a speech from him. He remains deaf to their entreaties till the bell sounds, when with uplifted hand and glaring eye he thus addresses them, in a voice audible for about half a mile.
"Go in and take your secretary, persecuting yourself with the dandelions and robes of righteousness. All the life, all the music, and the blood and electricity rolling over the mountains with the elements of pietude spread all over the fundament. Ottah!! R-R-R-Rose Ottah! Rack-a-tack."
As might be surmised from a perusal of this effort, his peroration is rarely in keeping with the main portion of his oration. In fact, the close of all his speeches may be said to be very similar, being invariably "Ottah," or some variation of it.
Occasionally the exuberance of his genius leads him into the error of crowding together metaphors to the detriment of perspicuity. When, for example, he says:
"The waters of heaven descending on the breast-bones of the women; and the youthful Moses, sitting on the back-bone of eternity, sucking the pap of time," we feel that there is a redundancy in the expression.
Some specimens of his remarkable verbal and figurative power in conversation are forcible in the extreme. It is said, with what truth we know not, that on one occasion the venerable head of this institution ventured to "tackle" him in a religious argument. Bill, after listening with a deference which was evidently a tribute of respect to the Doctor's position rather than an acknowledgment of the cogency of his reasoning, settled the question by an interrogatory: "Dr. Hopkins, do you suppose I'm goin' to believe that when I die I'll go up and sit on one of those clouds with my legs hangin' over?"
We infer from the above that his religious belief is somewhat vague.
Soon after the marriage of Charles, Bill's son, the heir apparent of the Pratt estates, Bill was asked how Charles' wife was getting along, whereupon he was pleased to remark that he believed she was "under conviction." Since then the conviction has become a certainty, and Bill is a grandfather. Commenting on the appearance of his grandchild, he has been heard to say: "She's a pretty child. I say she looks like Charles. Charles says she looks like me."
There are few scenes that abide longer in the student's recollection than those in which Bill is the central figure. It not infrequently happens that, when a number of lovers of fun are gathered around him as he vigorously brandishes axe or saw, one of them, willing, for the sake of drawing him out, to make a martyr of himself for the public good, addresses him. On such occasions a conversation, something as follows, occurs:
Student—"Bill, what do you think of the constitutionality of the configuration, esthetically considered?"
No reply is elicited from Bill, but a scornful "Ottah," as he puts on a new stick and continues his work.
Student, (not discouraged)—"Really, Bill, I should like your opinion on that point."
Bill, (having finished his stick)—"You ain't no kind of a man. You hain't got no elements, no justice of earth. When I see these young men and the monument of liberty imported from Long Island for the benefit of the rising generation, Ottah! Rolling Ottah!! Rang Dang! Du Dah!!!"
Of course a rebuke so scathing and sudden as this, never fails to annihilate its object. Being assured by the rapturous applause which ever succeeds his efforts, that he has made a good hit, Bill suddenly becomes as impenetrable as Gibraltar, and saws vigorously.
If, at a time like this, "the Professor," alias "Niobe," having snatched a few moments from his professional perambulations in search of "Coffee," steps forward, signalizing his debut with the interrogatory: "Do ye think I'm a common laborin' man?" naught is wanting to complete the student's bliss.
"The Professor" is by no means as varied in his accomplishments as Bill, his only quotable utterances being the one already given and another, supposed to be severely sarcastic: "How lang has he been so?" He, however, has, in the recesses of his brain, a dim idea that Bill is weak, viewed from an intellectual standpoint, while Bill has an equally indistinct belief that "the Professor" has very little furniture in his upper story. How far either of them is wrong our space does not permit us to say. Both have a supreme contempt for students, regarding them as effeminate cumberers of the ground. In the presence of Bill, "the Professor" does not appear to advantage. Being entirely unable to compete with him in a war of words, he is usually forced to betake himself to dancing; which, compared with oratory, is frivolous.
Occasionally the adversities of life seem to press upon Bill with peculiar force, rendering him extremely dejected. At such times, though his flow of language does not forsake him, he is without that cheerful aspect and spontaneous expression ordinarily so characteristic. No longer does he cause the campus to ring with his hearty vociferation, but he grumbles very like an ordinary mortal:
"I tell yer now I don't believe no man ever got rich sawin' wood. I tell yer it's hard work to saw wood all day and car' it up two pa'r stairs on yer back. I've sawed wood mor'n thirty years. You ask Mist'r Tatlock, if yer don't believe it. Mist'r Tatlock's nice man. There ain't no temptations about him. I sawed last night till twel' o'clock, an' it's hard work. Say, that feller up in that room gin eight dollars for that cord o' wood, an' it ain't good for nothin'. It's all full o' the Ottahs in the lucination of the veins."
