Chapter V: Appendix: 383 (4)

Our trail is on the Kimmeridge clay,
And the scarp of the Purbeck flags,
We have left our bones in the Bagshot stones,
And deep in the Coraline crags;
Our love is old, our lives are old,
And death shall come amain;
Should it come to-day, what man may say
We shall not live again?

XIII

God wrought our souls from the Tremadoc beds
And furnished them wings to fly;
He sowed our spawn in the world's dim dawn,
And I know that it shall not die;
Though cities have sprung above the graves
Where the crook-boned men made war,
And the ox-wain creaks o'er the buried caves,
Where the mummied mammoths are.

XIV

Then as we linger at luncheon here,
O'er many a dainty dish,
Let us drink anew to the time when you
Were a Tadpole and I was a Fish.

FOOTNOTE:

[20] Copyright, 1909, by L. E. Bassett and Company.

WILL J. LAMPTON

William James Lampton ("Will J. Lampton"), founder of the "Yawp School of Poetry," was born in Lawrence county, Ohio, May 27, 185-, within sight of the Kentucky line. (Being a bachelor, like Henry Cleveland Wood, he has hitherto declined to herald the exact date of his birth.) His parents were Kentuckians and at the age of three years he was brought to this State. His boyhood and youth was spent in the hills of Kentucky. He was fitted at private schools in Ashland and Catletsburg, Kentucky, for Ohio Wesleyan University, which he left for Marietta College. In 1877 Mr. Lampton established the _Weekly Review_--spelled either way!--at Ashland, Kentucky. Although he had had no prior training in journalism, he wrote eleven columns for his first issue. His was a Republican sheet, and the good Democrats of Boyd county saw to it that it survived not longer than a year. From Ashland Mr. Lampton went to Cincinnati and joined the staff of _The Times_. _The Times_ was too rapid for him, however, and from Cincinnati he journeyed to Steubenville, Ohio, to take a position on _The Herald_. Mr. Lampton remained on that paper for three years, when he again came to Kentucky to join the staff of the Louisville _Courier-Journal_. Some time later his paper sent him to Cincinnati, which marked his retirement from Kentucky journalism. It will thus be seen that he "lapsed out of Kentucky for a time, and lapsed again at the close of 1882." Leaving Cincinnati he went to Washington and originated the now well-known department of "Shooting Stars" for _The Evening Star_. For some years past he has resided in New York, working as a "free-lance." For a long time he contributed a poem almost every day to _The Sun_, _The World_, or some other paper. In 1910 the governor of Kentucky created the poet a real Kentucky colonel; and this momentous elevation above earth's common mortals is heralded to-day upon his stationery. Colonel Lampton, then, has published six books, the editions of three of which are exhausted, and he is now happy to think that his works are "rare, exceedingly scarce." The first of them, _Mrs. Brown's Opinions_ (New York, 1886), was followed by his chief volume hitherto, _Yawps and Other Things_ (Philadelphia, 1900). The "other things" were poems, not yawps. Colonel Henry Watterson contributed a clever introduction to the attractive volume; and another form of verse was born and clothed. _The Confessions of a Husband_ (New York, 1903), was a slight offset to Mary Adams's _The Confessions of a Wife_. Colonel Lampton's other books are: _The Trolley Car and the Lady_ (Boston, 1908), being "a trolley trip from Manhattan to Maine;" _Jedge Waxem's Pocket-Book of Politics_ (New York, 1908), which was "owned by Jedge Wabash Q. Waxem, Member of Congress from Wayback," bound in the form of an actual pocket-book; and his latest collection of cleverness, _Tame Animals I Have Known_ (New York, 1912). The tall--and bald!--Kentuckian lives at the French Y. M. C. A., New York, in order, as he himself has said, "to give a Parisian tinge to his religion." His "den" is a delight to Bohemians, a replica of many a country newspaper office in Kentucky. He is one of the joys of life surely. And though he has turned out almost as much as Miss Braddon, he can recall but the four lines he wrote in 1900 upon Mr. James Lane Allen:

"The Reign of Law"--
Well, Allen, you're lucky;
It's the first time it ever
Rained law in Kentucky.

BIBLIOGRAPHY. _The Bookman_ (September, 1900); _The Bookman_ (May,
1902); _Cosmopolitan Magazine_ (November, 1907); _Lippincott's
Magazine_ (August, 1911).

THESE DAYS[21]

[From _Pearson's Magazine_ (April, 1907)]

Pray,
What is it to-day
That it should be worse than the early days?
Are the modern ways
Darker for all the light
That the years have shed?
Is the right
Dead--
Under the wheels of progress
By the side of the road to success,
Bleeding and bruised and broken,
Left in forgetfulness?
Is truth
Stronger in youth
Than in age? Does it grow
Feeble with years, and move slow
On the path that leads
To the world's needs?
Does man reach up or down
To take the victor's crown
Of progress in science, art and commerce?
In all the works that plan
And purpose to accomplish
The betterment of man?
Does the soul narrow
With the broadening of thought?
Does the heart harden
By what the hand has wrought?
Who shall say
That decay
Marks the good of to-day?
Who dares to state
That God grows less as man grows great?

OUR CASTLES IN THE AIR[22]

[From _Pearson's Magazine_ (September, 1908)]

I builded a castle in the air,
A magical, beautiful pile,
As the wonderful temples of Karnak were,
By the thirsty shores of the Nile.
Its glittering towers emblazoned the blue,
Its walls were of burnished gold,
Which up from the caverns of ocean grew,
Where pearls lay asleep in the cold.
Its windows were gems with the glint and the gleam
Of the sun and the moon and the stars.
Like the eyes of a god in a Brahmin's dream
Of the land of the deodars.
It stood as the work of a master, alone,
Whose marvelous genius had played
The music of heaven in mortar and stone
With the tools of his earthly trade.
I builded a castle in the air,
From its base to its turret crown;
I stretched forth my hand to touch it there
And the whole darn thing fell down.

