Chapter XIII: Act IV: , Scene I. Henry, with lute, singing (2)

_Petrarca._ Yes, little Sancia! and you, my friends!
Warm love is better, better!
And braver! Come, Lello! give me your hand!
And you, Filippa! No, I'll have your lips!

_Sancia._ (_interposing_). Or--less? One at a time, Messer Petrarca!
You learn too fast. Mine only for to-night.

_Petrarca._ And for a thousand nights, Sancia fair!

_Sancia._ You hear him? Santa Madonna! pour us wine,
To pledge him in!

_Petrarca._ The tankards bubble o'er!
(_They go to the table._)
And see, they are wreathed of April,
With loving myrtle and laurel intertwined.
We'll hold symposium, as bacchanals!

_Sancia._ And that is--what? some dull and silly show
Out of your sallow books?

_Petrarca._ Those books were writ
With ink of the gods, my Sancia, upon
Papyri of the stars!

_Sancia._ And--long ago?
Ha! long ago?

_Petrarca._ Returnless centuries!

_Sancia._ (_contemptuously_). Who loves the past,
Loves mummies and their dust--
And he will mould!
Who loves the future loves what may not be,
And feeds on fear.
Only one flower has Time--its name is Now!
Come, pluck it! pluck it!

_Lello._ Brava, maid! the Now!

_Sancia._ (_dancing_). Come, pluck it! pluck it!

_Petrarca._ By my soul, I will:
(_Seizes her again._)
It grows upon these lips--and if to-night
They leant out over the brink of Hell, I would.
(_She breaks from him._)

_Flippa._ Enough! the wine! the wine!

_Sancia._ O ever-thirsty
And ever-thrifty Pippa! Well, pour out!
(_She lifts a brimming cup._)
We'll drink to Messer Petrarca--
Who's weary of his bed-mate, Solitude.
May he long revel in the courts of Venus!

_All (drinking)._ Aih, long!

_Petrarca._ As long as Sancia enchants them!

_Flippa._ I'd trust him not, Sancia. Put him to oath.

_Sancia._ And, to the rack, if faithless? This Flippa!
Messer Petrarca, should not be made
High Jurisconsult to our lord, the Devil,
Whose breath of life is oaths?...
But, swear it!--by the Saints!
Who were great sinners all!
And by the bones of every monk or nun
Who ever darkened the world!

_Lello._ Or ever shall!
(_A pause._)

_Petrarca._ I'll swear your eyes are singing
Under the shadow of your hair, mad Sancia,
Like nightingales in the wood!

_Sancia._ Pah! Messer Poet--
Such words as those you vent without an end--
To the Lady Laura!

_Petrarca._ Stop!
(_Grows pale._)
Not _her_ name--here!
(_All have sat down; he rises._)

_Sancia._ O-ho! this air will soil it? and it might
Not sound so sweet in sonnets ever after?
(_To the rest--rising._)
Shall we depart, that he may still indite them?
"To Laura--On the Vanity of Passion?"
"To Laura--Unrelenting?"
"To Laura--Whose Departing Darkens the Sky?"
(_Laughs._)
"To Laura--Who Deigns Not a Single Tear?"
(Orso _enters_.)
Shall we depart?

FOOTNOTE:

[71] Copyright, 1907, by McClure, Phillips and Company.

ROBERT M. McELROY

Robert McNutt McElroy, author of the best of the recent histories of Kentucky, was born at Perryville, Kentucky, December 28, 1872. He took the three degrees conferred by Princeton University; and since 1901 he has been assistant professor of American history in that institution. For the _Metropolitan Magazine_ of New York Dr. McElroy wrote an excellent _History of the Mexican War_, but this work has not yet appeared in book form. His _Kentucky in the Nation's History_ (New York, 1909), gave him an honorable place among the younger generation of American historians, and certainly a high place in Kentucky literature. Upon his history of Kentucky Dr. McElroy labored for many years, no sacrifice was too great for him to make, no journey too long for him to undertake, provided a better perspective were to be obtained at the end of his travels. He spent many months with Colonel Reuben T. Durrett at Louisville, working in his library, and sitting at his feet drinking from the well of Western history which the Colonel has kept undefiled. This, too, was what so sadly mars his work: he does in the discussion of several great questions, hardly more than serve as amanuensis for Colonel Durrett and the late Colonel John Mason Brown. Their opinions and conclusions are accepted _carte-blanche_, and all other authorities are ruthlessly set aside. Dr. McElroy accepts Colonel Brown's book upon the Spanish Conspiracy, and writes a single line concerning Thomas Marshall Green's great work! He brings his narrative down to the commencement of the Civil War, which probably indicates that a second volume is in preparation in order that the entire field may be surveyed. His work is most scholarly, the latest historical procedure is sustained throughout, and the pity is that he so slavishly followed one or two authorities, though both of them were wholly excellent and profound, to the exclusion of all others. Originality of opinion is what the work lacks, a lack which it might have easily possessed with the author's undoubted ability, had he not lingered so long in literary Louisville.

BIBLIOGRAPHY. Letters from Dr. McElroy to the Author; _Who's Who
in America_ (1912-1913).

GEORGE ROGERS CLARK[72]

[From _Kentucky in the Nation's History_ (New York, 1909)]

It was at this critical moment that George Rogers Clark, the future conqueror of the Northwest territory, took up his permanent abode among the Kentucky pioneers. Clark had visited Kentucky, on a brief tour of inspection, during the previous autumn (Sept., 1775), and had been placed in command of the irregular militia of the settlements. He had returned to Virginia, filled with the importance of establishing in Kentucky an extensive system of public defence, and with the firm conviction that the claims of Henderson & Company ought to be disallowed by Virginia. His return to Kentucky, in 1776, marks the beginning of the end of the Transylvania Company. In spite of his youth (he was only twenty-four) he was far the most dangerous opponent that Henderson & Company had in the province. A military leader by nature, he had served in Lord Dunmore's war with such conspicuous success that he had been offered a commission in the British Army. This honor he had declined, preferring to remain free to serve his country in the event of a revolt from British tyranny.