In the fall, Bill, for a season, abandons wood-sawing for the lighter and more refined occupation of stove-blacking. While engaged in this profession he never fails to assert his profound and lasting conviction that, like sawing, it does not offer a broad and easy road to opulence. His execution of whatever work is given him in this line is at once artistic and masterly, showing that excellence in oratory is not incompatible with an aptitude for the fine arts. His outfit is eminently complete and choice. In order that he may fail in no portion of his work, he usually carries with him a stock consisting of:
1. About 35 brooms, carried in a large sack. These are useful in putting on the finishing touches, and ensuring an unapproachable lustre.
2. Brushes of various kinds, comprising shoe-brushes, hat-brushes, clothes-brushes, hair-brushes, tooth-brushes, nail-brushes, shaving-brushes, and sometimes, a stove-brush. These are useful in many respects, the shoe-brushes and hair-brushes being instrumental in doing the heavy and plain work, while the shaving-brushes and tooth-brushes are extremely handy in doing justice to the filagree work and ornamental portion.
3. A platform, or dais, on which to place the stove.
4. A stick, curiously carved, to beat out of pipes.
5. Cloths, of various sizes and patterns, to wipe the poker and the legs of the stove.
6. Oil-cloths, for emergencies.
7. One large bottle or jug with a stick in it, and two smaller ones, all filled with mysterious decoctions whose composition and properties are known to Bill alone.
8. A sponge.
9. Small boxes containing a dingy powder.
10. A wheel-barrow, on which Bill vainly attempts to carry the rest of his goods.
We have been thus minute in describing his equipment, knowing him to be at the head of his profession, and hoping that any youth aspiring to celebrity in it, who may chance upon these pages, will profit therefrom. We regret to be obliged to state that there are some so utterly out of sympathy with the cause of art, as to assert that the greater portion of Bill's utensils are useless; and that by much puttering he loses time without improving his work. These persons we are inclined to class among those zealous but unthinking lovers of simplicity, whose misdirected reformatory efforts in other departments of life are so well known. As might be expected, Bill treats these sacrilegious innovators with the contempt they so justly merit. Were an officious stranger to try to convince an artist that one color would answer all his purposes as well as a greater number, would the suggestion of the untutored interloper cause the artist to waver in the sternness of his faith? And shall the subject of this sketch revolutionize his mode of stove-blacking at the promptings of an untaught spectator?
It would be by no means surprising if such nicety of execution as that to which we have alluded tended to draw his attention from rhetorical themes. Yet, spite of this apparently necessary result, some of his grandest and most startling flights of oratory have had their inspiration from incidents connected with stove-nigrification. Bill has, as it were, soared on the legs of the stove, like Perseus on Mercury's sandals, to unexplored realms of space and thought. At such moments the stove-pipe becomes to him a magic telescope, through which he peers far into the unfathomable depths.
There are times when, through the influence of passion, he for a little time lays aside his oratorical embellishments. We remember one such occasion. He had just finished sawing a pile of wood, when a student, who was looking from a window, told him there was one stick which he had not sawed, and taunted him with intending to purloin it. Instantly his countenance became livid with rage, his lips separated, showing a fine dental formation, and he exclaimed in pure Anglo-Saxon:—
"You're a liar. You lie."
The student, perceiving from Bill's descent to the vernacular of common men that his ire was roused, abjectly and unqualifiedly apologized.
"Well," said the orator, threateningly, "you'd better take that back. I've sawed wood more'n thirty year, an' no man ever 'cused me o' stealin'." Then gradually becoming good-natured, he added, "Crucifixin' yourself in the observatories of life in the gray dawn over your jewelry. No sir, I never stole nothin'. You do. You'd steal if you wan't afraid to. Ottah!"
We regret to be obliged to chronicle one incident that would seem to indicate something of malevolence. The impartial historian, however, must not shrink from the full performance of his duty.
Another of the notables of this region, of sable lineage, called, on account of a peculiar propensity to split two-inch planks with his head, "Abe Bunter," not long since honored the students of this institution with a series of calls for the purpose of soliciting money to purchase for himself a bovine, to replace one providentially taken from him. His success may he inferred from a remark let fall by Bill, accompanied by a demoniac chuckle:
"Say, old Abe Bunter's round with an inscription, an' he hain't got a cent."
