Chapter V: Introduction (5)

The professor, forgetting his rheumatism, had advanced in two strides, and with one blow knocked the papers from her arms, so that they lay scattered on the floor.

There are wrongs committed against the sacredness of sentiment which cannot be put in words. The professor checked the torrent which rose to his lips: Jane would never understand. The only thing which she did comprehend was a strength in her brother of which she had never dreamed--not the strength of the worm which turns, but of the man who had endured because he wished to, and whose endurance was at an end.

"You never had a heart, did you, Jane?" he said finally. "The past is not sacred to you, and the present---well, the present does not count for much when one has no dreams--or visions.... I think, Jane, you had better go."

"Where?" she questioned vaguely. There was no asperity in her voice now, only puzzled helplessness. It was the inevitable surrender of the commonplace in the light of a greater understanding--in the realization of an unknown law to the significance of which some never attain. She had come inadvertently to a marriage feast for which she had no wedding garment; and she was naked and ashamed.

"Anywhere--anywhere; only go," said the professor. His thoughts were far away now.

"I shall not come back, professor--perhaps it is better," she said.

There was a new tone in her voice, and the professor turned sharply. Jane hesitated. Then he caught sight of a photograph lying among the letters on the floor.

"That, too," he murmured. He stood and looked at it; Jane passed out of the room.

Slowly and painfully the professor stooped down and gathered up his wife's letters and his wife's photograph. He sat down in the big plush chair by the fireside and thought for a long time. He was thinking of an old quotation from some Sanskrit poem--"Every yesterday a dream of happiness, every to-morrow a vision of hope--" That was all he could remember, but his mind said it over and over. Well, his yesterdays--the yesterdays of long ago--were dreams of happiness--he had no visions; to-morrow offered him nothing. After a while he took Mary's picture and looked at it. His dreams slowly settled to earth--and he began to adjust his perspective. It was a long, long time since he had even remembered--since the dream had been more than a vague light shining through the mist. Now he wondered, as he stared at the pictured eyes, so laughingly helpless, at the chin, so characterless, at the pretty mouth from which no word worth listening to had ever proceeded--wondered whether the light was other than a reflection from Youth's glamour. Then he took up the letters and read them one by one. He wondered why they seemed so shallow--why he had never noticed their irresponsible dancing from light to shade, from light affection to unreasonable and trifling fretfulness. The last letter he held in his hand for some time after he had read it. It was written from a summer resort. "You had better not come down," it read, "you would just spoil the delightful little time I am having with Mr. Sanders--so stay at home with your books like the dear old bore you are. Please send me ..." He remembered how it had hurt. He remembered shortly afterwards how she had been taken ill, and how she had chafed and feared, and how the dark had taken her while she cried in terror. He remembered--so much. He wished that he had not tried to remember.

It began to grow dark. The professor lifted the bundle of letters and the photograph, and placed them in the fire-place as carefully as if they had been burnt-offerings. Well, they were--to a dead Romance. The charred paper crumbled where he had laid the letters--a few black pieces floated drunkenly up the chimney. The fire had gone out long before. The professor fumbled in his pocket for a match. When he had found it he struck it on the brick hearth, but his hand trembled so that it burnt his fingers and he dropped it. He lit another, carefully, deliberately, and held it to the pile of papers. They caught, the edges blackened and curled; finally the whole mass blazed viciously. The photograph had fallen to one side and remained unburnt. He stooped over and placed it on top of the blazing papers; then it, too, burned.

A light flared from the gas jet, and the professor looked up. Jane stood there in her black travelling dress. Her eyes were red with tears.

"Good-bye, professor," she said. "I thought you wouldn't mind if ..." She hesitated. The professor thought she looked rather pitiful and thin and tired.

"No, Jane," he answered quietly. "You are not to go. I don't suppose you will understand, but my dreams have all gone--and the vision has come. And I need you, Jane."

"Then you forgive me?" she said tremulously. "I did not know ..."

"There is nothing to forgive, Jane. I did not know, either."

Jane broke down and the professor rose and put his arms around her, awkwardly, and kissed her. He had not kissed her in years. They sat down together before the hearth and gazed into the blackened ashes. He held her hand in his. Finally she spoke. She almost understood--

"Shall we have apple dumplings for supper, professor? The kind you used to like?" She was smiling now.

"No, Jane," he said gravely, "we'll have peach preserves."

_Literary Monthly_, 1909.

THE GOOD GREY POET

SONNET

EDWIN PARTRIDGE LEHMAN '10

All men must feel the beauty of a star
That rides in the illimitable space
Of heav'n; the beauty of an Helen's face;
Or of a woodland water, glimpsed afar,
Where haze-empurpled meadows, undefined
And slumbrous, intervene; of quiet, cool,
Sequester'd glades, where in the level pool
The long green rushes dip before the wind.

These all men feel. But three times blessed he
Whose eye and ear, of finer fibre spun,
Sense the elusive thread of beauty, where
The common man hath deemed that none can be.
The beauty of the commonplace is one
In substance with the beauty of the rare.

_Literary Monthly_, 1910.

A MINOR POET TO HIMSELF

SONNET

EDWIN PARTRIDGE LEHMAN '10

We lesser poets clothe in garb ornate,
In words of dizzy fire, in awkward phrase,
In humble thunderings, that only daze,
Though meant to rouse in flames of love or hate,
The thoughts that those brave souls of stuff divine,
Whose words breathe inspiration, have long since
In jewelled lines set forth. Where we bear hints
Of grape, they bear the ruddy full-pressed wine.

