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Address-
~arbdlcur
w. G. RICHARDSON
"Viens, nwn aimee, fuyons au bois ! I! ne doit etre aucun delai.
Les vents nous ordonnent d' aimer; Tu dois les obeir, je crois; Ils sont hnus d' amour de toi, .Te sais qu' ils veul e nt t' enlever.
Viens, mon ai111ee,fuyons au bois. ll 11edoit etre aucun delai.
L'oiseait 11e chante que pour toi, .Te pense qu'il veut t'entrainer, P ourquoi veux-tu deja tarder?
Tu n'as que te confier a moi.
Viens, mon aimee, fuyons au bois; Il ne doit etre aucun delai!"
The harp ceased. After a moment, Franc;ois looked up into the fair, white face above him. "Will you not come with me into the forest, Yolande? Let us test the word of the winds, for surely they cannot speak false. In the forest we shall build us a cottage of boughs, and live there in peace and joy. We shall hear the young fledglings twitter at dawn, and we shall see the ky a golden blue at noon; at twilight we shall listen to the haunting murmurs of the rivulets, and at midnight we shall shiver deliciously as the owl makes moan to the moon. And with us shall be that exceedingly great restfulness which is unknown here at Gardefleur, unknown even here, the home of the trouveres of Provence."
The girl siJebAw.~;eringly. "Ob, Franc;ois, why did you ever leave Gardefle:' fi1fi/g . aris? lJi -4is has filled you with strange thoughts, that y~:il;t:lr,t.:'t,o'"R",,,greit(y }words, your pictures. Franrois . . ." · - - ,:;,,
"They are but the faint foreshadowings of what will come to us. For there, with no bonds to restrain us, we may live as we were intended to live. So why do you hesitate, Yolande? When I left, you promised to be waiting and ready for me when I returned. Why have you changed?"
"Yes, Frarn;ois, I promised to wait for you. But in your absence came another, Brasdefer, baron of Murfort. And this baron has great influence with my father, and through my father he paid his court to me. So on Easter day, I am to become the baroness of Murfort."
"But, Yolande! I know the baron of Murfort, for I saw him at the court of the king. And he is a hard man, and uncomely to look upon. You cannot love him ?"
Yolande smiled sadly. "But his barony adjoins that of my father. And," lifting her head proudly, "he is the best knight in Provence."
"What care you for all that? You once said that to be a poet was the noblest aim of man, so I became a poet."
"But you would have been one in any case, Frarn;ois. For the longing to sing beautifully was, I believe, born in you, and is a force stronger than you."
Frarn;ois shook his head discontentedly. "We are not discussing me, but you. Listen, Yolande, while I show you yourself twenty years hence. As baroness of Murfort you will be surrounded by power and glory, for the Sieur de Murfort is a doughty knight and ambitious. You will have rich tapestries to hang on your walls to keep out winter's biting blasts, and, if you wish it, you will be served from golden dishes. When you ride out in state, then will all the peasants bow very low, even until their foreheads touch the ground, and cry for alms. And you will be able to give it them, for I believe Brasdefer to be a generous man as well as a doughty knight. So all around you will be the splendor and glamour of success in this world." Frarn;ois became silent and stared moodily out over the battlements down on the river, a silver thread below in the moonlight.
"Why, then, do you say . ?" Yolande turned her eyes from Frarn;ois and also looked at the river.
"Yes, you will have splendor and glamour. But within twenty years you will lack and greatly desire beauty and love. For love and beauty are the breath of life to you, Yolande. But because you have had them all your life , you accept them as naturally as you do the air around you. So when you have long lived without them
"But if you come with me, in twenty years you may count yourself very fortunate if you have more than two rags to cover you. Instead of golden dishes you will eat from black pots. When you go forth, the peasants will not bow down in homage, but will look at you with pity and compassion; yet, strangely, there will be love and affection in their eyes; and in mine you will ever see adoration and devotion. So you will be not rich, but happy, not surrounded by glamour, but enveloped by contentment, not highly h ono red , but greatly loved."
Yolande stirred restlessly. "Frarn;ois, I wish you would not talk so. For you make me feel uneasy and dubious. Before you came. I was happy in the thought of being the bride of the noblest knight in Provence. Now, I hardly know. But surely you are wrong, for he will give me whatsoever I ask, even love, I believe."