CHAMPAGNE

[From _The Bohemian_]

Gee whiz,
Fizz,
You shine in our eyes
Like the stars in the skies;
You glint and gleam
Like a jeweled dream;
You sparkle and dance
Like the soul of France,
Your bubbles murmur
And your deeps are gold,
Warm is your spirit,
And your body, cold;
You dazzle the senses,
Dispelling the dark;
You are music and magic,
The song of the lark;
O'er all the ills of life victorious,
You touch the night and make it glorious.
But, say,
The next day?
Oh, go away!
Go away
And stay!
Gee whiz,
Fizz! ! !

FOOTNOTES:

[21] Copyright, 1907, by the Pearson Publishing Company, New York.

[22] Copyright, 1908, by the Pearson Publishing Co., New York.

MARY ANDERSON DE NAVARRO

Mrs. Mary Anderson de Navarro, the celebrated actress of the long ago, and a writer of much ability, is a product of Kentucky, although she happened to be born at Sacramento, California, July 28, 1859. When but six months old she was brought to Louisville, Kentucky, and there her girlhood days were spent. Miss Anderson was educated at the Ursuline Convent and the Presentation Academy, two Roman Catholic institutions of Louisville. At the age of seventeen years, or, on November 27, 1876, she made her _debut_ as _Juliet_ in "Romeo and Juliet," at Macauley's Theatre, Louisville, and her "hit" was most decided, both press and public agreeing that a brilliant career was before her. Miss Anderson's superb figure, her glorious hair, her magnificent voice, made her the great beauty she was, and thoroughly delightful. Leaving Louisville for a tour of the principal cities of the country, she finally arrived in New York, where she was seen in several Shakespearian roles. Some time later she put on "Pygmalion and Galatea," one of her greatest successes. In London Miss Anderson won the hearts of the Britishers with "The Lady of Lyons," "Pygmalion and Galatea," and other plays. Her second season on the stage saw a gorgeous production of "Romeo and Juliet" in London, with the American girl in her first role, _Juliet_. This "held the boards" for an hundred nights. She returned to the United States, but she was soon back in London, where "The Winter's Tale," her next play, ran for nearly two hundred nights. Short engagements on the continent followed, after which she came again to this country, and to her old home, Louisville, which visit she has charmingly related in her autobiography, _A Few Memories_ (London and New York, 1896), which work Joseph Jefferson once declared would make permanent her stage successes. From Louisville "Our Mary," as she was called by Kentuckians, was seen in Cincinnati, from which city she went to Washington, where she forever rang down the curtain upon her life as an actress. That was in the spring of 1889, and in June of that year she was married to Antonio F. de Navarro, since which event she has resided in England. In recent years Mary Anderson, that was, has visited in New York, but she has not journeyed out to Kentucky. In 1911 she collaborated in the dramatization of Robert Hichens's novel, _The Garden of Allah_, and she was in New York for its _premier_.

BIBLIOGRAPHY. _A Few Memories_ is delightfully set down, and,
though the author made no especial claims as a writer, her book
will keep her fame green for many years; _McClure's Magazine_
(July, 1908); _Harper's Weekly_ (January 9, 1909); _Century
Magazine_ (March, 1910).

LAZY LOUISVILLE[23]

[From _A Few Memories_ (London, 1896)]

After visiting many of the principal States, I was delighted to find myself again in quaint, charming Louisville, Kentucky. Everything goes along so quietly and lazily there that no one seems to change or grow older. Having no rehearsals I used my first free time since I had left the city soon after my _debut_ to see the places I liked best. Many of my childhood's haunts were visited with our old nurse "Lou." At the Ursuline Convent, with its high walls, where music had first cast a veritable spell, and made a willing slave of me for life, most of the nuns looked much the same, though I had not seen them in nineteen years. The little window of the den where I had first resolved to go upon the stage, was as bright and shining as ever; and I wondered, in passing the old house, whether some other young and hopeful creature were dreaming and toiling there as I had done so many years before. At the Presentation Academy I found the latticed summer-house (where, as a child, I had reacted for my companions every play seen at the Saturday matinees, instead of eating my lunch) looking just as cool and inviting as it did then. My little desk, the dunce-stool, everything seemed to have a friendly greeting for me. Mother Eulalia was still the Superioress, and in looking into her kind face and finding so little change there, it seemed that the vortex I had lived in since those early years was but a restless dream, and that I must be a little child again under her gentle care. No one was changed but myself. I seemed to have lived a hundred years since leaving the old places and kindly faces, and to have suddenly come back again into their midst (unlike Rip Van Winkle) to find them as I had left them.

Many episodes, memorable to me, occurred in Louisville. Not the least pleasant was Father Boucher's acknowledgment (after disapproving of my profession for years) that my private life had not fallen under the evils which, at the beginning, he feared to be inevitable from contact with the theatre. Father Boucher was a dear old Frenchman, who had known and instructed me in matters religious since my childhood. My respect and affection for him had always been deep. When he condemned my resolution to go upon the stage quite as bitterly as did my venerated guardian, Pater Anton, my cup of unhappiness overflowed. All my early successes were clouded by the alienation of such unique friends. My satisfaction and delight may be imagined when, after years of estrangement, Father Boucher met me with the same trust with which he had honoured me as a child, and heartily gave me his blessing.

It was also at Louisville that the highly complimentary "resolutions" passed by the Senate of Kentucky, and unanimously adopted by that body, were presented to me. They were the State's crowning expression of goodwill to their grateful, though unworthy, country-woman.