And yet the fire that thrills us is no less,
Nor coarser, than the fire that they, the great,
Have felt. Our pens are feebler; but the play
Of deep emotions, the fine stir and stress
That mark the soul's rare movements, are, in state,
Equal to those of lines that make men pray.

_Literary Monthly_, 1909.

HEARTS AND TARTS

AN OLD TALE RETOLD

DURR FRIEDLEY ex-'10

There was shouting and hand-clapping from all the gay company, and a shower of gay words for me when I had done with my singing; and my lord, greatly pleased, and prophesying that some day when I should be riper in years I might win the crown of peacock's feathers from the hands of the Princess Eleanor herself, bade me come on the morrow dawn to sing an alba under the casement of the bridal chamber. The bride, too, this new wife that had taken my own lady's place by my lord's side, she, come but yesterday from her thick-witted Bohemia, and whom, never loving, I might always truly pity, spoke me fair and besought me to make verses thenceforth in praise of none save her. I answered as best I might, but I fear me my speech came but falteringly, what with my heart beating against my ribs like the armor-smith's hammer, and the thought uppermost in my mind of the dark business yet to come that night, before the shame and wrong of it all might be righted--a black business that none but I in all that company wotted of.

So presently, when all the people made a noisy procession to see the bridegroom and the bride to their high chamber, I did not go among them, but stole apart in the shadow and tarried there until the serving-folk had ceased their scurrying about and the house had grown quiet in its besotted sleep. Then I crept back to a dark corner by the great hearth where the stone was warm to the touch and whence I might see if any passed along the hall. I was all alone there with the drained goblets, the withering garlands, and the gutted torches, not a soul abroad, and not a sound save the breathing of the dormant stag-hounds by the hearth, or the faint disputes of the rats over the pasty fragments on the table.

Sitting thus, I would go hot of a flash and then cold just as sudden. Fear? No, by Our Lady, but this was the first time I had ever had a finger in such a pie as this now baking, and the strangeness of it made me tremble. But fear, pah! Besides I was in the right, and does that not make the just hand steady and the pious eye true? I took up my lute and touching the strings so gently that I myself could scarce hear, I sang, soft as summer wind at even, so softly that none, not even the great hounds heard.

Sang I:

The vision tender
Which thy love giveth me,
Still bids me render
My vows in song to thee;
Gracious and slender,
Thine image I can see,
Wherever I wend, or
What eyes do look on me.

Yea, in the frowning face
Of uttermost disgrace
Proud would I take my place
Before thy feet,
Lady whose aspect sweet
Doth my poor soul efface
Leaving but joy and grace
In me to meet.

Who shall deny me
The memory of thine eyes?
Evermore by me
Thy lithe white form doth rise,
If God were nigh me
Still, in so sure a wise
Quick might I hie me
Into His paradise.

Thus I sang to the memory of my true lady, for it was the last song our brave Renaud had made for her before he rode away to Terre Sainte. So when the song was finished I sat a long time still, taking counsel with my sad heart over the black past: how, four May-times ago, I had ridden blithely forth as singing page in my lady's train, when she left her own fair land of Aragon to be wedded to this grim Count Fael of the North; how from that time forth I had dwelt here in his castle, vassal to him only because he was lord to my liege lady, but fearing alway his stern face, that froze the laugh on the lips and made joyousness die, stillborn; how my sole happiness had been to serve my lady and sing her such songs as I made, and my grief to see her fair face fade and her grey eyes grow less laughing day by day. Then one morning had come this brave Renaud, Chatelain of far-off Coucy, seeming to bring in his eyes, his voice, his lute, all the merry Spring times we had missed. So he came often and often, teaching me the great art of song he knew so well; and we were all very happy. But bye-and-bye he came only when my lord was out a-hawking or to tourney, and then very quietly, but always with his lute and with song to my lady. I guessed well which way the wind was blowing, but surely the pitiful Virgin granted my lady, and justly, this one little hour of happiness. So it went on and on for a long time and it seemed that my lord was always away to hunt or to battle, and that when he came back the songs of Renaud of Coucy never ceased, but only changed their place, coming now by night under my lady's casement.

Then there was spread abroad through the land this great fire in all hearts to go to Terre Sainte and to deliver the holy Jerusalem of Our Lord from the curse of the Saracen hand, and our poor Renaud must feel himself among the first to go. So one sad morning at early dawn he had come under my lady's window and sung her that farewell which so filled my heart, and I had heard from my post in my lady's antechamber. But oh, Mother of God! so had my lord, who, being at home and sleepless, had risen betimes and was walking in the cool of the morning on a little pleasaunce next my lady's tower, and hearing the song, had looked unseen at the singer, had guessed the bitter truth, but had held his peace till a riper time.