"But love, Yolande, must be offered, not asked for. And so Brasd efer will not be able to satisfy you. Oh, Yolande, do but come with me. For love will ever refresh and revivify you, and keep you ever young, so that in twenty years you will be as you are now. Look, do you see the river below us? See how peacefully it flows. Gentle mists arise and waver about in ten thousand fantastical forms, each more mysterious and more alluring than the other. See that white-robed figure! It beckons to us entrancingly. Does it not draw you, Yolande? Listen to the whisper of the river. It is as soft music. Hear it say: 'Come with me, my children, and I will lead you into strange pleasures. · By my banks you may wander, on my bosom you may float, and I will ever raise new images of beauty before your eyes, and each day
shall show you some new phantasy of wonder. You shall live forever in my dreams, and never shall sorrow enter therein, for you yourselves shall be the makers of the dreams wherein you live!' Do you not feel it calling, Yolande?"
The girl replied dreamily, and the words fell softly and lingeringly. "Yes, Frarn;ois, I hear it; and its voice is bewitchingly entrancing. But Frarn;ois, it makes me afraid; for it promises us now the joys of the hereafter."
"It promises us no more than it and I can fulfill, with you to work for. Come, Yolande! If you stay here you will certainly be unhappy. Wf th me, you at least have a chance of happiness."
Y olancle looked at him long and searchingly; then, with a little sigh, she placed her hands on his shoulders and slipped off the battlement clown beside him. "You have bewitched me, Fran<;ois, with your words, but," smiling a trifle pensively, "it is sometimes good to be bewitched. So I will go with you."
"Where are you going with this fell ow?" Yolande uttered a slight scream as she saw the burly form of Brasdef er turn the corner.
For a moment no one spoke. Then Brasclefer turned to Fran<;ois. "Who are you, messire ?"
"Fran<;ois des Eaux."
"But who is Fran<;ois des Eaux? And what is he doing here with my betrothed bride?"
"He is a gentleman of Provence, and he has persuaded Y olancle to be his own bride." Fran<;ois' voice was low and pleasant.
"You lie, messire des Eaux, for Yolande is to become my bride two weeks from tonight." And Brasdef er struck Fran<;ois full in the face with his heavy gauntlet.
Francois rubbed his face. "I am sorry that you did that, sieur de Murfort, for now I shall be obliged to kill you, and I would gladly have been friends with you."
Brasdefer laughed scornfully. "There is no man in Provence who can kill me in fair combat."
"Not in the lists, possibly. of fence that you do not know. light for me to kill you now." "Are you ready, chevalier?"
But there may be a few tricks And there is fully enough moonFrarn;oi s unsheathed his rapier.
Brasdefer drew his own blade. "On guard!"
The swords engaged in sixte. After a moments testing, Frarn;ois disengaged and lunged quickly, Brasdefer turned his wrist and Frarn;ois' point passed harmlessly. Brasdefer laughed softly. Again Frarn;ois lunged. Instead of repeating his parry, Brasdefer turned his point down and pressed upon Frarn;ois' rapier, which was flung sharply on the stones. Brasdefer sprang forward and put his foot on the hilt.
"Come, youngster, put up your sword," and Brasdefer picked up Fran<;ois' sword and held it out to him. "You are too young for this sort of thing. And as for Yolande, forget her, as she will soon forget you. You may have captivated her by your words, but words soon lose their value unless they are supported by deeds." He looked at Yolande for a moment. "See, Franc;ois, she has already recovered."
Frarn;ois wheeled around on Yolande. "Tell him he is wrong, Yolande! Tell him you will still come with me."
Yolande smiled at him, and then turned her eyes on Brasdefer. "You speak so beautifully, Frarn;ois, that almost I am tempted to follow you. But Phi"lippe is right." She held out her hand. "Try to think of me kindly sometimes, Frarn;ois."
Frarn;ois took her hand and looked deeply into her eyes. Then, with a despairing sigh, he raised the tips of her fingers to his lips. "I shall come back, Yolande . . in twenty years." He bowed to Murfort and was gone.
The baron looked after him curiously. "Why twenty years? Why twenty years, Yolande?"