FOOTNOTE:

[23] Copyright, 1896, by Osgood, McIlvaine and Company, London.

MARY R. S. ANDREWS

Mrs. Mary Raymond Shipman Andrews, short-story writer and novelist, was born at Mobile, Alabama, in 1860, but she was brought to Lexington, Kentucky, in September, 1861, when her father, Rev. Jacob S. Shipman, an Episcopal clergyman, was chosen rector of Christ Church. When six years old she was sent to Christ Church Seminary, the church's school, conducted by Rev. Silas Totten and his daughters. One of these daughters tells with a smile to-day that "May" Shipman's first story, written at the age of seven, was upon her dog, "Shep." When thirteen years of age she discovered that the older girls in the school were studying French, when she was not, and she went to her father with the request that she be permitted to join the class. But the rector's question, "May, would you put in your furniture before you built your walls?" sent her back to her Latin and mathematics without further protest. She attended the school for eleven years, and at it received her education, never having attended any other institution. On November 26, 1877, when the future writer was seventeen years of age, her father accepted the rectorship of Christ Church, New York, and the family shortly afterwards removed to that city. She has been in Kentucky but twice since: five years after her departure, and about ten years ago. But that she has not forgotten her Kentucky home is evinced in the signed copies of her books which have found their way to the Blue Grass country and in her letters to former friends. On the last day of December, 1884, Miss Shipman married William Shankland Andrews, now associate justice of the supreme court of New York. Mrs. Andrews spends her summers in the Canadian woods, and the winters at her home in Syracuse, New York. Her first novel, _Vive L'Empereur_ (New York, 1902), a story of the king of Rome, was followed by _A Kidnapped Colony_ (New York, 1903), with Bermuda as the background. _Bob and the Guides_ (New York, 1906), was the experiences of a boy, "Bob," with the French guides of the Canadian woods who pursue caribou. _A Good Samaritan_ (New York, 1906), has been called the best story ever printed in _McClure's Magazine_, in which form it first appeared. _The Perfect Tribute_ (New York, 1906), a quasi-true story of Lincoln and the lack of enthusiasm with which the crowd received his Gettysburg speech, adorned with a love episode at the end, is Mrs. Andrews's finest thing so far. This little tale has made her famous, and stamped her as one of the best American writers of the short-story. It was originally printed in _Scribner's Magazine_ for July, 1906. Her other books are: _The Militants_ (New York, 1907), a collection of stories, several of which are set in Kentucky, and all of them inscribed to her father in beautiful words; _The Better Treasure_ (Indianapolis, 1908), is a charming Christmas story, with a moral attached; _The Enchanted Forest and Other Stories_ (New York, 1909), a group of stories first told to her son and afterwards set down for other people's sons; _The Lifted Bandage_ (New York, 1910), a most unpleasant, disagreeable tale as may well be imagined; _The Courage of the Commonplace_ (New York, 1911), a yarn of Yale and her ways, one of the author's cleverest things; _The Counsel Assigned_ (New York, 1912), another story of Lincoln, this time as the young lawyer, is not greatly inferior to _The Perfect_ _Tribute_. Mrs. Andrews's latest volume, _The Marshal_ (Indianapolis, 1912), is her first really long novel. It is a story of France, somewhat in the manner of her first book _Vive L'Empereur_, but, of course, much finer than that work of her 'prentice years. It has been highly praised in some quarters, and rather severely criticized in others. At any rate it has not displaced _The Perfect Tribute_ as her masterpiece. That little story, with _A Good Samaritan_, _The Courage of the Commonplace_, and _Crowned with Glory and Honor_, fairly entitle Mrs. Andrews to the first and highest place among Kentucky women writers of the short-story. She has attained a higher note in a most difficult art than any other woman Kentucky has produced; and it is only right and just that her proper position be allotted her in order that she may occupy it; which she will do with a consensus of opinion when her Kentucky life is more widely heralded.

BIBLIOGRAPHY. _American Magazine_ (May, 1909); _Scribner's
Magazine_ (September, 1911; August, 1912).

THE NEW SUPERINTENDENT[24]

[From _The Courage of the Commonplace_ (New York, 1911)]

Three years later the boy graduated from the Boston "Tech." As his class poured from Huntington Hall, he saw his father waiting for him. He noted with pride, as he always did, the tall figure, topped with a wonderful head--a mane of gray hair, a face carved in iron, squared and cut down to the marrow of brains and force--a man to be seen in any crowd. With that, as his own met the keen eyes behind the spectacles, he was aware of a look which startled him. The boy had graduated at the very head of his class; that light in his father's eyes all at once made two years of work a small thing.

"I didn't know you were coming, sir. That's mighty nice of you," he said, as they walked down Boylston Street together, and his father waited a moment and then spoke in his usual incisive tone.

"I wouldn't have liked to miss it, Johnny," he said. "I don't remember that anything in my life has ever made me as satisfied as you have to-day."

With a gasp of astonishment the young man looked at him, looked away, looked at the tops of the houses, and did not find a word anywhere. His father had never spoken to him so; never before, perhaps, had he said anything as intimate to any of his sons. They knew that the cold manner of the great engineer covered depths, but they never expected to see the depths uncovered. But here he was, talking of what he felt, of character, and honor, and effort.