Like all great men, Bill has his eccentricities. Fresh meat, and, indeed, meat of any kind except pork, he abominates. Beefsteak, especially, is an object of indescribable aversion. Untold wealth would not suffice to induce him to partake of it. This repugnance is due partly to a fear of being choked with bones, and partly to a scorn of its tenderness. The physical weaknesses of students he attributes entirely to their consuming so much of it. Viewed from his standpoint, perhaps students are effeminate, for he possesses the strength of brass, and an amount of endurance astonishing to contemplate.
His ordinary working-hours are from six in the morning till six at night; but, when business presses, he rises, like the virtuous woman, while it is yet night, and brings down on his devoted head the anathemas of various students by commencing his day's sawing under their windows at the moderately early hour of one A.M. He is a living proof of the utter and irreclaimable falsity of the idiotic doggerel:
"Early to bed, and early to rise, Makes a man healthy, wealthy, and wise."
Last summer, however, during the heated term, he was obliged to come down to the limit of ordinary mortals, as he feared that the influence of the sun's rays would bring about a degeneration of the Ottah and Verdigres in the brain, and result in an explosion of the blood-veins. By careful sanitary precautions he was enabled to avoid this fearful malady and preserve his physical well-being.
He can, and will, for the comparatively slight sum of twenty-five cents, hold his breath for five minutes. He, himself, asserts that he can do it for seven minutes, but that the doctor advised him against doing so, as it might produce a fusion of the Ottahs.
His costume is at once serviceable and unique. It usually consists of from two to five shirts, and three pairs of pantaloons. He never was known to wear the same hat or pair of boots all day. Occasionally he dons a vest, and, at rare times, a coat. In stature he is below the medium height; nevertheless, his appearance is eminently imposing and prepossessing. His countenance is rather oblong, and wears an expression that is a singular mixture of profound gravity and fearful earnestness. His eyes resemble those of some species of fish, and are set under curiously wrinkled brows that nearly conceal them.... Such is Bill Pratt, honest, cheerful, and industrious, the maligner of no man. His sturdy figure long holds a place in the memory of every student; his photograph decorates every student's album. Without him our college would be incomplete. Esteemed by all for his unfailing integrity and industry, laughed at by all for his oddities, he remains ever the same. We trust that the day is far distant when he will be among us no more, and when the college walls shall cease to echo his chaotic and ungovernable eloquence.
Fair Phrygian Attis, loved of Cybele, Fired with the service of her awful shrine, Had wandered far before his restless soul Along the gleaming sand-line of the beach. At last he came to a deep shaded nook, Where giant trees thick wreathed with twisting vines Clomb the steep hills on every side but one, And rimmed the sky with a green fringe of leaves.
But toward the south wide open to the shore It seemed a lap, wherein the sun and sea Together lay warm in each other's smiles. Down the steep sides a little babbling brook Leapt with low laughter, fleeing from itself, Then, wid'ning out into a lucid pool, Crept slowly seaward through low banks of fern. Here, stretching his bare limbs upon the sward, He watched the water falling down the rocks.
His jetty hair, curled loosely on his head, Fell down upon his shoulders glistening white, The rounded symmetry of breast and limb, And the rich color of his sensuous lips Almost belied the down upon his cheek. No uncouth garments hid his perfect form, Nor marred its grace, but, naked like the gods, The ruddy sunlight bathed him in its glow.
So, as the day sank down the golden west, And the long index shadows toward the east Seemed telling of the morn that was to rise, A band of nymphs came past him where he lay Half-hidden in the grass, and to the pool Rushed with sweet rivalry and little screams To feel the water cold around their limbs. They saw him not, nor dreamed that mortal eyes In that lone glen were looking on their play.
Soon they passed on, save one who near the bank Had lain to rest till sleep stole eyes and ears. Then Attis rose and would have sought the shrine But when he saw the sleeper he stood still. He was too young to know the power of love When mighty Cybele from his far home— His home, which lay beyond the heaving sea, And which to think of even yet would bring The bitter tears into his dark-lashed eyes,— Had brought him as a priest into her fane, And bound him by an oath of dreaded wrath To be hers only, hers forevermore.
But years had passed since then, he was a man, And man's strong passion drove into his cheek The ruby symbol of its first felt power, As leaning o'er he gazed upon the nymph. She moved a little under the hot glance That burned from Attis' eyes upon her face, And seemed about to wake. Quick he drew back, Walking away a few steps towards the beach, Then turned to take one last look ere he went; She had not woke, her head lay on her arms, And her face looking toward him seemed to smile.