From then we went on much as before Renaud had come to us, except that I sang his songs to my lady with all the art he had taught me, while she sat pale and fair, her hands idle on the tambour frame and her eyes looking on something far, far off. So for a long time there was no ill-hap, only my lady's eyes grew dreamier and dreamier and her thoughts dwelt less and less in this dark Castle of Fael, and she cared no longer to go a-maying in the pleasant meadows with her women. Then, one twilight, when my lord had been back from the hunt three days, and when there had been deep wassailing in the hall, and my lady had kept to her chamber the whole time--one twilight I stumbled over a dead man at the foot of the little-used stair to my lady's tower and, dragging the body to the light, found it to be Jaufré that had been aforetime esquire to Renaud. But why he should be lying here scarce an hour dead, here in fair France in this Castle of Fael under my lady's tower, when he might have been serving his master in all the blithe fighting in Terre Sainte,--I could not guess. But I raised not hue nor cry for, certes, there was some black mystery here; only wept silently and prayed mercy on his soul that had been so brave and so merry a fellow. After a while, when my eyes were less red, I went and mingled among the folk in the hall, where there was talk of how my lord had passed through to his chamber an hour ago, very pale and with the wine-fumes all cleared away, it would seem, and had let call the cook, who came back with something under his apron and looking as if he had seen a spirit, but dumb as a stone. Also, said they, my lord had commanded that he and my lady would sup alone in her great chamber, and that I only should serve them.

So presently I went up and served my lord and my lady where they sat at a little table alight with many tapers, like the shrine in the great church at Soissons, with the goblets and the silver dishes making a brave show among them. There was a strange air over it all, like the breathless moment in a tourney when the tucket has blown and the knights pause before giving spur. My lady, when she spoke at all, spoke in a voice as of some one stifling, but my lord said never a word and ate and drank but little, his eyes always on my lady's face. Bye-and-bye up came two little meat pasties, borne by the fat cook himself, who charged me with a certain one for my lady and another for my lord. I thought nothing whatever on this, for often there was special pasty made for my lady without hare's meat, which she disliked. So I served the pasties, and I remember the faint sweetness of her garments, like wind from apple-blossoms, and how yellow was her hair and how clear her face in the light of the many tapers. That course, too, they ate in silence, but before I could take away the dishes, my lord broke the stillness.

"Lady," quoth he, "is the flavor of this pasty pleasing to thy palate?"

"Ay, sir," spake my lady, "it hath a piquant savor I have not met before."

"Lady," said he, "it is fashioned of passing good meat and rare, so rare that I doubt thou wilt ever enjoy its like again. For far countries have contributed to its making, with spices from Araby and Cathay, and corn from Egypt, and citron from Spain, and from the Terre Sainte there is, minced into very little pieces, the heart of that noble sieur Renaud, the worshipful Chatelain of Coucy. His esquire I haply intercepted with a dagger on his way to thy chamber with his dead lord's heart in a silver casket as a gift for thee."

For a while my lady did not move, the gold chalice closed in her delicate fingers half-way to her lips; then with one little breathless sob such as the hare gives when the fangs of the hound are about to close upon her, she, very slowly, set down the goblet, and, just as slowly, rose to her feet, her face the grey-white of the pearls at her throat.

"Messire," said she, and her voice was clear and steadfast, but very faint, like a bell tolling afar off in the deep forest, "messire, thou hast done me great honor in this feast, and on none daintier, I wot well, sup the Blessed Saints in Paradise. But since such viand has consecrated these my lips, it is only seemly in me to take vow never to let other pass them, the which I swear by the blood of Holy Jesu."

Then, swift as thought, she fled from the great chamber into her closet, where she was wont to pray, swung the door to behind her, and slid the bolt. At that sound up sprang my lord and let cry a great shout, so that all the serving-folk rushed in with great hubbub and stood stricken and panting, while my lord called thrice at the door. But no answer came therefrom, and the great room was very, very still; until at last the people were commanded to beat down the door. Then all the folk crowded close together to peer within, spoiling the table of its waxen tapers to cast light into the darkness, and there, O Kind Mother of God, lay my lady all in a little huddled heap before the shrine, an empty vial in her hand, and the breath departing from her body. Then came her women with low sobbing and laid her on her bridal bed and began to make ready the grave clothes.

From that time I had lived on here in the castle of the black shadow, the better that I might do honor to my lady's memory and bring surer retribution on him that had been my lord, for, certes, I, vassal to my lady alone, no longer owed allegiance to her murderer. Now at last was come my chance on this night when he had brought him home a new wife to take the place of her that was but a little while in earth. Poor ladies, both! and if the thought that the blessed Jesu was merciful sometimes made me falter, the thought that Messire God was just, and that I might be the unworthy instrument of His justice, made my purpose burn within me like a new torch. Thus the long night drew near its ending, and the great logs in the fire had turned to coals when the appointed hour came. I stole in shadow from the hall, my heart pounding, but my purpose very steady, and passed silently through passages and corridors where here and there lay one in besotted sleep, until at last I came out in a little court by the postern. The warders were long since guzzled to a torpor in their quarters, so there was neither let nor hindrance when I slid the bolt and welcomed in Avenging Justice in the shape of him who stood without, my old lord of Aragon, uncle and protector to my lady. We met with silent greeting as his picked men of arms filed in after him till the little court was full; then some were despatched to possess the guard quarters and the drunken soldiery, others to stand watch over the serving-folk.

After I had pointed them out the way to the high chamber where Fael lodged that night, I stood watching as they went in silent file up the stone stair. Then I turned and passed out by the postern and down the hill to the encampment of my countrymen. I knew that behind me Justice was taking her relentless course and that I had been her minister.

_Literary Monthly_, 1908.