Shortly after his arrival, Clark proposed that, in order to bring about a more certain connection with Virginia, and the more definitely to repudiate the authority of the Transylvania Company, a regular representative assembly should be held at Harrodsburg. His own views he expressed freely in advancing his suggestion. Agents, he said, should be appointed to urge once more the right of the region to be taken under the protection of Virginia, and, if this request should again be unheeded, we should "employ the lands of the country as a fund to obtain settlers, and establish an independent state."

The proposed assembly convened at Harrodsburg on the 6th of June. Clark was not present when the session began, and when he arrived, he found that the pressing question of the day had already been acted upon, and that he himself, with Gabriel John Jones, had been elected a delegate to represent the settlements in the Virginia Assembly. Clark knew that such an election would not entitle them to seats, but he agreed to visit Williamsburg, and present the cause of his fellow pioneers. Provided with a formal memorial to the Virginia Assembly, he started, with Jones, for Virginia and, after a very painful journey, upon which, Clark declared, I suffered "more torment than I ever experienced before or since," they reached the neighborhood of Charlottesville, only to learn that the Assembly had adjourned. Jones set off for a visit to the settlements on the Holston; but Clark, intent upon his mission, pushed on to Hanover County, where he secured an interview with Patrick Henry, then Governor of Virginia.

After listening to Clark's report of the troubles of the frontier colony, and doubtless enjoying his denunciation of the Transylvania Company, Governor Henry introduced him to the executive Council of the State, and he at once requested from them five hundred pounds of powder for frontier defence. He had determined to accomplish the object of his mission in any manner possible, and he knew that if he could induce the authorities of Virginia to provide for the defence of the frontier settlements, the announcement of her property rights in them would certainly follow, to the destruction of the plans of Henderson and his colleagues.

The Council, however, doubtless also foreseeing these consequences, declared that its powers could not be so construed as to give it authority to grant such a request. But Clark was insistent, and urged his case so effectively that, after considerable discussion, the Council announced that, as the call appeared urgent, they would assume the responsibility of lending five hundred pounds of powder to Clark, making him personally responsible for its value, in case their assumption of authority should not be upheld by the Burgesses. They then presented him with an order to the keeper of the public magazine, calling for the powder desired.

This was exactly what Clark did not want, as the loan of five hundred pounds of powder to George Rogers Clark, could in no sense be interpreted as an assumption by Virginia, of the responsibility of defending the western frontier, and his next act was most characteristic of the man. He returned the order with a curt note, declaring his intention of repairing at once to Kentucky, and exerting the resources of that country to the formation of an independent State, for, he frankly declared, "a country which is not worth defending is not worth claiming."

This threat proved instantly successful. The Council recalled Clark to their presence and, on August 23, 1776, delivered him another order calling for five hundred pounds of gunpowder, which was to be conveyed to Pittsburg by Virginia officials, there "to be safely kept and delivered to George Rogers Clark or his order, for the use of the said inhabitants of Kentucky."

With this concession Clark was completely satisfied, for he felt that by it Virginia was admitting her obligation to defend the pioneers of the West, and that an open declaration of sovereign rights over the territory must soon follow. He accordingly wrote to his friends in Kentucky, requesting them to receive the powder at Pittsburg, and convey it to the Kentucky stations, while he himself awaited the opening of the autumn session of the Virginia Assembly, where he hoped to procure a more explicit verdict against the claims of Henderson's Company.

At the time appointed for the meeting, Clark, accompanied by his colleague, Gabriel John Jones, proceeded to Williamsburg and presented his petition to the Assembly, where again his remarkable personality secured a victory. In spite of the vigorous exertions of Henderson and Campbell in behalf of the Transylvania Company, the Virginia Assembly (December 7, 1776) passed an act dividing the vast, ill-defined region, hitherto known as Fincastle County, into three sections, to be known as Kentucky County, Washington County, and Montgomery County, Virginia. The County of Kentucky, comprising almost the same territory as is contained in the present State of Kentucky, was thus recognized as a political unit of the Virginia Commonwealth, and as such was entitled to representation.

This statute decided the fate of the Transylvania Company, as there could not be two Sovereign Proprietors of the soil of Kentucky County. And so passed, a victim to its own lust of gain, the last attempt to establish a proprietary government upon the free soil of the United States; and George Rogers Clark, as founder of Kentucky's first political organization, became the political father of the Commonwealth, even as Daniel Boone had been the father of her colonization.

FOOTNOTE:

[72] Copyright, 1909, by Moffat, Yard and Company.

EDWIN D. SCHOONMAKER

Edwin Davies Schoonmaker, poet, was born at Scranton, Pennsylvania, February 1, 1873. He removed from Ohio to Kentucky in 1886, and he lived at Lexington almost continuously until 1904. Mr. Schoonmaker was educated at old Kentucky (Transylvania) University; and in 1904 he married a Kentucky woman, who has published a play and a novel. For the last several years he and his wife have lived at Bearsville, New York, high up in the Catskills. Mr. Schoonmaker's first book was a verse play, entitled _The Saxons--a Drama of Christianity in the North_ (Chicago, 1905). This was based upon the attempt on the part of Rome to force the religion of Christ upon the pagans in the forests of the North, and it was a very strong piece of work. His second work, another verse drama, will appear in 1913, entitled _The Americans_. It will be published by Mr. Mitchell Kennerley, for whom Mr. Schoonmaker is planning two other plays. Mr. Schoonmaker has had short lyrics in many of the leading magazines.