"Philippe, we are to be married in two weeks. And you have never spoken a word of love to me. Do you really love me, Philippe?"
Murfort was obviously staggered by the sudden shift of subject. "Why, of course, Yolande. Why do you ask?"
"How much do you love me, Philippe?"
"Why, as much as men usually do their wives, I suppose."
"Do you see that lily down on the bank of the river? Get it for me, Philippe." She smiled. "I see that I must teach you to be a lover."
"What do you want with the lily, Yolande?"
"Get it for me."
Murfort looked into the court below.
"No, you must get it yourself. I could order a soldier to get it."
The baron sighed ponderously. "Oh , very well. But I think it is foolishness."
"Is not love itself foolish? In any case, it 1s composed of many little foolish things."
The baron looked at the lily and sighed agam. "Oh , very well."
Just as Philippe disappeared , Franc;ois again appeared. In his hand he held a scroll. "Here, Yolande, is my last song. I would that I could make it beautiful enough to be worthy of you." He held out the scroll, which Yolande took mechanically. Franc;ois' eyes seemed filled with dreams and visions. "Que Dieu te garde!" When Yolande looked up, he was gone. Yolande unrolled the parchment and began deciphering the words by the light of the moon ....
"Well, Yolande, here is your lily." The baron stopped short and stared at her. "Why are you crying?"
Yolande turned on him in a passion . "Oh, how I " With a hysterical laugh she ran, dropping the scroll. Brasdefer's
glance followed her wonderingly. Then he stooped, picked up the scroll, and returned to his chambers.
"Read this to me," he ordered the page who came to attend him.
The page, in a low-pitched, melodious voice, read :
"Tu penses que tu vas m' oublier ?
Janiais tune pourras le faire,
Ou de mon portra-it te defaire.
Souvent contre ta volonte
Tu le v erras, 111abien-aimee,
Et il viendra pour te deplaire.
Tu penses que tu vas m' oublier?
J amais tu ne pourras le faire.
A l'air qite pour toi j'a ·i joue
Tu ne pourras pas te soustraire,
Car il viendra pour te distraire,
Quand tune veux pas l' ecouter.
Tu penses que tu vas m' oublier;
J amais tu ne pourras le fa ire!"
@n Iout~a' Jjirtbbap
M.W.H.
I would far rather give to you, (In verse that rhymes and has a pleasant swing), The moon, wrapped in a wisp of cloud, And tied with quite a string of stars. And with it, sentimental lines Of romance, not the least bit modern, So that you would say Softly to yourself , "I !mow now that he loves me , Since he wrote me this."
But you will far rather have, I know, (I love you well enough to know), My moon shaped frat pin, Wrapped in a fifty dollar dress To wear it on, So that you can say, wide-eyed, To that red lipped group about you , "He must be wild about me, Look! He gave me this."
a Jlttu Rtbittu of an eu,jiook
LESLIE L. JONES
The book in question is seventy-two years old. the reviewer something less than the same number of minutes. This, of course, being his professional age. Physically, the gentleman's arteries have felt the rough lashings of Time to greater purpose. The Reader, however, is entreated to retain his poise even in the face of such a staggering confession ( fancy a book reviewer admitting vocational juvenescence !) and by no means permit himself to be frightened from a perusal of the highly entertaining and instructive remarks which are about to be set down in this place for the delectation of the intelligentsia.
Into a field long since submerged beneath the excretions of a million hotly twirling printing presses, plus the exhalations of more than three million madly clicking typewriters, the present reviewer brings, at the very least, one offering worthy of consideration. He has read the booli. He has read this book from Alpha to Omega ; from soup to nuts ; from the neatly stamped gilt title on the cover to the ultimate "Printed in Great Britain at the press of the publishers" on page five hundred and seventy-five. Parts of this book he has read two, three, and four times; read it joyfully, eagerly, with undimmed delight. All of which, he is well aware, smacks strongly of enthusiasm,-that enthusiasm which so clearly and damagingly distinguishes the novice. To the buzzum of a real book reviewer, vintage '25, such emotions should be unknown and unknowable. However, no apologies are offered. Our own enthusiasm, in so far as it exists, is purely platonic. The author having long since gone to his reward one can scarcely accuse us of log-rolling. Also, Gentle Reader, should you persevere unto the end, you will uncover throughout these ramblings, no trace of constructive criticism, destructive criticism, or creative criticism, whatever this latter may be. The author's present calm indifference, not only to what is said concerning his work, but to that very work itself, somewhat removes the necessity of this. Simply, then, will we call attention in this paper to a good book
and true, a book which has slid down the major portion of one whole century unscarred by the sycle of oblivion, a book which may be purchased with ease and at a moderate price, a book, alas, but little read. And yet it is a sound piece of work. There is much fun in it, and interest, and, should you care for such things, instruction. As they say in the testimonials, if I could not readily obtain another copy I would not exchange my own for all the alleged books which the presses of this republic will emit between next Thanksgiving Day and Yorn Kippur.