TO KEATS

SONNET[1]

JULIAN PARK '10

Where, where is Ganymede? Where are the fair
That graced the tales of Ilium years agone?
Where are the visions of earth's aureate dawn,
When the wing'd bearer bore Jove's nectar rare,
When Naiads laughed and wept and sunned their hair
At sun-kissed pools, deep-recessed, where the fawn
And satyr sought the sloping cool-cropped lawn,
And glimpsed the gods and lurking maidens there?
Where now is Ganymede, and where is Pan?
Where is fair Psyche, where Apollo brave?
Are they all fled, affrighted at the span
Of centuries? Or sunk beneath the wave
Of solemn Lethe? No, rare poet; when
I scan thy pages they all live again.

_Literary Monthly_, 1907.

[Footnote 1: Copyright, 1908, by Julian Park.]

MORTAL VERSE

WILLIAM HUTCHESON WINDOM '11

The muse of poetry is a lady of many whims. Fancy, not reason, seems to determine her actions. She loads the untutored ploughman with the most lavish gifts, while the scholar sits neglected in his study. She places a golden crown on the brow of the slave and flings a tasselled cap at the master. And yet the fool's raiment is worn with as serious and dignified mien as is the kingly crown. She is a malicious person, and while she keeps a straight face before you, it is a hundred to one that she winks behind your back. To be most trusted when she is most deceitful, that is her role.

Very few of us have not at some time come under her spell. The most guiltless-looking has somewhere in the lower drawer of his desk or at the bottom of the tin box where he keeps his old papers, a manuscript, which he at times, half tenderly, half contemptuously, lifts out, after making sure that no prying eye is near. _He_ has caught the muse winking. Were he still illusioned, that poem would never have wasted its aesthetic fragrance within such close confines. It would have been most neatly printed in calendar form and sent to appreciative friends.

But though the majority of us have become chary of the muse, there are some who have never seen through her trickery. To this unfortunate class belonged a certain Mrs. Simons--her real name is charitably withheld--who found that she could gratify a moody disposition, of which she was the unhappy possessor, by writing verses. No one appreciated them, but, far from dampening her enthusiasm, it afforded her a sort of bitter joy, that considerably increased her already large number of available themes. Her poems now proclaimed that she, Mrs. Simons, was singing to stocks and stones; no one would listen, and her tender nature would soon succumb to this unwarranted neglect. But triumph would come, when, as a cold corpse, she would lie in an open grave, with all her formerly unsympathetic friends and relatives weeping and wringing their hands at the sad spectacle. Alas, their grief and contriteness of heart would be too late. The little word which might have saved her from this early death, now spoken, would fall on deaf ears. At last her verses would be read and their gloomy prophecy would fill the world, ever afterwards, with remorse. But Mrs. Simons did not wilt away and die like a flower deprived of water and sunshine. She could not overcome her naturally sound constitution, and, in spite of her wishes to the contrary, she lived to a ripe old age.

Verse demands, as a rule, serious, if not exalted, themes. It is strange how ambitious they sometimes are. I knew a young man who had never been especially fond of poetry and had never attempted to write it, until, one day, he had an imperative desire to test his powers in that line. And what was the modest subject that the tyro chose? A history of the earth from its birth "amidst the crash of worlds," through the countless centuries until, cold and dry, it affords no sustenance to life, and becomes a vast desert like the moon. The poem came to an abrupt end after "monsters huge" had appeared upon the scene, and, to my knowledge, was never resumed.

Among the many who have advertised their bigotry or their ignorance by publishing original compositions, for which it would be hard to find any suitable descriptive term, are two women, one of whom is well known. They are Julia A. Moore, self-styled "The Sweet Singer of Michigan," whose works are included by Dr. Crothers in _The Hundred Worst Books_, and a Mrs. L., a native of Rhode Island, but "by adoption a westerner," as she explains in her introduction. If it were a question of which had the less poetic merit it would be hard indeed to decide between them, but as to the sincerity of the one and the pomposity of the other, there can be no doubt. The Sweet Singer plays upon the strings of her own heart in a way that makes your eyes grow dim. She has moments of modesty, too, about her work that are very gratifying. But Mrs. L. is cold and egotistical; lifted so high above the ordinary plane of life, in her estimation, that no arrows of criticism can possibly reach her. The introduction to her book _Mariamne, Queen of the Jews, and Other Poems_, is concise and statistical. One can see that she has perfect self-confidence in her abilities.

"The authoress is a native of Rhode Island, but by adoption a westerner.

"Graduated from the Female College, Oxford, Ohio, when under the control of the Rev. John Walter Scott, D.D.

"Married and lived thirteen wedded years in Covington, Kentucky. Then, urged by her only brother, Levi L., a lawyer residing at M., Illinois, she removed (1870) to that city. Here she engaged in arduous and unremitting study, laboring to deserve the esteem of the gifted and cultured people with whom she had cast her lot. With the same laudable ambition that moves the man of business to be identified as successful in his life career, the writer, whose only wealth is the acquisition of knowledge and the cultivation of an inherited gift, comes before the public in a pursuit that has ever proved the animating ally of education and good breeding and the strong cordon of social refinement."

Her first poem, _Mariamne, Queen of the Jews_, has a footnote which contains this interesting, if rather incomprehensible, sentence:

"The reader must take the production with its stamp of originality, which is the plainer synonym of afflatus or inspiration."