BIBLIOGRAPHY. _The Arena_ (May, 1906); _Hampton's Magazine_ (June,
1910); _The Forum_ (August, 1912).

THE PHILANTHROPIST[73]

[From _The American Magazine_ (October, 1912)]

I neither praise nor blame thee, aged Scot,
In whose wide lap the shifting times have poured
The heavy burden of that golden hoard
That shines far off and shall not be forgot.

I only see thee carving far and wide
Thy name on many marbles through the land,
Or flashing splendid from the jeweler's hand
Where medaled heroes show thy face with pride.

Croesus had not such royal halls as thou,
Nor Timon half as many friends as crowd
Thy porches when thy largesses are loud,
Learning and Peace are stars upon thy brow.

And still thy roaring mills their tribute bring
As unto Caesar, and thy charities
Have borne thy swelling fame beyond the seas,
Where thou in many realms art all but king.

Yet when night lays her silence on thine ears
And thou art at thy window all alone,
Pondering thy place, dost thou not hear the groans
Of them that bear thy burdens through the years?

FOOTNOTE:

[73] Copyright, 1912, by the Phillips Publishing Company.

CREDO HARRIS

Credo Harris, novelist, was born near Louisville, Kentucky, January 8, 1874. He was educated in the schools of Louisville and finished at college in the East. He settled in New York as a newspaper man and the following ten years of his life were given to that work. In 1908 Mr. Harris abandoned daily journalism in order to devote himself to fiction. Only a few of his short-stories had gotten into the magazines when his first book, entitled _Toby, a Novel of Kentucky_ (Boston, 1912), appeared. In spite of the fact that the author's literary models were, perhaps, too manifest, _Toby_ was well liked by many readers. Mr. Harris's second story, _Motor Rambles in Italy_ (New York, 1912), was cordially received by those very critics who assailed his first volume with vehemence. It is both a book of travels and a romance, the recital being in the form of love letters to his sweetheart, Polly, and also descriptive of the country from Baden-Baden to Rome seen from the tonneau of a big touring-car. Mr. Harris has a new story well under way, which will probably appear in 1913. He resides at Glenview, Kentucky, with his father, but his work on _The Louisville Herald_ takes him into town almost every day.

BIBLIOGRAPHY. Letters from Mr. Harris to the Author; _The
Courier-Journal_ (November 30, 1912).

BOLOGNA[74]

[From _Motor Rambles in Italy_ (New York, 1912)]

Bologna! Home of the sausage! Does not your mouth water at just the thought of it! I can see your pretty nose turn up in a curve that simply screams "Disgusting"--but you have never been quite fair to this relic of menageries.

To-day at luncheon our waiter first pranced up with a dish I did not recognize. It has long been a rule of mine--especially in Italy--that when I do not recognize a dish I wave it by. But rules are sent broadcast before the Bolognese spirit of patriotism. Would I be permitted to refuse this dish? No. He poked it still nearer and gave me a polite look. "No," I said, "not any." He poked it still nearer and his look became troubled. "No," I said again. This time his look was indignant as he exclaimed: "But, signor, it is _mortadella_!" Indeed, we found his persistence quite justifiable.

I could be satisfied to linger here. It is a pleasant mixture of cosmopolitan and mediaeval, blending a touch of geniality which adds much to its charm. The people are happier, perhaps it would be best to say more smiling, in Bologna than farther north. If one can be reconciled to the incongruity of living in a hotel that was a fifteenth century palace overlooking the solemn tombs of jurists, and then stepping to the corner for a twentieth century electric car, he can steel himself to put up with many other temperamental contradictions to be found in this capital of the Emilia.

But because of its cosmopolitanism I shall tell you little. In big places like this there is so much to see, so much to digest, so much to read out of guide books, that--what's the use? My letters are permitted, you have threatened, only so long as I tell an occasional thing which may serve you and the Dowager when you come through next year by motor, and while I do not believe you quite mean this, or would throw it down if you saw me heading toward the tender realms of nothingness, your wish shall, nevertheless, constitute my aim. Should I digress, it will be because my love for you is stronger than myself--an assertion of doubtful value at the present time.

So if you want to know Bologna, read your guide books. Here, you shall have only the more untrodden paths, which, if you follow as I have done, you may be fortunate. For you must know that all I have seen has been discovered by your eyes alone. Many a day has passed since you brought and taught me the things truly beautiful in this world. Great sculptures, rich paintings, magnificent architecture, are in the well worn paths of every one's progress which those who pass cannot help seeing, but a changing leaf, the sweep of a bird, a child's laugh at the roadside, ah, those are the bounties your hands have poured into my lap! Thousands pass along this way, piled high with perishable treasures, and never dream that they are trampling a masterpiece with every crunch of their bourgeoise boots.

FOOTNOTE:

[74] Copyright, 1912, by Moffat, Yard and Company.

HALLIE ERMINIE RIVES

Mrs. Hallie Erminie Rives-Wheeler, maker of mysteries, was born near Hopkinsville, Kentucky, May 2, 1874, the daughter of Colonel Stephen T. Rives. She is a cousin of Princess Troubetzkey, the celebrated Virginia novelist. Miss Rives, to give her her old name, was educated in Kentucky schools, after which she went to New York with her mother. In 1896 Miss Rives's mother died and she and her father moved to Amherst county, Virginia, which is her present American home. Her literary labors fall naturally into two periods: the first, which included five "red-hot" books, as follows: _The Singing Wire and Other Stories_ (Clarksville, Tennessee, 1892), the "other stories" being four in number and nameless here; _A Fool in Spots_ (St. Louis, 1894); _Smoking Flax_ (New York, 1897); _As the Hart Panteth_ (New York, 1898); and _A Furnace of Earth_ (New York, 1900). Miss Rives's second period of work began with _Hearts Courageous_ (Indianapolis, 1902), a romance of Revolutionary Virginia, and continues to the present time. This was followed by _The Castaway_ (Indianapolis, 1904), based upon the career of Lord Byron; and the great poems of the Englishman are made to swell the length of the story. In _Tales from Dickens_ (Indianapolis, 1905), Miss Rives did for the novelist what Lamb did for Shakespeare--made him readable for children. _Satan Sanderson_ (Indianapolis, 1907), a wild and thrilling tale of today, one of the "six best sellers" for many months, was followed by what is, perhaps, her best book, a story set in Japan, entitled _The Kingdom of Slender Swords_ (Indianapolis, 1910). Her latest novel is _The Valiants of Virginia_ (Indianapolis, 1912), the action of which begins in New York, but is transferred to Virginia. Miss Rives was married in Tokyo, Japan, December 29, 1906, to Mr. Post Wheeler, writer and diplomat, now connected with the American embassy at Rome. While none of her novels is set against Kentucky backgrounds, several of her short stories published in the magazines are Kentucky to the core.