"I've appreciated what you have been doing," the even voice went on. "I talk little about personal affairs. But I'm not uninterested; I watch. I was anxious about you. You were a more uncertain quantity than Ted and Harry. Your first three years at Yale were not satisfactory. I was afraid you lacked manliness. Then came--a disappointment. It was a blow to us--to family pride. I watched you more closely, and I saw before that year ended that you were taking your medicine rightly. I wanted to tell you of my contentment, but being slow of speech, I--couldn't. So"--the iron face broke for a second time into a whimsical grin--"so I offered you a motor. And you wouldn't take it. I knew, though you didn't explain, that you feared it would interfere with your studies. I was right?" Johnny nodded. "Yes. And your last year at college was--was all I could wish. I see now that you needed a blow in the face to wake you up--and you got it. And you waked." The great engineer smiled with clean pleasure. "I have had"--he hesitated--"I have had always a feeling of responsibility to your mother for you--more than for the others. You were so young when she died that you seem more her child. I was afraid I had not treated you right well--that it was my fault if you failed." The boy made a gesture--he could not very well speak. His father went on: "So when you refused the motor, when you went into engineers' camp that first summer, instead of going abroad, I was pleased. Your course here has been a satisfaction, without a drawback--keener, certainly, because I am an engineer, and could appreciate, step by step, how well you were doing, how much you were giving up to do it, how much power you were gaining by that long sacrifice. I've respected you through these years of commonplace, and I've known how much more courage it meant in a pleasure-loving lad such as you than it would have meant in a serious person such as I am--such as Ted and Harry are, to an extent, also." The older man, proud and strong and reserved, turned on his son such a shining face as the boy had never seen. "That boyish failure isn't wiped out, Johnny, for I shall remember it as the corner-stone of your career, already built over with an honorable record. You've made good. I congratulate and I honor you."

The boy never knew how he got home. He knocked his shins badly on a quite visible railing, and it was out of the question to say a single word. But if he staggered, it was with an overload of happiness, and if he was speechless and blind, the stricken faculties were paralyzed with joy. His father walked beside him and they understood each other. He reeled up the streets contented.

That night there was a family dinner, and with the coffee his father turned and ordered fresh champagne opened.

"We must have a new explosion to drink to the new superintendent of the Oriel mine," he said. Johnny looked at him, surprised, and then at the others, and the faces were bright with the same look of something which they knew and he did not.

"What's up?" asked Johnny. "Who's the superintendent of the Oriel mine? Why do we drink to him? What are you all grinning about, anyway?" The cork flew up to the ceiling, and the butler poured gold bubbles into the glasses, all but his own.

"Can't I drink to the beggar, too, whoever he is?" asked Johnny, and moved his glass and glanced up at Mullins. But his father was beaming at Mullins in a most unusual way, and Johnny got no wine. With that Ted, the oldest brother, pushed back his chair and stood and lifted his glass.

"We'll drink," he said, and bowed formally to Johnny, "to the gentleman who is covering us all with glory, to the new superintendent of the Oriel mine, Mr. John Archer McLean," and they stood and drank the toast. Johnny, more or less dizzy, more or less scarlet, crammed his hands in his pockets and stared and turned redder, and brought out interrogations in the nervous English which is acquired at our great institutions of learning.

"Gosh! are you all gone dotty?" he asked. And "is this a merry jape?" And "Why, for cat's sake, can't you tell a fellow what's up your sleeve?" While the family sipped champagne and regarded him.

"Now, if I've squirmed for you enough, I wish you'd explain--father, tell me!" the boy begged.

And the tale was told by the family, in chorus, without politeness, interrupting freely. It seemed that the president of the big mine needed a superintendent, and wishing young blood and the latest ideas, had written to the head of the Mining Department in the School of Technology, to ask if he would give him the name of the ablest man in the graduating class--a man to be relied on for character as much as brains, he specified, for the rough army of miners needed a general at their head almost more than a scientist. Was there such a combination to be found, he asked, in a youngster of twenty-three or twenty-four, such as would be graduating at the "Tech?" If possible, he wanted a very young man--he wanted the enthusiasm, he wanted the athletic tendency, he wanted the plus-strength, he wanted the unmade reputation which would look for its making to hard work in the mine. The letter was produced and read to the shamefaced Johnny. "Gosh!" he remarked at intervals, and remarked practically nothing else. There was no need. They were so proud and so glad that it was almost too much for the boy who had been a failure three years ago.

On the urgent insistence of every one, he made a speech. He got to his six-feet-two slowly, and his hand went into his trousers as usual. "Holy mackerel," he began--"I don't call it decent to knock the wind out of a man and then hold him up for remarks. They all said in college that I talked the darnedest hash in the class, anyway. But you will have it, will you? I haven't got anything to say, so's you'd notice it, except that I'll be blamed if I see how this is true. Of course I'm keen for it--Keen! I should say I was! And what makes me keenest, I believe, is that I know it's satisfactory to Henry McLean." He turned his bright face to his father. "Any little plugging I've done seems like thirty cents compared to that. You're all peaches to take such an interest, and I thank you a lot. Me, the superintendent of the Oriel mine! Holy mackerel!" gasped Johnny, and sat down.

FOOTNOTE:

[24] Copyright, 1911, by Charles Scribner's Sons.