He could not go, he dared not longer stay, But stood and wished, and feared, and let his wish Conquer his fear; returning step by step Again he bent above her. Then, at last, The wrath of scorner Cybele forgot, He thought of nothing but his newfelt love.
Sudden she raised the lids, and her full eyes Looked straight upon him. Attis laid his hand Upon her arm to stay the flight he feared, Saying, "Fear not, 'tis only Attis, I, And 'tis my love that holds me here by thee."
She smiled back on him and her hand in his Thrilled with a touch that maddened through his veins; He bent down over her and all his soul Slid through his lips in one long burning kiss Which lovers only know.
Lo, Cybele, Her chariot, lion-drawn, grinding the sands, Stood awfully before them. Not a word Came from her lips, but her great angry eyes Dark with the wrath and vengeance of the gods Gloomed forth a hate no mortal could endure; Pale Attis looked in them but once, and then In frenzied madness fled along the shore.
CHARLES CUTHBERT HALL '72
My other self, my bosom friend, Thy faithful arm in mine enwinding, Let us fare forth amid the trees, Each in the other comfort finding. For though our boyhood be so near, Yet have we tasted grief and fear.
I feel upon my heart the weight Of things unknown, the dread of living, And thou, dear friend, canst strengthen me By thy heart's wondrous gift of giving; So, when life's strangeness frighteneth me, In perfect trust I turn to thee.
Thou dost not scorn my foolish fear, Nor e'er upbraid my dreamy thinking; Thou dost not brand me with contempt Because of all my frequent shrinking. Thou art a tower of strength to me, So let me walk awhile with thee.
Not all our hours are hours of dread: We know the hours of splendid hoping; When life's ongoing ways shine clear, And vision takes the place of groping; In those Great Hours I seek for thee To walk amid the trees with me.
How hath God made our lives as one, Knitting our fortunes up together In comradeship that welcometh The clearing or the lowering weather— The joy or pain—heart answering heart! Are we not friends till Death us part?
Then mount with me the rugged hill And let our thoughts go seaward soaring, Until in fancy's ear there sound The chime of surf, the tempest's roaring; And, by the sun-glint on the sea, We trace the years that are to be.
My other self, why bound by death The compass of our friendship's reaching? Why doubt the promptings of our hearts, Or falsify our spirits' teaching? Must not the friends beneath the sod Still walk amid the trees of God?
Literary Monthly, 1909
[Footnote 1: Died 1908.]
Sweetly the June-time twilights wane Over the hills of fair Lorraine,
Sweetly the mellow moonbeams fall O'er rose-wreathed cottage and ivied wall.
But never dawned a brighter eve, Than the holy night of St. Genevieve.
And never moonlight fairer fell, Over the banks of the blue Moselle.
Richly the silver splendor shines, Spangles with sheen the clustered vines,
And rests, in benediction fair, On midnight tresses and golden hair.
Golden hair and midnight tress, Mingle in tender lovingness,
While the evening breezes breathe upon Marie and Jean,—and their hearts are one!
"The spell of silence lifts at last, Marie, the saint's sweet day is past!
"Her vesper chimes have died away, Where shall we be on Christmas day?"
With answering throb heart thrilled to heart, Hand met hand with sudden start.
For in each soul shone the blessed thought, The vision fair of a little cot,
Nestled beneath the lilac spray, Waiting the blissful bridal day!
Low bowed in tearful silence there, Their hearts rose up in solemn prayer,
And still the mellow lustre fell Over the banks of the blue Moselle.
And still the moonlight shone upon Marie and Jean,—and their hearts were one!
Six red moons have rolled away, And the sun is shining on Christmas day.
Over the hills of fair Lorraine— Heaps of ashes and rows of slain.
Where merrily rang the light guitar, The angry trump of the red hussar
Flings on the midnight's shrinking breath, The direful notes of the Dance of Death!
Underneath the clustered vines, The sentry's glittering saber shines.
Over the banks of the blue Moselle, Rain of rocket and storm of shell!
Where to-day is the forehead fair, Crowned with masses of midnight hair?
A summer's twilight saw him fall, Dead on Verdun's leaguered wall.
Where, alas! is the little cot? Ask the blackened walls of Gravelotte!
Under the lilac broods alone A maid whose heart is turned to stone.
Who sits, with folded fingers, dumb, And meekly prays that her time may come!
Yet see! the Death-god's baleful star! And War's black eagle screams afar!