BIBLIOGRAPHY. _The American Review of Reviews_ (October, 1902);
_The Nation_ (August 11, 1904).

THE BISHOP SPEAKS[75]

[From _Satan Sanderson_ (Indianapolis, 1907)]

Inside the study, meanwhile, the bishop was greeting Harry Sanderson. He had officiated at his ordination and liked him. His eyes took in the simple order of the room, lingering with a light tinge of disapproval upon the violin case in the corner, and with a deeper shade of question upon the jewel on the other's finger--a pigeon-blood ruby in a setting curiously twisted of the two initial letters of his name.

There came to his mind for an instant a whisper of early prodigalities and wildness which he had heard. For the lawyer who had listened to Harry Sanderson's recital on the night of the making of the will had not considered it a professional disclosure. He had thought it a "good story," and had told it at his club, whence it had percolated at leisure through the heavier strata of town-talk. The tale, however, had seemed rather to increase than to discourage popular interest in Harry Sanderson. The bishop knew that those whose approval had been withheld were in the hopeless minority, and that even these could not have denied that he possessed desirable qualities--a manner by turns sparkling and grave, picturesqueness in the pulpit, and the unteachable tone of blood--and had infused new life into a generally sleepy parish. He had dismissed the whisper with a smile, but oddly enough it recurred to him now at sight of the ruby ring.

"I looked in to tell you a bit of news," said the bishop. "I've just come from David Stires--he has a letter from Van Lennap, the great eye-surgeon of Vienna. He disagrees with the rest of them--thinks Jessica's case may not be hopeless."

The cloud that Hugh's call had left on Harry's countenance lifted.

"Thank God!" he said. "Will she go to him?"

The bishop looked at him curiously, for the exclamation seemed to hold more than a conventional relief.

"He is to be in America next month. He will come here to examine, and perhaps to operate. An exceptional girl," went on the bishop, "with a remarkable talent! The angel in the chapel porch, I suppose you know, is her modelling, though that isn't just masculine enough in feature to suit me. The Scriptures are silent on the subject of woman-angels in Heaven; though, mind you, I don't say they're not common on earth!"

The bishop chuckled mildly at his own epigram.

"Poor child!" he continued more soberly. "It will be a terrible thing for her if this last hope fails her, too! Especially now, when she and Hugh are to make a match of it."

Harry's face was turned away, or the bishop would have seen it suddenly startled. "To make a match of it!" To hide the flush he felt staining his cheek, Harry bent to close the safe. A something that had darkled in some obscure depth of his being, whose existence he had not guessed, was throbbing now to a painful resentment. Jessica to marry Hugh!

"A handsome fellow--Hugh!" said the bishop. "He seems to have returned with a new heart--a brand plucked from the burning. You had the same _alma mater_, I think you told me. Your influence has done the boy good, Sanderson!" He laid his hand kindly on the other's shoulder. "The fact that you were in college together makes him look up to you--as the whole parish does," he added.

Harry was setting the combination, and did not answer. But through the turmoil in his brain a satiric voice kept repeating:

"No, they don't call me 'Satan' now!"

FOOTNOTE:

[75] Copyright, 1907, by the Bobbs-Merrill Company.

EDWIN CARLILE LITSEY

Edwin Carlile Litsey, author of _The Love Story of Abner Stone_, was born at Beechland, Kentucky, June 3, 1874. He was educated in public and private schools, but he did not go to college. At the age of seventeen years Mr. Litsey entered the banking business, and he is now connected with the Marion National Bank, of his present home, Lebanon, Kentucky. His first novel, _The Princess of Gramfalon_ (Cincinnati, 1898), was a daring piece of imagination, creating impossible lands and peoples, and it has been forgotten by author and public alike. Mr. Litsey's strongest and best work so far is a beautiful tale of Nature, entitled _The Love Story of Abner Stone_ (New York, 1902). This novelette made the author many friends, as it is a charming story. In 1904 he won first prize in _The Black Cat_ story-contest, over ten thousand competitors, with _In the Court of God_. His stories of wild animals in their haunts were brought together in _The Race of the Swift_ (Boston, 1905). This contains some of his best work, the first story being especially fine and strong. Mr. Litsey's latest novel, _The Man from Jericho_ (New York, 1911), was not up to the standard set in his earlier works, and in no sense is it a noteworthy production. It shows a decided falling off, and it brought disappointment to many admirers of _The Love Story of Abner Stone_ and _The Race of the Swift_. In 1912 Mr. Litsey contributed several short-stories to _The Cavalier_, and next year he will issue another novel, to be entitled _A Maid of the Kentucky Hills_.

BIBLIOGRAPHY. _The Book Buyer_ (July, 1902); _Munsey's Magazine_
(April, 1903).