Undoubtedly she successfully diagnosed the case.

Two passages from this remarkable poem, which is her most ambitious effort, will bear quoting:

"The swooping winds across the spicery snare,
The aromatic smells of redolent wood,
Camphor, cinnamon, cassia, are incense there,
And the tall aloe soaring into the flood
Of pearlaceous moonlight stimulates the air
Which scarcely soughs, so heavy with vesper scents;
The calamus growing by the pond, did spare
A spicey breath, with sweet sebaceous drents
Of nard, and Jiled's balsamic tree, balm sweet,
Were all which filled this estival retreat."

The other:

"The problem of Existence here when tried,
God remains God though matter returns to dust;
The fool can read this truth; but, if denied,
Does spirit return to be from what it came?
Is there reunition of love with God as at first?
The Brahmin trusts his soul even higher, its flame
Refines in th' Nirvana that absorbs its load,
Though this divine psychism seems lotus flowed,
Seems spirit inane as that on flowers bestowed;
Islamism prepictures the voluptuary's abode
Of Love unending: It is 'Love, love, love,'
Which souls have cried since eons began to move."

Now it is an infinite relief to turn from this inflated but would-be stately style to the homely diction of the Sweet Singer, as found in the _Sentimental Song Book_. Her book of verse is small and insignificant, and has not the prosperous, self-satisfied appearance of Mrs. L.'s volume, with its gold letters shining from a green cloth background. At the top of its paper cover the price is modestly given: 25 cents. Then is printed: "The Sweet Singer of Michigan Salutes the Public," with a likeness of the author directly beneath. She is depicted as a strong, masculine woman with heavy, black eyebrows, large, black eyes, and a mass of coarse, black hair tumbling over her shoulders in a way that makes one think that she has washed and sunned it, and has forgotten to put it up again. She wears a sort of crown or band at the top of her head. There is nothing in the homely face, with the squat nose and thick lips, that would betray sentimentalism, and yet those honest eyes were probably continually suffused with the tears for which her ultra-sensitive nature was responsible. Below her picture follows this simple introduction, without reference to any "laudable ambition," "acquisition of knowledge," or "cultivation of inherited gifts."

* * * * *

"Dear Friends: This little book is composed of truthful pieces. All those which speak of being killed, died or drowned, are truthful songs; others are 'more truth than poetry.' They are all composed by the author.

"I was born in Plainfield, and lived there until I was ten years of age. Then my parents moved to Algoma, where they have lived until the present day, and I live near them, one mile west of Edgerton.

"JULIA A. MOORE."

* * * * *

Among those pieces "which speak of being killed, died or drowned,"--and it was on these melancholy topics that she was at her best--are four poems which deal with the sad history of the House family. They seemed to have had the most abominable luck. When they couldn't get shot or induce the small-pox to hasten their departure from this world of care, they passed away for no reason at all. Somehow they just could not keep alive. Martin House is the first of whom she speaks. He enlisted with a friend in the federal army at Grand Rapids. The final stanza of "The Two Brave Soldiers" discloses their fate--

"It was down in old Virginia
Those noble soldiers fell,
In the battle of Hanover town,
As many a one can tell.
They fought through many a battle
And obeyed their captain's call,
Till, alas, the bullets struck them
That caused them to fall."

Hattie House had no reasonable excuse for dying, but she managed to fool her mother:

"Hattie had blue eyes and light flaxen hair,
Her little heart was light and gay,
And she said to her mother that morning fair,
'Mother, can I go out and play?'

"Her mother tied her little bonnet on,
Not thinking it would be the last
She would ever see her dear little one
In this world, little Hattie House.

"She left the house, this merry little girl,
That bright and pleasant day--
She went out to play with two little girls
That were about her age.

"She was not gone but a little while
When they heard her playmates call--
Her friends hastened there to save the child,
But, alas, she was dead and gone.

"Those little girls will not forget
The day little Hattie died,
For she was with them when she fell in a fit,
While playing by their side."

Lois House, however, did not have to resort to any subterfuge. The divine Providence spared her the trouble. She had just married an exemplary young man, who "had courted her a long time in triumph and glee," and

"They loved each other dearly and never deceived,
But God he did part them, one which he laid low,
The other He left with his heart full of woe."

The last verse almost has a touch of poetry in it:

"They placed her fair form in the coffin so cold,
And placed there Joy's picture as they had been told;
They bore her to her grave, all were in sad gloom,
And gently laid her down to rest in her tomb."

In "William House and Family" she disposes of them collectively:

"They once did live at Edgerton,
They once did live at Muskegon,
From there they went to Chicago,
Which proved their fatal overthrow."

Pathos evidently appealed to Julia A. Moore in a way that was not to be resisted. She was also very careful about facts. For instance, what could be more explicit than these lines from "The Brave Page Boys"?

"John S. Page was the eldest son--
Edward C. Fish was his brother-in-law;
They both enlisted in the Mechanic,
And served their time in the war.
Fernand O. Page was the second son;
He served in the Third Infantry;
He was wounded and lost both his feet
On duty at Yorktown siege."

Enos Page was rather unfortunate:

"In the Eighth Michigan Cavalry
This boy he did enlist;
His life was almost despaired of,
On account of his numerous fits,
Caused by drinking water poisoned--
The effect cannot outgrow;
In Northern Alabama, I hear,
Came this dreadful blow."

