VIII.

It was afternoon on the broad, cool veranda. Philip had departed northward by the morning train, and a twinkling-eyed old gentleman was sipping great cooling sips of julep through a straw. He had once been a bad man among the ladies, and perhaps a casual observer might have thought he was so still. At least, the laughing girl at his side seemed not to lack for entertainment.

“Ah but, my dear Maid Marion, you forget that after all Philip is my nephew.”

“And that should make him quite invincible to my poor charms?”

“Invincible! And you say he kissed you! Really, my dear, these minsters’ daughters—”

“And you a vestryman! But seriously, Mr. Melton, Philip got to making love awfully well toward the last—except the poetry—that was always terrible! You are to be congratulated, sir! With my aid you have started your nephew on the road to ruin!”

“Dear child! And have you never heard me say he is my favorite nephew?”

LAIRD GOLDSBOROUGH.

Notabilia
On the Francis Bergen Medal

One of the most charming of all the intellectual traditions of Yale is the group of Francis Bergen Memorial lectures delivered each year gratis to the University. Mr. Frank Bergen has lately added another memorial to his son. It takes the form of a gold medal to be awarded each year at the Lit. dinner by the outgoing board to the author of the most creditable contribution to the Lit. during their term of office. The editors themselves are ineligible.

Francis Bergen was in the Class of 1914, and a member of the Lit. board of that year. He was a college poet of distinction and promise. Had it not been for his tragic death on his way to Plattsburg, and with a few more years of lyric inspiration, it is likely that his poetry would have served itself as his own commanding memorial.

As it is, he is a traditional character of the Renaissance. You will meet no graduates of his generation who do not remember in greater or less degree Bergen’s extraordinary Turkish water pipe, and his long conversations with imaginary personages in his own room, unconscious of the attentive and astonished ears of his classmates about him. And the miracle is that in the Yale of then, still smacking of the Y-sweatered bulldog ideal, he should have been universally loved and admired, in spite of eccentricity. Such tales are indeed the romance of the beginning of wisdom at Yale.

This medal, this awarded piece of gold, this honor in the eyes of the literati of each winner’s generation at Yale, has about it a glamor of remembrance, a glory peculiar to itself. It is in memory of a poet whom the Gods loved too well, and did not allow to sing his fill. By its own name it is an inspiration more precious than gold.

M. E. F.

Book Reviews

The Captain’s Doll. By D. H. Lawrence. (Thomas Seltzer.)

There is, in all living literature, a kind of between-the-lines expression of the atmosphere belonging to the described period and the described place. With the advent of literary interest in thought as well as action, the point of view peculiar to the time, the race, and the situation has been present also. To create these mysterious things by connotation from the written word, so that the reader becomes, temporarily, contemporary and incident with the characters of the story, is at least one of the essentials of a permanent novel. And while I am not at all prepared to predict permanency for The Captain’s Doll, I feel that Mr. Lawrence has been particularly happy in this strange business of evoking environmental atmosphere.

For instance, there is a moment in the first “novelette”—the volume contains three—when the German Countess-heroine and the Scotch Captain-hero are climbing a Tyrol Alp in a motorbus. The Alps and a motorbus! Everywhere, against the naked looming rocks and great glaciers, the blue sky and the blown clouds, are bulky trucks, picknickers, and “the wrong kind of rich Jews”. There are wild mosses and berry bushes among the rocks, but “the many hundreds of tourists who passed up and down did not leave much to pick”. Yet the exhilaration and the spell that belong to climbing even a civilized mountain are there; the civilized climbers get out of their lorry and feel it. The German Countess feels it in a glad, pagan abandonment: she likes the wind in her face, and she likes to see “away beyond, the lake lying far off and small, the wall of those other rocks like a curtain of stone, dim and diminished to the horizon. And the sky with curdling clouds and blue sunshine intermittent”. She “breathes deep breaths”, and says, “Wonderful, wonderful to be high up!” The English-Scot feels it, but in a different way. “His eyes were dilated with excitement that was ordeal or mystic battle rather than the Bergheil ecstacy.” He looks soulfully out, out of the world, hating the mountains for their excitement, and their “uplift” that takes him beyond himself, and he feels bigger than the mountains. All that, as Mr. Lawrence tells it, comes pretty close to “getting” these races in a phase of our era, a phase which is important because man in relation to nature is man at his best. And anyone who has climbed mountains of late years will appreciate the realism of the picture, and of the story’s atmosphere.

But I said I could not predict the future for The Captain’s Doll. To me, Mr. Lawrence seems supremely able in handling the psychology of the moment, but less effective with the dynamic psychology necessary for his drama. I am not sure his characters would act as they do; I think no others would. Through a series of individual snapshots which are real to the life, Captain Hepburn and Countess Hannele move in a manner I cannot take for granted. More decidedly I should apply this criticism to the principals in the second story, The Fox. Over time, these people are all a little queer: it is the fault in most of this “new” kind of writing.

D. G. C.

Members of the Family. By Owen Wister. (The MacMillan Company.)

When the cauldron of contemporary American literature has boiled down and the dross been skimmed off by the years, there will be a special and enduring mold set aside for the works of Owen Wister. In his writings and in the pictures of Frederick Remington a richly romantic period of our national life will be long preserved. The Virginia, Lin McLean, and Scipio Le Moyne, even as the nightingale, were not born for death. As Scipio himself remarked, “I ain’t going to die for years and years.”