ELVIRA MILLER SLAUGHTER

Mrs. Elvira (Sydnor) Miller Slaughter, the "Tatler" of _The Louisville Times_ in the old days, and a verse-writer of considerable reputation, was born at Wytheville, Virginia, October 12, 1860. When a child Miss Miller was brought to Kentucky, as her mother had inherited money which made necessary her removal to this State in order to obtain it. She was educated at the Presentation Academy, in Louisville, by the same nuns that had instructed Mary Anderson de Navarro, the famous actress. She was subsequently gold medalist at a private finishing school, but she still clings to the Catholicism instilled at the Presentation Academy. Shortly after having left school Miss Miller published her first and only book of poems, _Songs of the Heart_ (Louisville, 1885), with a prologue by Douglass Sherley.[25] About this time her parents lost their fortune, and she secured a position on _The Louisville Times_, where she was trained by Mr. Robert W. Brown, the present managing editor of that paper. After three years of general reporting, Miss Miller became editor of "The Tatler Column," and this she conducted for fourteen years with cleverness and success, only resigning on the day of her marriage to Mr. W. H. Slaughter, Jr. Her second book, _The Tiger's Daughter and Other Stories_ (Louisville, 1889), is a group of fairy tales, several of which are entertaining. _The Confessions of a Tatler_ (Louisville, 1905), is a booklet of the best things she did for her department on _The Times_. She surely handled some men, women, books, and things in this brochure in a manner that even he who runs may read and--understand! From 1909 to 1912 she lived at Camp Dennison, near Cincinnati, Ohio, but at the present time she is again at Louisville, engaged in literary work.

BIBLIOGRAPHY. _Blades o' Bluegrass_, by Fannie P. Dickey
(Louisville, 1892); _Dear Old Kentucky_, by G. M. Spears
(Cincinnati, 1900).

THE SOUTH AND SONG

[From _The Midland Review_ (Louisville, Kentucky)]

I.--THE SOUTH

Spirit, whose touch of fire
Wakens the sleeping lyre--
Thou, who dost flood with music heaven's dominions,
Where hast thou taken flight--
Thou comfort, thou delight?
In what blest regions furled thy gloomy pinions,
Since from the cold North voices call to me:
"Thou South, thou South! Song hath abandoned thee!"

II.--VOICES

We cry out on the air:
Thy palace halls are bare,
Shorn of the glory of the dream-gods' faces:
Thy sweetest strain were sung
When thy proud heart was young;
Fame hath no crowns, nay, nor no vacant places--
So, all in vain, thy poet-songs awaken:
Thou serenadest casements long forsaken.

Thy rivers proudly flow,
As in the long ago.
Like kings who lead their rushing hosts to battle:
Thy sails make white the seas--
They fly before the breeze,
As o'er the wide plains fly storm-drifted cattle:
Laughter and light make beautiful thy portals,
Spurned by the bright feet of the lost immortals.

What gavest thou to him
Whose fame no years may dim,
Song's great archangel, glorious, yet despairing--
Who, o'er earth's warring noises
Heard Heaven's and Hell's great voices--
Who, from his shoulders the rude mantle tearing,
Wrapt the thin folds about his dying wife,
The angel and the May-time of his life?

And what to him whose name
Is consecrate to Fame--
Whose songs before the winds of war were driven--
Who swept his lute to mourn
That banner soiled and torn,
For which a million valiant hearts had striven--
Who set God's cross high o'er the battling horde,
And sheltered neath its arms the lyre and sword?

What gav'st thou that true heart
That shrined its dreams apart,
From want and care and sorrow evermore--
Him, who mid dews and damp,
Burned out life's feeble lamp,
Striving to keep the wolf from out his door,
And while the land was ringing with his praise,
Slumbered in Georgia, tired and full of days?

And what to him whose lyre,
Prometheus-like, stole fire
From heaven; whom sea and air gave fancies tender--
Whose song, winged like the lark,
Died out in death's great dark;
Whose soul, like some bright star, clothed on in splendor,
Went trembling down the viewless fields of air,
Wafted by music and the breath of prayer?

What gav'st thou these? A crust:
A coffin for their dust:
Neglect, and idle praise and swift forgetting--
Stones when they asked for bread:
Green bays when they were dead--
Who sang of thee from dawn till life's sun-setting,
And whose tired eyes, thank God! could never see
Thy shallow tears, thy niggard charity.

Yet fair as is a night,
O strong, O darkly bright!
Thou shinest ever radiant and tender,
Drawing all hearts to thee,
As from the vassal sea
The waves are lifted by the moon's white splendor:
So poet strains awake, and fancies gleam
Like winds and summer lightning through thy dream.

SUNDOWN LANE

[From _The Louisville Times_]

Through a little lane at sundown in the days that used to be,
When the summer-time and roses lit the land,
My sweetheart would come singing down that leafy way to me
With her dainty pink sunbonnet in her hand.
Oh, I threw my arms about her as we met beside the way,
And her darling, curly head lay on my breast,
While she told me that she loved me in her simple, girlish way,
And then kisses that she gave me told the rest;
For a kiss is all the language that you wish from your sweetheart,
When you meet her in the gloaming there, so lonely and apart,
And she set my life to music and made heaven on earth for me
In that little lane at sundown in the days that used to be.

Through a little lane at sundown we went walking hand in hand,
'Mid the summer-time and roses long ago,
And the path that we were treading seemed to lead to fairyland,
The place where happy lovers long to go;
Oh, we talked about our marriage in the quiet, evening hush,
And I bent to whisper love words in her ear,
And her dainty pink sunbonnet was no pinker than her blush
For she thought the birds and flowers all might hear;
Oh, that dainty pink sunbonnet, bright in memory still it glows,
It hid her smiles and blushes as the young leaves veil the rose,
When she set my life to music and made heaven on earth for me,
In that little lane at sundown in the days that used to be.

Through a little lane at sundown I go roaming all forlorn,
Though the summer-time once more smiles o'er the land,
And the roses seem to ask me where their sister rose has gone
With her dainty pink sunbonnet in her hand.
But false friends came between us and I found out to my cost,
When I learned too late her sweetness and her truth,
That the love we hold the dearest is the love that we have lost,
With the roses and the fairyland of youth.
Now the flowers all bend above her through the long, bright
summer day,
And my heart grows homesick for her as she dreams the hours away,
She who set my life to music and made heaven on earth for me
In that little lane at sundown in the days that used to be.