THE RACE OF THE SWIFT[76]

[From _The Race of the Swift_ (Boston, 1905)]

The next morning, near midday, her merciless offsprings teased and worried her so that the she-fox crept forth in spite of the warning of the day before, and set her sharp muzzle towards the crest of the range, with the intention of invading territory which hitherto her feet had never pressed. There were wild turkeys back in the hills, and wary and suspicious as she knew them to be, they were no match for her wily woodcraft. But scarcely had her noiseless feet gone over the top of the knob, when a sharp yelp immediately behind her caused her to jump and turn quickly. They were there--her enemies--and their noses were smelling out her trail, for as yet they had not seen her. Even as she leaped for the nearest cover like a yellow flash, her first thought was of the little ones biding at home. She must lead her foes away from that cleft in the rocks where her love-children lay awaiting her return. And though her life should be given up, yet would she die alone, and far away, before she would sacrifice her young.

It was a hard and stubborn race which she ran for the next six hours. At times her loyal, loving heart seemed ready to burst from the strain she thrust upon it. At times fleet feet were pattering almost at her heels, and pitiless jaws were held wide to grasp her; then again only the echo of the stubborn cry of her pursuers reached her. She had doubled time and again. Once a brief respite was granted her when she dashed up a slanting tree-trunk which, in falling, had lodged in the branches of another tree. Eight tawny forms dashed hotly, furiously by, then she descended and took the back track. Only for a moment, however, were the cunning dogs deceived. They discovered the artifice almost as soon as it was perpetrated, and came harking back themselves with redoubled zeal. So the long hours of the afternoon wore away. Not a moment that was free from effort; not an instant that death did not hover over the mother fox, awaiting the least misstep to descend. Back and forth, around and across, and still the subtlety of the fox eluded the haste and fury of the hounds. All were tired to the point of exhaustion, but none would give up. The sun went down; tremulous shadows, like curtains hung, were draped among the trees. The timid stars came out again and the halfed moon arose, a little larger than the night before. And still, with inveterate hate on the one side, and the undying strength of despair on the other, the grim chase swept through the night. At last the blood-rimmed eyes of the reeling quarry saw familiar landmarks. Unconsciously, in her blind efforts, she had come to the neighborhood of her den. Perhaps the love within her heart had guided her back. She found her strength quickly failing, and with a realization of this her scheming brain awoke as from a trance, and drove her to deeper guile. Two rods away was the creek. To it she staggered, splashed through the low water for a dozen yards, and hid herself beneath the gnarled roots of a tree from the base of which the stream had eaten away the soil. She listened intensely. She heard the pack lose the scent, search half-heartedly for a few minutes, for they, too, were weary to dropping, then withdraw one at a time, beaten. But for half an hour the brave animal lay against the tree roots, waiting and resting. Then she came out cautiously, looked around her, and with difficulty gained the mouth of her den. Casting one keen glance over her shoulder through the checkered spaces of the forest, she glided softly within, and lying down, curled her tired body protectingly around her sleeping little ones.

FOOTNOTE:

[76] Copyright, 1905, by Little, Brown and Company.

MILTON BRONNER

Milton Bronner, literary critic and journalist, was born at Louisville, Kentucky, November 10, 1874. He was graduated from the University of Virginia, in 1895, when he returned to his home to join the staff of the old _Louisville Commercial_. In 1900 Mr. Bronner removed to Covington, Kentucky, to become city editor of _The Kentucky Post_, of which paper he is now editor-in-chief. Mr. Bronner's first book, called _Letters from the Raven_ (New York, 1907), was a work about Lafcadio Hearn with many of Hearn's hitherto unpublished letters. His second and most important volume so far, _Maurice Hewlett_ (Boston, 1910), is the first adequate discussion of the novels and poems of the celebrated English author. His method was to treat the works in the order of their publication, together with a brief word upon Mr. Hewlett's life. His little book must have pleased the novelist as much as it did the public. Mr. Bronner seems to have a _flair_ for new writers who later "arrive." Thus years ago _Poet-Lore_ published his paper on William Ernest Henley, before Henley's fame was so firmly established. Some years later _The Independent_ had his essay on Francis Thompson, whom all the world now declares to have been a great and true poet. Still later _The Forum_ printed his criticism of John Davidson, in which high estimates were set upon the unfortunate fellow's works; and _The Bookman_ has printed a series of his critical appreciations of such men as John Masefield, Ezra Pound, Wilbur Underwood, W. H. Davies, W. W. Gibson, and Lionel Johnson, which introduced these now celebrated poets to the American public.

BIBLIOGRAPHY. _The Forum_ (September, 1910); _The Bookman_
(August; November, 1911); _The Bookman_ (April; October, 1912).

MR. HEWLETT'S WOMEN[77]

[From _Maurice Hewlett_ (Boston, 1910)]

Mr. Hewlett is mainly interested in his women. They are the pivots about whom his comedies and tragedies move. And his treatment of them differs from all the great contemporary novelists. Kipling gives snapshot photographs of women. He shows them in certain brief moments of their existence, in vivid blacks and whites, caught on the instant whether the subjects were laughing or crying. Stevenson's few women are presented in silhouette. Barrie and Hardy give etchings in which line by line and with the most painstaking art, the features are drawn. But Meredith and Mr. Hewlett give paintings in which brush stroke after brush stroke has been used. The reader beholds the finished work, true not only in features, but in colouring.

* * * * *

Now Mr. Hewlett is purely medieval. The Hewlett woman is forever the plaything of love. She is always in the attitude of the pursuing who is pursued. She is forever the subject of passion, holy or unholy. Men will fight for her, plunge kingdoms and cities in war or ruin for her, die for her. Sometimes, as in "The Stooping Lady," she is the willing object of this love and stoops to enjoy its divine benison; sometimes she flees from it when it displays a satyr face as in "The Duchess of Nona;" sometimes she is caught up in its tragic coil as in "The Queen's Quair," and destroyed by it. Hewlett's women, like Hardy's, are stray angels, but like Meredith's they are creatures of the chase. And, note the difference from Meredith!--this, according to the gospel of Mr. Hewlett, is as it should be.