A good wine, it has been said, requires no bush. This may or may not be true. Should you know where to find the wine it is doubtless quite true. On the other hand there are instances where this ancient quip falls wide of the mark. For example, suppo se there was an especially fine stand of old port wine, dark, syrupy old port, which could only be secured from a certain, particul2.r place, and this particular place, say, was the parish house of your local Methodist Episcopal Church, South. Under such circumstances, providing, of course, that the age were pre-Volsteadian, would you not feel the need of some measure of publicity, a bush or two, to direct your faltering footsteps? I think you would. Your thirst would scarcely lead you to the good clominie's threshold. . . . And so it is with books. Many an honest volume has had its flame hidden by the bushel of an ill-chosen title. No hush has been hung forth to tempt the thirsty traveller, or else the hush has been deceiving as to the fare dispensed within . For example, let us take "The Bible in Spain," by George Borrow. What does this title conjure up. In the mind of the average modern reader the mental reaction, I fear, is less than zero. And this because the averag~ modern reader will hurry past this suspicious caption so rapidly that his dizzy cerebrum will have little chance to formulate mental images of any sort. On the other hand, to the occasional reader for whom the pseudo-sacred title makes an appeal because of its promise to treat religious or missionary matters, the greater part of the work is liable to be exceedingly displeasing, if not somewhat shocking. It is the reader, who, in the end will suck the greatest enjoyment from the book,
when once he has "discovered" Borrow, that shies the quickest at the omi;iinous phrase, "The Bible in Spain."
Despite its title this book is not a religious tract; being neither burdened with dogma, nor unduly enlivened with evangelistic zeal. To quote from the author's preface:
"The work now offered to the public, and which is styled "THE BIBLE IN SPAIN," consists of a narrative of what occurred to me during a residence in that country, to which I was sent by the Bible Society, as its agent, for the purpose of printing and circulating the Scriptures. It comprehends, however, certain journeyings and adventures in Portugal, and leaves me at last in the "land of the Corhai," (Morrocco) to which region, after having undergone considerable buffeting in Spain I found it expedient to retire for a seqson."
"Buffeting" is our key word. It is this buffeting, one is led to believe, which causes Borrow to speak of these five years in Spain as "the most happy years of my existence." Not that, in the traditional manner of missionaries (after all he was not a missionary), he carried upon his shoulder the irritating and inviting chip; but nothing pleased this curious, six-foot, white haired youth of thirty, more than to come to grips with the tyrannies of Rome. And whether the poverty and ignorance and misery of the lower classes of Spain during the middle of the last century were due to the half-nelson which the heir of Saint Peter and his minions ( as Borrow might have put it), had upon the purse and pulse ( and still have, for that matter) of the nation, or whether the backwardness of the country was the result of other forces, it cannot be gainsaid that such deplorable conditions did exist. And upon this stronghold of the Papacy, in the year 1835, descended one George Borrow, armed with a contract from the Bible Society of London, a trunk of Testaments, a stout British biceps, and a large No. 10 size case of Romishphobia. This is about the only point upon which the liberal reader will quarrel with Borrow . his intolerance of Rome. It runs through
all of his works, particularly Lavengro and Romany Rye, books written after his exploits in Spain. And still, even here, one can not fairly condemn him. Only with the institution and its evils does he wage war. For individuals he has nothing but respect and kind words . when they merit them. The Order of Jesus, that bete noir of most evangelicals, receives his commendation and approval. In short, Borrow is no bigot; hypocrisy and can't being foreign to the man. He believes in God, and trusts Him, without forgetting, however , to take his own part. I can recall no instance in the entire book where he kneels down with any lost soul and prays. His prayers, for he does pray, are offered up in the quiet of his own chamber this chamber so frequently to be found in some remote, outlandish tavern surrounded by smugglers, ruffians , murderers, gypsies, and such fauna.