In "The Grand Rapids Cricket Club," one of the few poems that deal only with minor misfortunes, a certain player, Mr. Follet, tried a good remedy for a novel accident.

"And Mr. Follet is very brave,
A lighter player than the rest,
He got struck severe at the fair grounds,
For which he took a rest."

I could quote from the _Sentimental Song Book_ until I had entirely exhausted the material, and each verse would create a surprise. And yet, in spite of the grammatical distortions, in spite of the sentimentality, there is something pleasing in the absolute unaffectedness of the little book. That Mrs. Moore has been appreciated is borne out by the fact that when she travelled from town to town she used to be met at the station by a brass band or by a delegation of prominent citizens. Wherever she went she was humored, and her numerous friends vied with each other in showing her attentions. All this she took as a natural recognition of her genius, and happily was never undeceived. However innocent the _Sentimental Song Book_ may be of any literary value, the writer's sincere attempt to express her ideas are as plain as the face which embellishes the cover of the book. She was an ignorant woman, and her utter disregard of grammatical and poetic principles can be easily forgiven. But what can be said in behalf of Mrs. L., a graduate of the Oxford Female College, Ohio, when, in a piece entitled "Genesis," occurs this passage?

"Once, the stars the Lord has scattered
Bountifully on the sky,
Some soul thought they there were spattered
For an ornamental dye;
The huge Opalescent Concave
Wore the polish of a stone
Which the fracturing fires engrave
With a thunder-splitting tone;
And the things they claimed as sponsors
For the young religious thought
Were the things that were the monsters
Recently from chaos brought.
Then the tree inlaced in corsets
Laced some maiden in its arms,
'Twas a lover's trick, to toss its
Purgatories at her charms,
And the lilies in the shallows,
And the echoes 'mong the hills,
And the torrents in their wallows,
And the wind's great organ mills,
And the waters of the fountain,
And the mists upon the river
Had the gods who made a mountain
Of our cosmographic sliver."

Evidently they did not give as thorough a course in the pronunciation of French at the Oxford Female College as they do here at Williams. At least this deplorable fact is indicated by the first stanza of "La Fille du Regiment":

"Proudly marches on the nation
Which its patriots will defend,
But remains a loyal station
With its daughters to commend,
Cheerfully to send the heroes
Who are called to field and tent,
Cheers for those who hold the vetoes,
Vive la Fille du Regiment."

Shall we attribute it to a coincidence that Mrs. L.'s best poem strikes a very familiar chord? It is called the "River of Tears":

"The world is swept by a sorrowful flood,
The flood of a river of tears,
Poured from the exhaustless human heart
For thousands and thousands of years.
It is sweeping thousands and thousands of lives
On its currents, swift and strong,
O the river of tears for thousands of years
Has swept like a flood along."

Perhaps its poetic merit may be explained by the first few lines of Bryant's "Flood of Years":

"A mighty hand from an exhaustless urn
Pours forth the never ending flood of years
Among the nations. How the rushing waves
Bear all before them!"

--and so on. There is no need of continuing.

But why disturb the bones of poor Mrs. L., who is but one of the many thousands of contributors to mortal verse? May they rest in peace. She had her dream, and never woke out of it. Undoubtedly she was all the happier as it was. And now let the Sweet Singer raise her harmonious voice once more, and close this paper with the last stanza of her poem, "The Author's Early Life," which I think is the most beautifully extraordinary--since I cannot say extraordinarily beautiful--of the entire collection.

"My childhood days have passed and gone,
And it fills my heart with pain
To think that they will nevermore
Return to me again.
And now kind friends, what I have wrote,
I hope you will pass o'er,
And not criticise as some have done,
Hitherto herebefore."

_Literary Monthly_, 1910.

IN THE DONJON KEEP

GILBERT W. GABRIEL 1912

At first the darkness was impenetrable, black and choking. There was no sound, except for the occasional soft spatter of water that dripped to the stone floor from the mouldy ceiling. Then through a narrow, barred window came the moonlight in a mottled shaft of phosphorescent green, and licked its way across the floor, to the edge of the bier. It shone on two kneeling, crouching figures, and full on the face of the corpse.

The eunuch, a great, gaunt negro, lifted his head and showed his red, rolling eyes and his skin, gleaming like bronze in the moonlight. "He was my friend," he whimpered, bending over the loathsome dead. "He was my friend."

"Aye, aye," mused the jester, fingering the mildewed shroud, "and sooth, he was the finest mute that ever crooked a back in the Bohemian court. Famous he was, all hereabouts, to the marches of the northern sea."

"And so high was he in the king's favor and graces!" snivelled the eunuch. "They shall never find another such as he."

"True, true; and yet hast heard another must be found? The king has thus ordered: another mute must now be gotten to take his place--another just so strange." The jester bent over the face and shuddered. A few swift clouds sped across the moon, and caused the greenish shadows under the misshapen features to flicker and melt grotesquely. Then the light shone clear again and he saw the broken, twisted nose; and the eyes that stared obstinately from their split lids; and the gaping, grinning mouth that, years ago, the torturers had cut wide upon each seared and tattooed cheek; and the swollen, split lips that could not hide where once had been a tongue. He passed his hand along the shroud and lightly touched the ugly hump where the spine had been pressed and snapped, and the slanted shoulders and the twisted hips and legs. "Thou wast so laughable to all the court," he cried. "Thy bones were so comically broken. And now, another must be made for the court's delight, just so comical as thou. Aye, aye," and he sighed heavily, "Jesu have pity on the child's face of some young page or squire."