Since it is woman's proper fate to be loved, it would seem to be impossible for Mr. Hewlett to write a story in which there is not some romantic love interest. And in each case there is a stoop on the part of one. The stoop may be happy or the reverse, but it is there. He recurs to the idea again and again, but each time with a difference that prevents monotony.

In the main, Mr. Hewlett's women are good women. They are loyal and loving, ready alike to take beatings or kisses. There is no ice in their bosoms which must needs be thawed. Nor are Mr. Hewlett's women "kind" after the manner of the Stendhal characters. They are not women who make themselves common. For the most part, they are Rosalinds and Perditas of an humbler sort, with the beauty of those immortal girls, but without their supreme wit and high spirits. They are girls who are stricken down with love's dart and who make no effort to remove the dear missiles. They are true dwellers in romance-land, beautiful creatures who give themselves to their chosen lords without thought of sin or of the future.

FOOTNOTE:

[77] Copyright, 1910, by L. E. Bassett.

A. ST. CLAIR MACKENZIE

Alastair St. Clair Mackenzie, author of _The Evolution of Literature_, was born at Inverness, Scotland, February 17, 1875. "Blue as a molten sapphire gleams the Moray Firth below Culloden Moor, under whose purple heather sleep some of the warrior ancestors of Alastair St. Clair Mackenzie, near which he was born." The University of Glasgow conferred the degree of Master of Arts upon him in 1892. He then did graduate work in English at the University of Edinburgh for a year, after which he studied for some months under Sir Richard C. Jebb of the University of Cambridge, and Edward Caird of Oxford University. Mackenzie met S. R. Crockett, Henry Drummond, William Black, Alfred Tennyson, and many other distinguished men of letters, before he came to America. After a brief residence in Philadelphia he came to the State University of Kentucky, at Lexington, in September, 1899, as head of the department of English, and under his supervision the curriculum has been extended from three courses to thirty. Among Kentucky educators he has been the pioneer in introducing Journalism, Comparative Philology, and Comparative Literature. In 1911 he received the honorary degree of Doctor of Laws from Kentucky Wesleyan College, the only degree of the kind ever conferred by that institution. In 1912 Dr. Mackenzie was Ropes Foundation lecturer at the University of Cincinnati. He is now dean of the Graduate School of the University of Kentucky. Besides contributing many articles to periodicals, Dr. Mackenzie wrote, in 1904, the first history of Lexington Masonic Lodge, No. 1, the earliest in the West; and, in 1907, the article on Hew Ainslie, the Scottish-Kentucky poet, published in the _Library of Southern Literature_, and pronounced by many competent critics to be the finest essay in that great collection. His _The Evolution of Literature_ (New York, 1911), the English edition of which was issued by John Murray, London, deals with the origins of literature, as its title indicates, and it has placed Dr. Mackenzie at the head of Southern students of this subject. Into this work went the researches and deliberate judgments of a lifetime; and that a scholar should produce such a work in the West or South, without a great library near at hand, is in itself remarkable. Dr. Mackenzie has done what will probably come to be regarded as the most scholarly production of a Kentucky hand, although the work is more suggestive than it is conclusive.

BIBLIOGRAPHY. _Library of Southern Literature_ (Atlanta, 1910, v.
xv); _Who's Who in America_ (1912-1913).

A KELTIC TALE[78]

[From _The Evolution of Literature_ (New York, 1911)]

Here is an old Keltic tale of farewell. It was a night of mist, a low moon brooding over the braes, the heathery braes. The man sat by the seashore, as he sang quaint ballads of a land across the water, where men never see death. There was none to reveal the secrets of the glens, nor could any one tell him what the eagle cried to the stag at the corrie, while the burn wimpled on with its song of sobbing. He sat and listened, but he was knowing naught of sadness. To his ears came only the accents of the fairies of joy, and they called him to seek the fountain where song had its birth. Away from the sea he climbed till its voice came faint, faint across the bracken. At last, full weary, he slept. The night passed, and a leveret stood up, gazing upon his face without fear. A deer came to the stream, beheld the sleeping figure, and fled not. A grey linnet perched upon the pale hand lying across the bosom; it looked the sun in the face, and sang, but the man did not awake. Again the shadows melted into the night of stars, and the hills said to one another, "He has found Death and Life. For we know, and God knows, all his dreams. He has found the secret of the sea, the message of all the streams, and the fountain-head of song."

In quest of literary strivings and achievements, lowly as well as exalted, we have journeyed through all the principal lands of the globe. The forests of Africa have shaded us from the scorching sun, and the tang of the salt sea has smitten us off Cape Horn. Visions of scenes familiar have mingled with sights and sounds of cities that flourished forty centuries ago. Wherever we have gone, we have noticed that vitality is the quality which gives permanent value to all true art. Popular opinion, blind perhaps to the qualities of art as art, caring nothing about the more elusive charms of verse and prose, is quick to detect the presence or absence of a vital relationship between literature and humanity. Literary art voices life and gives life. The higher the art the more effectively does it fill the onlooker with a sense of life, personal and racial, dignified, wholesome, inexhaustible. Apparently it is the ideal within the real that becomes ever more manifest in the course of the evolution of literature.

FOOTNOTE:

[78] Copyright, 1911, by Thomas Y. Crowell and Company.