FOOTNOTE:

[25] (George) Douglass Sherley, born at Louisville, Kentucky, June 27, 1857; educated at Centre College, Danville, Kentucky, and University of Virginia; joined staff of the old Louisville _Commercial_; made lecture tour with James Whitcomb Riley, the Hoosier poet; now resides near Lexington, Kentucky. Author of: _The Inner Sisterhood_ (Louisville, 1884); _The Valley of Unrest_ (New York, 1884); _Love Perpetuated_ (Louisville, 1884); _The Story of a Picture_ (Louisville, 1884). Mr. Sherley has done much occasional writing since his four books were published, which has appeared in the form of calendars, leaflets, and in newspapers.

JOSEPH S. COTTER

Joseph Seaman Cotter, Kentucky's only negro writer of real creative ability, was born near Bardstown, Kentucky, February 2, 1861. From his hard day-labor, he went to night school in Louisville, and he has educated himself so successfully that he is at the present time principal of the Tenth Ward colored school, Louisville. Cotter has published three volumes of verse, the first of which was _Links of Friendship_ (Louisville, 1898), a book of short lyrics. This was followed by a four-act verse drama, entitled _Caleb, the Degenerate_ (Louisville, 1903). His latest book of verse is _A White Song and a Black One_ (Louisville, 1909). Cotter's response to Paul Lawrence Dunbar's _After a Visit_ to Kentucky, was exceedingly well done, but his _Negro Love Song_ is the cleverest thing he has written hitherto. His work has been praised by Alfred Austin, Israel Zangwill, Madison Cawein, Charles J. O'Malley, and other excellent judges of poetry. Cotter is a great credit to his race, and he has won, by his quiet, unassuming life and literary labors, the respect of many of Louisville's most prominent citizens. One of his admirers has ranked his work above Dunbar's, but this rating is much too high for any thing he has done so far. In the last year or two he has turned his attention to the short-story, and his first collection of them has just appeared, entitled _Negro Tales_ (New York, 1912).

BIBLIOGRAPHY. _Lexington Leader_ (November 14, 1909); _Lore of the
Meadowland_, by J. W. Townsend (Lexington, Kentucky, 1911).

NEGRO LOVE SONG[26]

[From _A White Song and a Black One_ (Louisville, Kentucky, 1909)]

I lobes your hands, gal; yes I do.
(I'se gwine ter wed ter-morro'.)
I lobes your earnings thro' an' thro'.
(I'se gwine ter wed ter-morro'.)
Now, heah de truf. I'se mos' nigh broke;
I wants ter take you fer my yoke;
So let's go wed ter-morro'.

Now, don't look shy, an' don't say no.
(I'se gwine ter wed ter-morro'.)
I hope you don't expects er sho'
When we two weds ter-morro'.
I needs er licends--you know I do--
I'll borrow de price ob de same frum you,
An' den we weds ter-morro'.

How pay you back? In de reg'ler way.
When you becomes my honey
You'll habe myself fer de princ'pal pay,
An' my faults fer de inter's' money.
Dat suits you well? Dis cash is right.
So we two weds ter-morro' night,
An' you wuks all de ter-morro's.

FOOTNOTE:

[26] Copyright, 1909, by the Author.

ETHELBERT D. WARFIELD

Ethelbert Dudley Warfield, historical writer, was born at Lexington, Kentucky, March 16, 1861, the brother of Dr. Benjamin Breckinridge Warfield, the distinguished professor in Princeton Theological Seminary. President Warfield was graduated from Princeton, continued his studies at the University of Oxford, and was graduated in law from Columbia University, in 1885. He practiced law at Lexington, Kentucky, for two years, when he abandoned the profession for the presidency of Miami University, Oxford, Ohio. In 1891 he left Miami for the presidency of LaFayette College, Easton, Pennsylvania, where he has remained ever since. In 1899 Dr. Warfield was ordained to the Presbyterian ministry. He teaches history at LaFayette. Besides several interesting pamphlets upon historical subjects, Dr. Warfield has published three books, the first of which was _The Kentucky Resolutions of 1798: an Historical Study_ (New York, 1887), his most important work so far. _At the Evening Hour_ (Philadelphia, 1898), is a little book of talks upon religious subjects; and his most recent volume, _Joseph Cabell Breckinridge, Junior_ (New York, 1898), is the pathetic tale of the years of an early hero of the Spanish-American war, graphically related.

BIBLIOGRAPHY. _Munsey's Magazine_ (August, 1901); _The
Independent_ (December 25, 1902); _The Independent_ (July 13,
1905).

CHRISTOPHER COLUMBUS

[From _The Presbyterian and Reformed Review_ (April, 1892)]

Columbus is one of the few men who have profoundly changed the course of history. He occupies a unique and commanding position, seeming to stand out of contemporary history, and to be a force separate and apart. He is the gateway to the New World. His career made a new civilization possible. His achievement conditions the expansion and development of human liberty. His position is simple but certain. His figure is as constant and as inexorable as the ice floes which girdle and guard the pole are to us, or as the sea of darkness which he spanned was to his predecessors. He inserted a known quantity into the hitherto unsolvable problem of geography, and not only rendered it solvable, but afforded a key to a vast number of problems dependent upon it, problems not merely geographical, but economical, sociological and governmental as well.

Yet in all this there mingles an element of error. Great events do not come unanticipated and unheralded.

"Wass Gott thut, das ist wohl gethan,"

sang Luther, knowing well that God hath foreordained from the foundation of the world whatsoever cometh to pass. "In the fullness of time" God does all things in His benign philosophy. In the fullness of time man was set in the midst of his creation; in the fullness of time Christ came; in the fullness of time God opened the portals of the west.