The iron door behind them swung suddenly open, and a captain of the palace guard clanked into the donjon. The flare of a spluttering flambeau, which he held in his hand, caused them to blink and shrink away, beyond its yellow circle. But he thrust it close to their faces with a cross oath. "Silence," he growled, "cease thy shrill chatterings. What dost thou here, foul black? By what right hast thou left thy post before the ladies' hall--before the chamber of the king's favorite?"

"He was my friend," the eunuch faltered. "I wished to pray for him that was my friend."

"Pray? To thy heathen gods?" Upon his coat of mail the captain thumped a vigorous sign of the cross. "Go, get thee back, lest aught should happen in thy absence. Thou knowest the penalty, both for thee and any gallant that dare pass the Lady Suelva's portal. Thou know'st the penalty," and he slapped his thigh with the flat of the halberd that hung from his girdle.

"Hush!" Faint from across the courtyard came a voice singing, a high fresh tenor voice. The black sprang to his feet and stood rooted in trembling horror. "From what corner of the yard comes that serenading?" thundered the captain. The jester rose to the window; he looked first out into the courtyard, then back at the eunuch, who stood picking nervously at his tunic; then out of the window again. "From below the Lady Suelva's chambers. See! Someone is climbing the winding steps of her balcony!"

"And Lady Suelva? Has she come out on the balcony?"

"I cannot see; a tilting-post stands directly in the way." In the furthest corner of the donjon, a dim black square disclosed an ugly trap leading down to the torture-room. To the trap-door the captain bounded, and from above, they could hear the thump of his feet on the creaking ladder. He was up again in an instant, chuckling viciously. "I found them all asleep, the old torturer and his two sons. But ho! they are awake now--I kicked them hard awake. They have much to do to-night." He stopped for a moment at the big iron door. "Wait here till I return," he commanded, and ran stealthily into the courtyard.

The eunuch fell to his knees again, and prayed jabberingly--this time for his own soul. The jester softly trod the length and breadth of the stone flaggings, and stopped to peer at the corpse and its face. "Jesu ha' mercy," he repeated ofttimes; "Jesu ha' mercy!"

The pulsating suspense broke with the reentrance of the captain. Over his shoulder was slung a dark, limp burden which he swung down and held out in the crook of his thick arms, as if it were a doll.

"Twas a tussle the young peacock gave me," he said thickly. "Look ye--I have lost my flambeau, but come to the window and take a squint at him." He held the figure up to the grating, to where the moon shone pale on its face and tumbled locks and over its gay-colored tunic, and lustered its silken hose.

"By St. Godfrey, what a handsome lad! Who is he?"

"Methinks he is a squire but lately come to court, so there'll be few to miss him, when the night's work is done."

The jester sighed. "So young he is and fair. See that great purple welt across his forehead."

"'Twas where I clubbed him senseless."

"And must thou torture him to death? Must he so surely die?"

"Aye, so run my orders. He will die--and thou too, black. Hold thou my burden, fool, whilst I undo my halberd!"

From the kneeling eunuch came a shriek and moan and incoherent jabbering. The captain cursed and stayed his uplifted arm.

"It is too dark to strike," he growled. "Wait till the moon is from behind that cloud. Ugh! It is black here, pitchy black." A full, heavy minute elapsed, disturbed by the scuffle of the negro's feet as he ran and cowered in the furthest corner, and the soft creaking of the iron door, and a sudden suck and soughing of the night air. Then the moon slipped slyly from its frayed woolly covers, and relit the donjon keep. "Holy God and Father," and the halberd clanked noisily to the floor. In the half open doorway stood the king's favorite, the Lady Suelva. Against the frosted green background of the moonlit courtyard her shimmering robe, her white face and throat, and her long hair of flaming copper stood out gloriously. She did not move, but stayed peering through the unaccustomed gloom, as if to recognize the dark figures before her. The eunuch flung himself at her feet, and squirmed and grovelled. "Save me, lady save me!" But she thrust him from her with a sharp push of her foot.

The captain turned to the jester. "Take down thy burden," he whispered. "Down to the torture room with him."

But the lady heard and came forward. "No," she said imperiously, "lay him down upon the floor, and let me see what has been done with him."

The captain grumbled and swore under his heavy mustache. "Take him away, fool. Do as I bid!"

But the lady stepped between. "Stop! Let me see him." Her voice rose high and shaking; she was fast losing her stately calmness.

The captain sneered. "See him! And why? Have you not seen enough of him this night?"

"No, no! he was but singing to me!"

"Yet I found you with him on the balcony."

"I swear it," she repeated, "he was but singing to me."

The captain heaved his shoulders with so great a shrug that the ringlets of his coat of mail jangled and clinked. "I have my orders," he said, "which come from the king himself."

"The king?" She snapped her fingers. "And who orders the king? He would obey my slightest wish."

"No use, dame. Nor heaven nor hell could save this squire from his death. As for the eunuch, he will mayhap be spared, if thou so wish it. He is thy servant--and his life at thy command." The negro whined and moaned and crept to kiss her feet.