LAURA SPENCER PORTOR

Miss Laura Spencer Portor, poet and short-story writer, was born at Covington, Kentucky, in 1875. She lived at Covington until ten years old, when she was taken to Paris, France, where she attended private schools for two years. She returned to Kentucky, and attended school at Cincinnati, but she afterwards entered the old Norwood Institute, Washington. Her education being finished, Miss Portor again made her home at Covington, where she resided until a few years ago, when she went to New York, her home at the present time. She has worked in many literary fields. Children's work; essays; short-stories; feature and editorial work of all kinds; and verse for children and "grown-ups." Miss Portor is now children's editor of _The Woman's Home Companion_. She has been so very busy with her magazine work that she has found time to publish but one book, _Theodora_ (Boston, 1907), a little tale for children, done in collaboration with Miss Katharine Pyle, sister of the famous American artist, the late Howard Pyle, and herself an artist and author of ability and reputation. The next few years will certainly see several of Miss Portor's manuscripts published in book form. Among her magazine stories and verse that have attracted attention may be mentioned her purely Kentucky tales, such as "A Gentleman of the Blue Grass," published in _The Ladies' Home Journal_; "The Judge," which appeared in _The Woman's Home Companion_; "Sally," a Southern story, printed in _The Atlantic Monthly_; and "My French School Days," an essay, also printed in _The Atlantic_, are thought to be the best things in prose Miss Portor has written so far. Her poems, "The Little Christ" (_Atlantic Monthly_), and "But One Leads South" (_McClure's Magazine_), are her most characteristic work in verse. She has written much for children in both prose and poetry. Miss Portor is one of Kentucky's proudest hopes in fiction or verse, and the books that are to be published from her pen will bring together her work in a manner that will be highly pleasing to her admirers.

BIBLIOGRAPHY. _Harper's Magazine_ (August, 1900); _St. Nicholas
Magazine_ (October, 1912).

THE LITTLE CHRIST[79]

[From _The Atlantic Monthly_, December, 1905]

Mother, I am thy little Son--
Why weepest thou?

_Hush! for I see a crown of thorns,
A bleeding brow._

Mother, I am thy little Son--
Why dost thou sigh?

_Hush! for the shadow of the years
Stoopeth more nigh!_

Mother, I am thy little Son--
Oh, smile on me.
The birds sing blithe, the birds sing gay,
The leaf laughs on the tree.

_Oh, hush thee! The leaves do shiver sore
That tree whereon they grow,
I see it hewn, and bound, to bear
The weight of human woe!_

Mother, I am thy little Son--
The Night comes on apace--
When all God's waiting stars shall smile
On me in thy embrace.

_Oh, hush thee! I see black starless night!
Oh, could'st thou slip away
Now, by the hawthorn hedge of Death,--
And get to God by Day!_

BUT ONE LEADS SOUTH[80]

[From _McClure's Magazine_, December, 1909]

So many countries of the earth,
So many lands of such great worth;
So stately, tall, and fair they shine,--
So royal, all,--but one is mine.

So many paths that come and go,
Busy and freighted, to and fro;
So many that I never see
That still bring gifts and friends to me;
So many paths that go and come,
But one leads South,--and that leads home.

Oh, I would rather see the face
Of that dear land a little space
Than have earth's richest, fairest things
My own, or touch the hands of kings.--
I'm homesick for it! When at night
The silent road runs still and white,--
Runs onward, southward, still and fair,
And I know well it's going there,
And I know well at last 'twill come
To that old candle-lighted home,--
Though all the candles of heaven are lit,
I'm homesick for the sight of it!

FOOTNOTES:

[79] Copyright, 1905, by Houghton, Mifflin Company.

[80] Copyright, 1909, by S. S. McClure Company.

LEIGH GORDON GILTNER

Miss Leigh Gordon Giltner, poet and short-story writer, was born at Eminence, Kentucky, in 1875. She is the daughter of the Rev. W. S. Giltner, who was for many years president of Eminence College, from which the future writer was graduated. She later pursued a course in English at the University of Chicago, and studied Shakespeare and dramatic art with Hart Conway of the Chicago School of Acting. Miss Giltner's book of lyrics, _The Path of Dreams_ (Chicago, 1900), brought her many kind words from the reviewers. This little book contained some very excellent verse, but, shortly after its appearance, the author abandoned poesy for the short-story. Her stories and sketches have appeared in the _New England Magazine_, _The Century_, _Munsey's Overland Monthly_, _The Reader_, _The Era_, and several other periodicals. Within the last year or so she has had quite a number of short-stories in _Young's Magazine_ "of breezy stories." At the present time Miss Giltner has a Kentucky novel and a comedy in preparation, both of which should appear shortly. She is one of the most beautiful of Kentucky's writers: her frontispiece portrait in _The Path of Dreams_ is said to have disarmed many carping critics who untied the little volume with malice aforethought. But back of her personal loveliness, is a mind of much power, cleverness, and originality.

BIBLIOGRAPHY. _The Nation_ (September 6, 1900); _Munsey's
Magazine_ (October, 1902); _The Overland_ (October, 1910).

THE JESTING GODS[81]

[From _Munsey's Magazine_ (July, 1904)].

From the first it had been, in the nature of things, perfectly patent to every member of the party gathered at Grantleigh for the shooting that Tompkins' bride cared not a whit for Tompkins--which, if one happened to know the man, was scarcely a matter for surprise.

Tompkins, though a good fellow on the whole, was an unmitigated idiot. Not a mere insignificant unit in the world's noble army of fools, but a fool so conspicuous and of so infinite a variety as to be at all times the cynosure of the general gaze.

When a man is a fool and knows it, his folly not infrequently attains the measure of wisdom. Let him but conceal his motley beneath a cloak of weighty silence and he will presently acquire a reputation for solid intelligence and a wise conservatism. But Tompkins was not one of these. He joyously jangled his bells and flourished his bauble, wholly unaware the while of the spectacle he was making of himself. If he could have been persuaded to take on a neutral tint and keep himself well in the background, inanity might, in time, have assumed the dignity of intellectuality: but he lacked the sense of proportion, of values. He was always in the foreground and always a more or less inharmonious element in the _ensemble_.