The eight short stories included in Members of the Family are typical of Mr. Wister’s most delightful and vivid manner. Those who enjoyed The Virginian or Red Men and White will wax happy over such tales as The Gift Horse and Where It Was. Owen Wister’s characters are unusual to us, but like that most fanciful of characters, Long John Silver, they live. For humor, strength of plot, characterization, and general worth this collection takes rank with the very highest.

F. D. A.

A Book of British and American Verse. Edited by Henry Van Dyke. (Doubleday, Page & Co.)

As a general rule anthologies are of a distinct sameness. The most noticeable thing, therefore, in regard to this collection of verse by Henry Van Dyke is his novel method of arrangement. Instead of fitting the poems in chronologically he segregates them according to their poetical form. The volume is divided into six sections, devoted respectively to: ballads; idylls or stories in verse; lyrics; odes; sonnets and epigrams; and elegies and epitaphs.

As to the selection, it is as judicious as one would expect coming from Mr. Van Dyke. An attractive feature is the inclusion of a considerable number of modern poems. In quantity the collection lies between the Oxford Book of English Verse and Burton Stevenson’s Home Book of Verse, being nearer to the former. It is especially adapted for use in class-room work and is a valuable addition to a small library, from a utilitarian as well as an aesthetic viewpoint.

F. D. A.

The Goose Step. By Upton Sinclair. (Paine Book Co.)

Thorough discussion of this latest book by Upton Sinclair is a task that would require many pages. A brief dissertation upon his remarks about Yale, however, will suffice to shed considerable light upon the book as a whole.

Commenting upon the University in general, Mr. Sinclair remarks: “But the secret societies come in, and now Yale is just what Princeton is, a place where the sons of millionaires draw apart and lead exclusive lives.” Disregarding for the moment the innuendo cast upon the societies here, it seemed best to interview the millionaire we know in order to ascertain whether he was really being secretly exclusive. The cause of research suffered when he proved to be out for the evening wearing the dress suit of his neighbor, who was working his way through college and could not use it himself.

Concerning societies Mr. Sinclair further opines that they encourage intoxication and venereal disease, but dictate the choice of clothing, slang, and tobacco, while preventing originality of cogitation. It is a sad thought, and the woeful plight of the American college lad is typified by the brazen indifference with which he bears his shame.

Mr. Sinclair certainly exaggerates—we are now speaking constrainedly, ourself—but his sincerity no one can doubt, as no one can sweepingly deny all his charges. He may irritate or he may distress or he may merely edify, but he always gets a reaction.

F. D. A.

Editor’s Table

Han and Cherrywold came across the campus together.

“What do you think of our first issue?” asked Han.

“Well,” replied Cherrywold, “a little thin, to be sure, but very fine goods—and mostly home-made, at that.”

“Yes,” mused Han, “and this one shall be better. I look forward to a short and pleasant evening.”

So saying, they approached the luxurious and delicately heated office confidently and in the best of spirits. But oh, what enemies lurk in the dark places ever eager to strike a treacherous blow at the Muse! In the window of her palace hung a filthy, yellow sheet advertising that altogether despicable sport of debating. With a mighty oath both jammed their keys into the lock, tore to the window, and stamped upon this latest outrage. That done, with spirits not altogether as calm as before, they sat down to wait for the others, who were, of course, late. In a short while they were joined by ante-moral, pro-subjective Rabnon. The conversation turned, purely by chance, upon bastard sons. The question before the house was: Whose was the greater—Aaron Burr’s or Elihu Yale’s? So rife became the argument that Cherrywold was dispatched to follow up certain clues and obtain further information upon the question. In a short while he returned greatly excited and out of breath. A number of prominent men had been interviewed—one of whom, though it may be hard to believe, was a professor. It was, however, decided to withhold the verdict on this remarkable case until the following month. As we go to press, new evidence is pouring into the office, owing to our expert secret service department, and we fully expect to startle the world by an announcement of momentous import at a near date.

In spite of this coup, our spirits were sorely tried by the sudden entrance of Mr. and Mrs. Stevens—one hour late! Due to the latter’s persuasive smile, we controlled our language. Beside, one must be cautious in the presence of three aliases. Cherrywold re-read Han’s poem for the tenth time.

“On reading this more and more,” he remarked, “I like it less and less.”

“Then read it less and less,” suggested Mr. Stevens. His wife tittered approvingly.

After that there was comparative silence, broken only by the muttered threats of Cherrywold each time he pulled out his watch. Another half-hour smoked by. Suddenly out of the darkness there appeared in the doorway a halo. With badly shaken nerves, all stared wildly at the light. Suddenly the hushed expectancy was broken.

“Well, if it isn’t little sunshine,” cried Rabnon. “And two hours late at that!”

“Then he’s the cause of all this daylight saving muddle,” asserted Mrs. Stevens. “Land sakes! Who’d think it to look at him?”

“My gosh!” yelled Cherrywold. “Aren’t we ever going to get down to work? If the rest of you don’t stop your giggling there won’t be any May issue. Now, Han, what do you want after this title; I suppose dashes?”

“No, thank you,” replied Han sweetly. “I’ll take dots.”

Eventually something was done, but no one knew exactly what nor cared much, for by that time it was far into the night and we were all three-quarters asleep. Some unknown person by the name of Briggs likes to tell people how to ruin a perfectly good day. He better look to his laurels, for he’ll have to go some to beat a new series, entitled “How to ruin a perfectly good evening,” by

CHERRYWOLD.

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