If the Welsh were driven on our shores under Madoc, if the Norsemen came and sought to found here "Vinland, the good," they did not light upon the fullness of time. God had no splendid purpose for the Welsh; the Northland force was needed to make bold the hearts of England, France, and Italy, to unify the world with fellow-service in the Orient, to break the bonds of feudalism, and to wing the sandals of liberty. As Isaac Newton sat watching the apple fall in his garden, he was but resting from the labor of gathering into his mind the labors of men who had in this or that anticipated his discovery of the law of gravitation. In all scientific advance many gather facts. One comes at length and in a far-reaching synthesis arranges the facts of many predecessors around some central truth and rises to some great principle. So generalizations follow generalizations, and the field of truth expands in ever-widening circles from the central fact of God's establishment. Columbus is not like Melchisedec. He had antecedents--antecedents many and obvious. The highest tribute we can pay him is to say that he fixed upon one of the world's great problems, studied it in all its relations, embraced clear and definite views upon it, and staked his all upon the issue; and that not in a spirit of mere adventure, but of dedication to a noble purpose. He gave to a speculative question reality, and thereby gave a hemisphere to Christendom.

But like the girl who admitted the Gauls to the Capitol at Rome in return for "what they wore on their left arms," Columbus was overwhelmed by the reward which he demanded for his services. Without natural ability to command, and without experience, he demanded and obtained a fatal authority.

EVELYN S. BARNETT

Mrs. Evelyn Snead Barnett, a novelist of strength and promise, was born at Louisville, Kentucky, June 9, 1861, the daughter of Charles Scott Snead. On June 8, 1886, Miss Snead became the wife of Mr. Ira Sayre Barnett, a Louisville business man. Mrs. Barnett was literary editor of _The Courier-Journal_ for seven years, and her Saturday page upon "Books and Their Writers" was carefully edited. She did a real service for Kentucky letters in that she never omitted comment and criticism upon the latest books of our authors, with an occasional word upon the writers of the long ago. She was succeeded by the present editor, Miss Anna Blanche Magill. Mrs. Barnett's first story, entitled _Mrs. Delire's Euchre Party and Other Tales_ (Franklin, Ohio, 1895), the "other tales" being three in number, was followed by _Jerry's Reward_ (Boston, 1902). These novelettes made clear the path for the author's big novel, _The Dragnet_ (New York, 1909), now in its second edition. This is a great mystery story, one reviewer ranking it with the best detective tales of the present-day school. The American trusts and the hearts of women furnish the setting for _The Dragnet_, which is bigger in promise than in achievement, and which bespeaks even greater merit for Mrs. Barnett's new novel, now in preparation.

BIBLIOGRAPHY. _Kentuckians in History and Literature_, by J. W.
Townsend (New York, 1907); _Who's Who in America_ (1912-1913).

THE WILL[27]

[From _The Dragnet_ (New York, 1909)]

Soon after their return, the Alexanders were forced to move to town. Charles needed the time he had to spend on the road going to and fro, and he was unwilling to put unnecessary hours of work on Trezevant, who not only bore his share during the day, but was sleeping with one eye open in a dingy corner of the shops. As the Dinsmore was expensive, they rented a modern flat, with tiny rooms, but plenty of sunlight. Constance knew they could save here, especially as Diana still wished to make her home with them.

Finally, the last day at Hillside came.

Charles drove Diana and Lawson to town, to get things ready there, leaving Constance to see the last load off, and to make sure that everything was in good shape for the Clarks, who intended to take possession in the spring. Constance went into every room, list in hand, checking the things the new owners had purchased. Then she tried the window bolts, and snapped the key in the lock of the front door. She blew the horn for the brougham. The coachman came up. In a business-like, everyday manner, she ordered him to drive to town, and, getting in, without one look from the window, she left Hillside.

When she arrived at the new home, she was pleased to find that Diana and Lawson had arranged the furniture in the small rooms, and had a dainty little luncheon awaiting. As she was sitting down to enjoy it, her first visitor rang the bell--Aunt Sarah, just returned from the East and the latest fashions, looking younger than ever, and with a torrent of society gossip that was almost Sanscrit to Constance, occupied so long with the realities.

"What was your idea, Constance, in coming to this tiny place?" she asked, when she had given a full account of the delights of her summer.

Constance hesitated, but only for a moment. "Economy," she said, boldly.

Aunt Sarah looked anxious. "My dear child, has your husband been preaching? Don't let him fool you; they all try it. It's a trick. Every now and then they think it their duty to cry hard times, when it is no such thing. You go to scrimping and saving, like an obedient wife, and the first thing you know he buys an automobile or a yacht, or wants you to give a ball."

Constance smiled. "But this is real, Aunt Sarah. You know we are fighting a big trust, and while, eventually, we expect to win, we have to be content with little or no profits for a few years."

"Trusts! Profits! What difference do they make as long as you have a steady income of your own?"

Constance was debating with herself whether she ought to speak plainly and have it out with the Parker pride then and there, or wait until she were not quite so tired and unstrung, when she was happily spared a decision by her aunt's switching off to another track.

"Talking of money reminds me that I heard a piece of news to-day," she said, lowering her voice in deference to Diana's presence behind thin walls. "I heard that Horace Vendire made a will shortly after his engagement to ---- and has left her millions."

"Oh, aunt! I wonder if it is true! How dreadful it would be!"

Aunt Sarah put up her jeweled lorgnette. "Constance Parker, what on earth is the matter with you to-day? You seem to be getting everything distorted, looking at the world upside down. It's that country business--" she continued emphatically; "the very moment you developed a fondness for that sort of life, I knew you were bound to grow careless and indifferent in thoughts, ways, and opinions. People who love the country always seem to think they have to sneer at civilization."