Tompkins had published an impossible volume of prose, followed by a yet more impossible volume of verse: his crudely impressionistic essays at art made the judicious grieve: he dabbled in music and posed as a lyric tenor, though he had neither voice nor ear. A temperament essentially histrionic kept him constantly in the centre of the stage. With no remote realization of his limitations, he aspired to play leads and heavies, when Fate had inexorably cast him for a line of low comedy. He contrived to make divers and sundry kinds and degrees of an idiot of himself on all possible occasions--and even when there was no possible occasion therefor. He had a faculty for doing the wrong thing which amounted to inspiration.

We had been wont to speculate at the Club as to whether Tompkins would ever find a woman the measure of whose folly should so far exceed his own as to impel her to marry him. We wondered much when we heard that he had at last achieved this feat. We wondered more when we saw the woman who had made it a possibility.

"_Titania_ and _Bottom_, by Jove!" whispered Ronalds to me as Tompkins followed his wife into the drawing-room on the evening of their arrival at Grantleigh Manor. (Tompkins is asked everywhere on account of his relationship to old Lord Wrexford.) My fancy, which I had allowed to play freely about the lady of Tompkins' choice since I had heard of his marriage, had wavered between a spinster of uncertain age who had accepted him as a _dernier resort_ and a simpering school girl too young to know her own mind. I now glanced at the bride--and gasped.

She was one of those women whose beauty is so absolute, so compelling, as to admit of neither question nor criticism. It quite took away one's breath. Every man in the room was gaping at her, but she bore the ordeal with all grace and calm, though she was the daughter of a struggling curate in some obscure locality remote from social advantages. She was of a singularly striking type: the beauty of her face was almost tragic in its intensity: the ghost of some immemorial sorrow seemed to lurk in the depths of her dark eyes: but when her too sombre expression was irradiated by the transient gleam of her rare smile, she was positively dazzling. (I am aware that I shall seem to "promulgate rhapsodies for dogmas" so to speak, but my proverbial indifference to feminine charm should endorse me.)

* * * * *

As the days passed--we were at Grantleigh for a fortnight--I found myself watching for some flaw in her conception, some inaccuracy in her interpretation of her _role_. But I watched in vain. There was always a perfect appreciation of the requirements of the situation, always the perfection of taste in its treatment. Evidently she had thrown herself into the part and was playing it--would play it, perhaps, to the end--with artistic _abandon_, tempered by a fine discretion and discrimination. If her yoke galled, this proud woman made no sign. But even the subtlest artiste has her unguarded moment, and it was in such a moment that I chanced to see her the night before the last of our stay.

The men had come in late from a day's shooting over the moors and were on their way to their rooms to dress for dinner. Tompkins had gone up stairs just ahead of me (his apartments were next mine) and had carelessly left a door opening on the corridor slightly ajar. In passing I unconsciously glanced that way and my eyes fell full upon the mirrored face of Elinor Tompkins as her husband crossed toward where she sat at her dressing table. The flash of feeling that crossed her countenance held me for a moment transfixed. Such a look, such an unbelievable complex of shrinking, repugnance, utter loathing and self-contempt I had never seen or imagined.... Like a flash it came and went. The next instant she had forced herself to smile and was lifting her face for her husband's caress, while Tompkins, physically and mentally short-sighted, bent and inclined his lips to hers. I caught my breath sharply. A choking sensation in my throat paid tribute to her art. Not even Duse was more a mistress of emotional control, expression, and repression. But this was something more than the perfection of acting: it was courage, the courage of endurance long drawn out--a greater than that which impels men to the cannon's mouth and a swift and sure surcease from suffering.

That evening at dinner, Villars, who had run up to town for the day, and found time for a gossip at the Club, proceeded to open his budget. He had had the satisfaction of surprising us with the rumored engagement of Lady Agatha Trelor to the scapegrace son of an impoverished peer: he had hinted delicately at a scandal in high official life: and had made his climax with the announcement of the sudden demise of old Lord Ilverton and the consequent succession of Delmar to his title and estates--when I glanced, by purest chance, at Mrs. Tompkins. (I had fallen into a way of looking at her often--she was certainly an interesting study.) Her face was white, even to the lips. Chancing to turn, she found my eyes upon her. In an instant she had somehow compelled the color to her cheeks and recovered her wonted perfect poise and calm.

That night in the smoking room, Villars shed light upon the subject. Tompkins was presumably haunting his wife's footsteps at the moment. In his unconscious egotism he never spared her: there was seldom a moment when she might drop her smiling mask: the essence of his personality pervaded her whole atmosphere.

"I met old Waxby at the Club to-day," Villars was saying, "and--_apropos_ of Delmar's succession to the title--he mentioned that there had been a serious affair of the heart between him and our fellow-guest, Mrs. Tompkins, then Elinor Barton. It seems one of Ilverton's innumerable country places was near the village where the Bartons lived and Delmar met the girl there last Autumn. The affair soon assumed serious proportions: Ilverton heard of the engagement: cut up an awful shindy: had a scene with Del, and finally bundled him off to India post haste. The girl had grit, though. She sent her compliments to Lord Ilverton with the assurance that he need have given himself no uneasiness, as she had already twice refused his son and heir, and was prepared to repeat the refusal should occasion arise. They say his Lordship, who had cooled down a bit, chuckled mightily over the message and vowed that had it only been one of his younger sons, she should have had him, by Jupiter!... But things weren't easy for the girl at home. She had an invalid mother, a nervous, nagging creature, who dinned it into her ears that she'd lost the chance of a lifetime: that she was standing in the light of three marriageable younger sisters: that with her limited social advantages few matrimonial opportunities might be expected to come her way--and more to the same effect till the poor girl was nearly driven frantic."

"Why not have tried the stage--with her voice and presence any manager would have been glad to take her on," Landis suggested.