And lo! the Christmas shadows wane Over the hills of sad Lorraine.
And thou didst idly dream, Or, careless of thy action, think, To cast a veil o'er all the past And weld anew the broken link? Vain thought to weave anew the bond That thou didst ruthless sever; Know friendship often turns to love, But love to friendship never.
And love ne'er dies but when some hand Too careless of their mimic strife, Slow cleaves its tendrils from their hold, And hurls them down bereft of life. And love once fled can ne'er return, Nor in its stead can friendship stand, Nor twine again the tendrils frail, Nor e'er unites the broken band.
An early memory of my earliest youth.
There came into the village I called home A traveller, worn and faint. His garments held The alien dust of many a weary march; None but a child would e'er have thought the man A thing to look at twice, much less adore. But unto me, child that I was, the look In his large pleading eyes seemed so divine, The massive brow so free from thought of earth, The curves of his sad mouth so tremulous With more than woman's love and tenderness, And in each word and act such gentleness, That the quaint thought possessed and held my mind, That by some strange hap an angel soul, As penance for some small offense in heaven Had been compelled to traverse in this wise Our darkened world. And not alone his look Which made his rusty vesture fine, nor yet Alone the birds which fluttered round him as He were a friend, led to the same belief— But he with other men had naught in common. They called him fool and idiot, jibed at him And at his rags, and mocked his lofty air So far above his low condition. And yet unto their jeers he never word Replied, nor ever seemed to know that they About him crawled; but fixing his great eyes Upon the sunset slopes, while mirrored in His face was seen the battle in his heart Of hopes and fears, he rather breathed than spoke Such words as these, except that his had soul: "At length, O weary heart, it seemeth me The rest is near. The air seems full of promise; My eyes are fixed on what they cannot see; My ears are filled with whispers not quite heard. All things seem waiting as to hear good news. The western breeze hath messages for me; The western hills lean down and beckon me. It must be, sure, because, it must be so, That just beyond those hills, O heart, there doth Await us both the rest we long have sought." They told him that the world was round, and so It could not be that all this journeying Should e'er do more than bring him back to us, If he through weary years should persevere. "I know," he quick replied, "the world is round To railroads and canals, and yet I do Believe," and, voicing o'er his hopeful creed, And striding on, he soon was lost to view.
We heard of him as passing through the towns To west of us; but soon he was forgot By all except myself and one poor maid Whom much love led astray. And soon she paid The debt of Nature, not as doth befit Such payment dread, but, maddened by cold looks, She, sporting with dank grasses in a pool, Gave back to God the life His creatures scorned, And breathed in death moist prayers to heaven.
Never Since then hath any mention of the man Reached me. Nor have I ought on which to rely Except a dim remembrance. Yet in me A fixed belief hath taken root, and grows With growing years,—that, far beyond those hills I' the west, upon high plains, among his peers, The fool hath long been deemed philosopher.
BALLADE OF THE HAUNTED STREAM
EDWARD G. BENEDICT '82
Like some fair girl who hastes to meet her swain, Yet hesitates each step with maiden fear, So the still stream glides downward to the main, Pausing at times in fern-set pools,—and here, Where bend the willow branches to the clear Deep pool beneath, and where the forest hoar Seems whispering old tales of magic lore, They say by night the fairies dance in glee, And on the moss beside the curving shore The Queen of Elfland holds her revelry.
From beds in purple buds where they have lain Until the mystic midnight time drew near, To chimes of hare-bells and the far-off strain Of forest melodies, the elves appear In all the gorgeousness of goblin gear. With brilliant dress the golden-beetle wore, With scarlet plumes the humming-bird once bore, They come in troops from every flower and tree, And 'round the fairy throne in concourse pour,— The Queen of Elfland holds her revelry.
Yet mortal eyes see not the goblin train Whose bells sound faintly on the passer's ear,— Who dares attempt a secret sight to gain Feels the sharp prick of many an elfin spear, And hears, too late, the low, malicious jeer, As long thorn-javelins his body gore, Until, defeated, breathless, bruised, and sore, He turns him from the haunted ground to flee, And murmurs low, as grace he doth implore, "The Queen of Elfland holds her revelry!"
Sweet mortal maid, that fairy world of yore Has vanished, with the midnights that are o'er; Yet come and sit beside the stream with me, That I, beholding thee, may say, "Once more The Queen of Elfland holds her revelry."