But Suelva flung herself back. "What care I for his foul black hide? 'Tis the young squire's life I crave."

"Then both must die."

"Mother Mary! But let me hold him in my arms." She tore the jester's burden from him, and staggering under its weight, turned to the middle of the room. Then she saw, for the first time, the bier and what it bore. She gasped, and let the squire's body sink in a huddled heap on the floor. "Who is it?" she asked, crossing herself. She looked closer. "Yes, I remember thee, fond old mute. Pha! but thou smellest of the grave. And why have they left thee lying here, this fortnight?"

From the dark corner came a stifled cry and piping gurgle. "My lady, oh, my lady!"

"How now, black; let go my skirt."

"Mistress, let me whisper close. He need not die, thy lover."

"Hast thou some scheme? Quick, tell it to me."

"First speak the word to let me live."

"Aye, we spare thy life--but haste!"

"He is but a young stripling; his bones are not yet set and hardened. Let him be made the king's mute."

The jester heard the words. He flung himself upon the eunuch, and grasping his throat, throttled him until his black face ran with shiny sweat and his great white eyes hung nearly from their sockets. "I feared that thou wouldst dare to speak of that--squealing coward--I might have known it." Again he whacked the woolly head against the pavement.

The captain dragged them apart. "Why so wroth, fool?" he asked. "Sooth, 'tis a wise plan, and one to save me a deal of trouble. For it was my special commission from the king to furnish a new mute. And since the lad must suffer, lady--come, by the Holy Tokens, I'll make a bond with thee. I'll spare his life, an' ye say nought of it to the king. I'll keep intact his pulse and true heart's beat; and thou, in turn, give me his lower limbs to twist and his doll's face to alter--only to alter slightly," and he laughed lewdly.

Lady Suelva moved to look at the dead mute; but the wily black had thrust himself before the face and hid its loathsomeness. "Do as he bids, mistress," he whispered. "Let thy lover live and love thee. Let him have life."

"And what a life!" cried the jester. "Oh, noble lady, be merciful and let him die."

"Would not the king or some one recognize him?" she asked.

"No," answered the captain; "he is but lately come to court--and anyway, there's none would recognize him after--"

"Might he not some day blurt out the truth?"

"Ho, you forget: mutes make safe lovers, for they have no tongues."

She recoiled. "True. And so, may he love me fearlessly in such a guise?"

"Aye, and thou him--that we promise thee."

She dropped to her knees, beside the unconscious squire. She took his head in her lap, and with her warm hands brushed back the locks from his bruised forehead. "He is so beautiful," she sighed, wavering. "It were a shame--"

"He would never be beautiful again," said the jester.

"Rather an ugly lover than a dead one," retorted the captain.

Lady Suelva fell to sobbing. "Canst thou not spare him altogether?"

"Nay! nay!" He stamped his foot impatiently. "And it were best to hurry."

"Only wait till he awakes from the hard blow thou gavest him. He will decide for himself."

"'Twill be by far less painful if done now."

"Then take him."

"Think well and long," said the jester. "'Tis a life of hell thou wouldst prolong him to. The jeers, the coarse and ribald laughter of the court, the scorn and teasing--aye--God! I know the life, for I too suffer as a courtier's play-thing--and yet, I have a straight body and a human face and a tongue to answer with. What canst thou offer him to compensate for all his loss and misery?"

She looked up proudly. "My love. Is it not enough?"

The fool bowed. "It must be, when kings crave for it. Yet beauty such as thine can only love the beautiful."

"Then I shall pity him--with all my heart's strength; I'll comfort his poor life with sweetest pity."

"Lady, pity is the meanest gate of love."

The captain growled and swung his halberd viciously. "Keep thy wit for the king's ear," he said. "The lady Suelva hath spoken her decision. We dally no longer." He bent down and lifted the squire's body over his back. Then he turned to the eunuch. "Take thou the old mute's corpse. I have kept his carcass these seven days; to serve as a pattern. So carry it down."

The black's eyes dilated again, and he shrank back. "I dare not touch it. He was my friend."

"Bah. Then take thou my load," and in exchange the captain slung the corpse across his own shoulders. As he crossed the room, the loose head showed upside-down over his back, bobbing and flabbily wagging its grin-split face.

The lady stared at it rigidly. She seized the jester's arm. "And is his face to be a counterpart of that one?"

"Aye--every feature exactly."

The captain threw open the trap-door and went down the ladder. The eunuch, staggering a little under the squire's weight, followed him and disappeared from view. Suelva ran forward a few steps as if to call them back; then she stopped short, hand at breast.

"'Tis too late," said the jester bitterly, and shut down the trap-door.

"God pity me," she sobbed. "I was too selfish of his life--and of his love."

"And now, be sure, he will do naught but hate thee!"

As if to spite her overwrought emotions, she turned on him sharply. "Thou art impertinent, fool."

He smiled sadly. "Unpleasant truths must ever seem impertinent--but they are no less true. An' I be the court fool, pray, noble lady, what art thou? We be all king's play-things--my wit and thy beauty and the mute's deformities. For all of us sweet life is slowly spoiled--for the mute and me by scorn and snickerings; for thee by the cold glitter of lavished finery and callous flattery. That squire, young and beautiful and bursting with ambition, was only a play-thing, too--thy toy, to dally with and break."

"Nay, nay! I loved him dearly and so shall for all time."