Constance was too tired to argue, and too disturbed over the last piece of gossip to explain; so she said weakly that she supposed she had changed, and let the rest of the visit pass in banalities.

The next day a little lawyer sprang a sensation by notifying those whom it concerned that he held the last Will and Testament of Horace Vendire, duly signed, attested, and sealed in his presence, a month before the disappearance.

Charles came to tell the two women.

"No, no!" cried Diana: "It's a mistake! He did not intend it to stand!"

"You surmise the contents of the will?"

"If it was made only a month before he disappeared. Had he lived, he would have altered it. I begged him to. Must I go to the meeting of the heirs?"

"I think it is best. Cheer up; there are many things worse than money. Constance and I will go with you. Mr. James is back, and has asked us."

So Diana went, and she could not have looked more terrified had she been listening to the last trump, instead of to the smooth voice of a young lawyer reading the bequests of her dead lover.

The will was dated, July 26th, 1900. By it, Horace Vendire's life insurance was left to his brother James, an annuity of five thousand dollars to his mother, and an income of only three thousand a year to his fiancee, Diana Frewe, as long as she remained unmarried. It was evident to Charles that Vendire did not wish to give her enough to help her friends. The residue, and, eventually, the principal, were to be used in building and endowing the Horace Vendire Public Library in the city of New York.

In a codicil, he directed that his stock in the American Blade and Trigger Company should be sold, the directors of that company being given the option of buying it at par before it was offered elsewhere.

Mr. James Vendire was the first to congratulate Diana.

"Oh, don't!" she cried, shrinking from his proffered hand. "I cannot bear it. It is yours; you must take it." She grew almost incoherent.

Constance petted and soothed. "Be still, dear. Remember you are weak and unstrung. We will go home now, and see what can be done later."

FOOTNOTE:

[27] Copyright, 1909, by B. W. Huebsch and Company.

JOHN PATTERSON

John Patterson, "a Greek prophet not without honor in his own American land," was born near Lexington, Kentucky, June 10, 1861. He was graduated from Kentucky State University in 1882; and the following year Harvard granted him the degree of Bachelor of Arts. He took his Master's degree from Kentucky University in 1886. The late Professor John Henry Neville, one of Kentucky's greatest classical scholars, first taught John Patterson Greek; and to his old professor he is indebted for much of his success as a teacher of Greek and a translator and critic of its literature. Professor Patterson's first school after leaving Harvard was a private one for boys near Midway, Kentucky; and he was for several years principal of the high school at Versailles, Kentucky. His first book, _Lyric Touches_ (Cincinnati, 1893), is his only really creative work so far. It contains several fine poems and was widely admired at the time of its appearance. In 1894 Professor Patterson was made instructor of Greek in the Louisville High School, which position he held for seven years. His first published translation was _The Medea of Euripides_ (Louisville, 1894), which he edited with an introduction and notes. This was followed by _The Cyclops of Euripides_ (London, 1900), perhaps his finest work hitherto. In 1901 Kentucky University conferred the honorary degree of Master of Literature upon Professor Patterson; and in the same year he helped to establish the Patterson-Davenport school of Louisville. In 1907 he became professor of Greek in the University of Louisville; and since September, 1908, he has been Dean of the College of Arts and Sciences of the University with full executive powers, practically president. His institution granted him the honorary degree of LL. D. in 1909. Doctor Patterson's latest work is a translation into English of _Bion's Lament for Adonis_ (Louisville, 1909). At the present time he is engaged upon a critical edition of the Greek text of the _Lament_.

BIBLIOGRAPHY. _Library of Southern Literature_ (Atlanta, 1909), v.
ix; _Who's Who in America_ (1912-1913).

A CLUSTER OF GRAPES[28]

[From. _Lyric Touches_ (Cincinnati, 1893)]

Misty-purple globes,
Beads which brown autumn strings
Upon her robes,
Like amethyst ear-rings
Behind a bridal veil
Your veils of bloom their gems reveal.

Mellow, sunny-sweet,
Ye lure the banded bee
To juicier treat,
Aiding his tipsy spree
With more dulcet wine
Than clover white or wild woodbine.

Dripping rosy dreams
To me of happy hall
Where laughter trims
The lamps till swallow-call;
Of flowery cup and throng
Of men made gods in wit and song.

Holding purer days
Your luscious fruitfulness,
When prayer and praise
The bleeding ruby bless,
And memory sees the blood
Of Christ, the Savior, God and good.

Monks of lazy hills,
Stilling the rich sunshine
Within your cells,
Teach me to have such wine
Within my breast as this,
Of faith, of song, of happiness.

CHORAL ODE (ERIPIDES' MEDEA, LINES 627-662.)

[From the same]

The loves in excess bring nor virtue nor fame,
But if Cypris gently should come,
No goddess of heaven so pleasing a dame:
Yet never, O mistress, in sure passion steeped,
Aim at me thy gold bow's barbed flame.

May temperance watch o'er me, best gift of the gods,
May ne'er to wild wrangling and strifes
Dread Cypris impel me soul-pierced with strange lust;
But with favoring eye on the quarrelless couch
Spread she wisely the love-beds of wives!

Oh fatherland! Oh native home!
Never city-less
May I tread the weary path of want
Ever pitiless
And full of doom;
But on that day to death, to death be slave!
Without a country's worse than in a grave.

Mine eye hath seen, nor do I muse
On other's history.
Nor home nor friend bewails thy nameless pangs.--
Perish dismally
The fiend who fails
To cherish friends, turning the guileless key
Of candor's gate! Such friend be far from me!

FOOTNOTE:

[28] Copyright, 1893, by Robert Clarke and Company.

WILLIAM E. BARTON