HERBERT S. UNDERWOOD '83
When the forest flames in crimson and gold, While the sinking sun seems a molten mass, And a beautiful blaze is all the wold,
The sumach flashes, a banner unrolled, And yellow-clad boughs glow like burnished brass, When the forest flames in crimson and gold.
What secrets the listening leaves are told, As strollers along worn wood-paths pass, And a beautiful blaze is all the wold!
In the gay, glad light grow wooers bold, For there's brightness e'en in the dark morass, When the forest flames in crimson and gold.
And when she is gently coaxed and cajoled, The hues find mirrors in cheeks of the lass, And a beautiful blaze is all the wold.
But still is there one who remains e'er cold In the glow of the Indian summer; alas! When the forest flames in crimson and gold, And a beautiful blaze is all the wold.
O'er the deep sighing sea, Mirrored as dreams of thee, Stars watches keep. Wavelets laugh soft and free, Calling my love to me; The world's asleep.
Far from the day's dull care, Into the moonlight fair, Our boat shall speed; Songs floating on the air, Haste we with music rare, Where Love would lead.
Life's but a transient dream; All things that are or seem, Breathe but a day. Come, eyes that on me beam, Leave what ye sorrow deem, While yet ye may.
IN HOLLAND BROWN
SANBORN GOVE TENNEY '86
In holland brown she stands to greet Me as I come adown the street, The sunlight falling on her hair Leaves warm caresses gently there— A picture with true grace replete!
The roses twining round her feet Breathe gentle fragrance rare and sweet, She sings a merry rustic air— In holland brown.
O years that fly so swift and fleet! O storms that 'gainst her window beat! Keep her from harm and tears and care! That future years may find her where In days of June we used to meet, In holland brown.
SANBORN GOVE TENNEY '86
Many years have left their shadows on the pathless flow of time; Many bards have with soft music sung their lays of ancient rhyme, Since the day when rosy Hylas plunged into Scamander's wave, Since the am'rous Naiads bore him where no human arm could save.
On the waves swift Argo rested; scarce a ripple stirred the sea, While across the Dardan meadows sighed the breezes soft and free; Then the sun, in golden splendor, sank into a sea of flame, Darkness o'er the blue hills rested; yet no fair young Hylas came.
For the water nymphs had loved him, when they saw his beauty rare, And with yielding lips caressing, they entwined him with their hair, Till they bound him, still entreating, with this soft and silken chain, Till they drew him 'neath the waters, whence he ne'er should come again.
Then the moon, a crescent jewel, edged the clouds with silver light, While they sped like shallops sailing, swift-winged messengers of Night. And the stream, dark-hued and somber, sighed in surges on the shore, Gently sighed among its rushes, "Hylas! Hylas!" o'er and o'er.
Yet no voice replied in answer, tho' the sighing louder grew, Tho' with sorrow bowed the flowers and their tears were drops of dew; No sweet echo breaks the silence, tho' the heart may hope and yearn, O'er the stream a realm of quiet, on the shore the empty urn.
SAMUEL ABBOTT '87
The mellow light steals o'er its silent strings, That catch the sound of some far sylvan strain; Such fantasie as thrills the poet's brain, Or Morpheus, floating 'neath the pale stars, brings.
And list! Divinely, on its own sad wings, It sings a wondrous pitiful refrain, Methinks some soul with aching grief is lain— That moans and dies with broken murmurings.
The voice is hushed, the lights are low and spent; The dancers bid farewell, with tired feet. Too few, I ween, this thing of wood has meant A tenth part what its harmony, so sweet, Has told to me. 'Mid joy, the sorrows greet The wanderer, their hearts by weeping rent.
ELBRIDGE LAPHAM ADAMS '87
Dim, distant, tinkling chimes, That summoned men in olden times To pray the Virgin grace impart; Ye solemn voices of a day gone by, Whose mystic strains of melody Alike touched peer and peasant's heart: Your music falters in the fleeting years, Yet still comes faintly to our ears, Saved by a master's cunning art.
Literary Monthly, 1885.
A SUMMER AFTERNOON
HENRY D. WILD '88
In the country, with a soft, calm, hazy afternoon to keep you company! To feel that Nature and yourself have moods in common, for you are lazy and Nature is lazy, too, and blinks sleepily at you from filmy, dreamy eyes that open and shut with your own in a sort of drowsy rhythm. What more delightful than to yield yourself entirely to the present mood and wander off somewhere, aimless except to see and feel? The trim soberness of the dusty road with its gray windings and vistas of sand-ruts becomes less matter-of-fact at length, and so you leave it to itself, and seek a path that leads to the heart of Nature and far from ways of men. Down grassy slopes and over little hillocks that pique your curiosity by shutting out the view of what is coming next; now skirting the edge of a furrowed potato-patch, and now sauntering down cool lanes of corn, listening to the breezy lisping of the long, green leaves that flap you softly in the face; now across a moist spot where a spring bubbles forth, apparently only to nourish a family of cowslips, and so on and on until you break the stillness of a shady wood as your feet keep alternate time among the heaps of leaves whose rustling is varied by the occasional noise of crackling twigs. The damp air, freshened by contact with trickling drops and oozy bogs, and perfumed with spicy cedar, soothes and cools. Yonder lies prostrate some mighty giant of the forest, victim of a ruthless storm, grim with decay and raising a vertical base of black sod and tangled roots torn from the earth where a gaping wound shows its former place. Here a rock, moist with swamp-sweat, lichen-covered and set in moss. There a clump of thick-grown cedars, deep shelter for the timid rabbit. All is noiseless, breathless. Not even the squirrel chatters, for it is not long past noon. But farther on comes a dull, low murmuring, scarcely to be heard at first, so nicely does it fit this gentle monotone of silence, yet soon filling the trembling air with overtones that rise and fall and swell again in varying chords. It is the river. A few steps more and you are there, and beside the stream in a fragrant bed of ferns, with one hand caressing the delicate tresses of the maidenhair, and the other dipped among the ripples, you give yourself up, half dozing, to thoughts of the long ago and the far away that seem to float up from the past along the dim windings of the stream. The sun makes dancing spots of dark and light between the fluttering leaves, and throws a changing shadow upon yon deep pool, where a grand old beech, festooned with clematis, leans its gray trunk far over as if to bless the stream whose waters, bubbling swiftly over the pebbles a little higher up, calm themselves here to rest in peace. The wood-thrush sends its plaintive, solitary note of silver-globuled melody from the inmost forest. No other sound, save when a wagon now and then rolls its quick rumble across a bridge, and then is gone like some self-conscious intruder. But luxury like this is the very thief of time. Before you are aware the waves of heat have ceased to form a throbbing air-hive for humming insects, and the cool of early twilight has come on, attended by lengthening shadows. And so home again along the dewy fields, while an orchestra of crickets chirps a happy end beneath the summer stars to the day that is done. It is in ways like this that poets renew their souls, the old their youth, and weary hearts, in sweet release from care, gain strength for life.
Literary Monthly, 1887.
GEORGE L. RICHARDSON '88
There are strange complications in it all, This life of ours—had I fourfold the wit That as his share to any man doth fall, I fear me that I could not fathom it.
This sorrow bringing laughter, and joy tears, Conflicting things we cannot understand; This constant longing for great length of years, That brings but weary limb and feeble hand;
Eyes that are dim, and saddened, lowly life; These hot-waged wars, squalid with cries of pain, This joy in contest and this thirst for strife, In which both suffer, and there is no gain;
Strong love that ere long turns to stronger hate, Sin leading into good, good into sin— In very truth do lambs with tigers mate. The world is wide, and strange things are therein.
ON BRYANT'S "THANATOPSIS"
GEORGE LYNDE RICHARDSON '88
A great thought came to a great singer's heart, Out of the grandeur of the changeless hills— A thought whose greatness e'en in our day fills Men's minds with nobler feeling. All his art He lavished on the poem that he wrought, That it might be, through all the years of time, An inspiration, to all men, sublime, And nor for fault of his hand come to naught. So it hath been. The singer lieth dead; His words live on. And still the mountains stand, And all men say who know them, in that land— And through all ages, it will still be said— Not gold that perisheth, from deep-hid veins, They give us, but the thought that aye remains.
Literary Monthly, 1887.
TALCOTT M. BANKS '90
Come, friend scholar, cease your bending Over books with eager gaze; Time it were such work had ending,— Well enough for rainy days. Out with me where sunlight pours, Life to-day is out of doors!
Busy? Pshaw! what good can reach you Frowning o'er that dog-eared page? Yonder rushing brook can teach you More than half your Classic Age. Banish Greeks and Siren shores, Let your thoughts run out of doors!
Rest we here where none can spy us, Deep in rippling fields of grass; Scented winds blow softly by us, Lazy clouds above us pass; Higher yet my fancy soars— All my soul is out of doors!
Literary Monthly, 1888.
[Footnote 1: Copyright, 1907, by T.M. Banks. With permission.]
THE BACKWARD LOOK
TALCOTT M. BANKS '90
Once on a bright October day, I took the road whose winding track Leads up among the hills away Across Taconic's shaggy back, Leaving the valley broad and fair For barren heights in upper air.
At last I stood upon the crest; The ruddy sun was sinking low, And all the country to the west Lay flooded with a golden glow— A fairyland of misty light, Unsullied by the touch of night.
I turned, and lo, a sudden change Had swept across the valley's face. The shadow of Taconic's range Had fallen on the lovely place; And darkness followed thick and fast Behind the shadow as it passed.
Since then the changeful years have flown Till now once more I seem to stand Upon the mountain top alone, And look abroad upon the land. But all before is gray and dim, Half-hidden in the cloud-wrack grim; While in the Berkshire valley stays The light that dawned in happier days.
Literary Monthly, 1893.
[Footnote 1: Copyright, 1907, by T.M. Banks. With permission.]
ARTHUR OLIVER '93
If all the stars were gems, love, And all those gems were mine, I'd give them in exchange, love, For that dear heart of thine. But, since the stars so bright, love, Are neither gems nor mine, What can I do, but sigh and rue My luckless lot, and pine, And gaze on high, where night winds sigh, Across thy lattice vine?
If all the little birds, love, That twitter 'mid the dew, Could sing in words and tell, love, The love I bear to you, They would not end their song, love, The night's long vigil through; But all the wings that morning brings Would soar amid the blue, And float along on waves of song, With carols sweet and new.
Literary Monthly, 1893.
FREDERICK D. GOODWIN '95
Placed 'midst the city's busiest life, Not a stone's throw from the deadly strife Of the metropolitan mart, Old Trinity stands; her spire, like a hand, Points ever upward; her chimes demand From the hardened world a heart.
Clustered around her, buried, lie Many whose names can never die, Founders of their country's weal: Patriot churchmen, statesmen, soldiers, There they sleep who were its moulders; Sculptured stones their deeds reveal.
Trinity's self was new-born with the nation; Springing from ashes of desolation, She helped to forge posterity. Now she looks from her chosen station, At pageant, starvation, begg'ry, ovation, Results of her sons' prosperity.
Within, away from the din and crowd And the mendicants' cries and the laughter loud, Of Pleasure in hand with Youth, Is the silent yet eloquent reign of Peace And the utterance of words which shall not cease While the earth has a place for Truth.
When peal on peal the organ's voice Calls the assembled to rejoice For blessings unsurpassed, Or when its milder tones tell Grief, Then e'en Death's triumph is but brief, Old Trinity's charm but half is grasped.
Far sweeter it is in the twilights glim, When the symbolled altar is growing dim, And the wayward shadows dart, To watch the golden light stream in Each lofty window, as though all sin At its entrance must depart.
Saints' and martyrs' pictured graces, Illumined by these heavenly traces, Shine in blue and saffron and red; But in the sun's last traces, above their faces, Beam the eyes which no might from the soul effaces, And the Christ's mock-crowned head.
Literary Monthly, 1894.
TWO TRIOLETS OF AUTUMN
KARL E. WESTON '96
'Neath fading leaves and dreary skies, A late-born rose burst into bloom And gazed about with sad surprise, 'Neath fading leaves and dreary skies; Let fall from Summer's bier, it lies In Autumn's pathway 'mid the gloom Of fading leaves and dreary skies, A late-born rose, burst into bloom.
Beside the ever restless sea Fair Autumn stands. With beckoning hand She hails the passing days, which flee Across the ever restless sea,— Their sealed ears hearing not the plea Which sea-winds waft from that fair land Beside the ever restless sea, Where Autumn stands with beckoning hand.
Literary Monthly, 1894.
ARTHUR KETCHUM '98
Adrift in taintless seas she dreaming lies, The island city, time-worn now, and gray, Her dark wharves ruinous, where once there lay Tall ships, at rest from far-sea industries. The busy hand of trade no longer plies Within her streets. In quiet court and way The grass has crept—and sun and shadows play Beneath her elms, in changing traceries; The years have claimed her theirs, and the still peace Of wind and sun and mist, blown thick and white, Has folded her. The voices of the seas Through many a soft, bright day and brooding night Have wrought her silence, wide as they, and deep, And dreaming of the past, she waits—asleep.
Literary Monthly, 1897.
THE GYPSY STRAIN
ARTHUR KETCHUM '98
It comes with the autumn's silence, When great Hills dream apart, And far blue leagues of distance Call to the Gypsy-heart.