"THE BIBLE IN SPAIN)) is usually classified ( if, indeed , such a singular work can be classified) as a book of travels. Should your tastes, however, not run in the direction of arm-chair voyaging, there is still an abundance of good stuff le£t you. For those of sociological bent there are his fascinating comments on gypsy Iif e ( first hand information, this, for much of his time in Spain was spent with this curious and despised race), and, above all, there is that racy account of Madrid jail Madrid jail, into which the poor, harassed Government of Spain had the misfortune to thrust our hero. Here he remained for three weeks ( secretly delighted, one suspects) steadily refusing to be ejected until an official apology was forthcoming.
" . . On leaving the apartment, I turned to the alcayde, who stood at the door. 'Take notice,' said I, 'that I will not quit this prison till I have received full satisfaction for being sent here uncondemned. You may expel me if you please but any attempt to do so shall be resisted with all the bodily strength of which I am possessed."
So the alcayde and the other turnkeys of The Carcel de la Corte let Don Jorge alone, employing only verbal argument, until
the Government acknowledged in writing their error. To this was added an offer of compensation, which, needless to say, was disdainfully refused.
But perhaps you are not interested in such things, perhaps you are a lover of the romantic, the picturesque, the exotic. In this case you have only to follow the fortunes of Benedict Mol, that amazing Swiss who bobs up in the most unexpected corners of Spain with his weird tale of hidden treasure, saints' tombs, and dying dragoons, in the search for which Government, as usual, played a gullible and rather ridiculous part. Or better still, turn to page 158, and learn what happened to one Quesada, loathed Captain-General of Madrid, during a friendly little revolt of the Liberal party, backed by the National Guard. . The scene is the interior of a wineshop immediately after the fracas; George is there with the son of his landlady, Baltasarito, an ardent Nationalist:
"A huge bowl of coffee was then called for, which was placed upon a table around which gathered the National soldiers. There was silence for a moment, which was interrupted by a voice roaring out, 'El panuelo !' A blue kerchief was forthwith produced, which appeared to contain a substance of some kind. It was untied, and a gory hand and three or four dissevered fingers made their appearance, and with these the contents of the bowl was stirred up. 'Cups, cups!' cried the Nationals. . . . " 'Ho, ho, Don Jorge!' cried Baltasarito, coming up to me with a cup of coffee, 'pray do me the favor to drink upon this glorious occasion.' "
On the other hand, should your interests lie neither with sociology nor with the romantic; should you, we will say, be a devout believer in the blessings of Democracy, a staunch admirer of the under dog, then will Borrow's preface find a warm place in your heart. Says he, in part:
" for it will be as well here to observe that I advance no claim to an intimate acquaintance with the
Spanish nobility, from whom I kept as remote as circumstances would permit me; en revanche, however, I have had the honour to live on familiar terms with the peasants, shepherds and muleteers of Spain, whose bread and bacalao I have eaten, who always treated me with kindness and courtesy, and to whom I have not unfrequently been indebted for shelter and protection."
And should you, in addition, be a member of the Ku Klux Klan, or any similar body of kindred minds, to whom the Beast of the Apocalypse and the Bishop of Rome are one and the same person, then will the robustious manner in which our Testament peddler assaults all things papal arouse your admiration and delight, although you may not quite understand how he could consistently consort so amicably with Jesuits, friars, and parish priests. You would, however, get a Kollassal kick out of the episode of the nuns, one of the most naively amusing things in the book. Rambling in the environs of Lisbon, Borrow visits a convent, chats a while with a "soft, feminine voice ," the owner of which remains invisible, and then
"Whilst proceeding southwest I heard a fresh and louder tittering above my head, and looking up saw three or four windows crowded with dusky faces and black waving hair; these belonged to the nuns, anxious to obtain a view of the stranger. After kissing my hand repeatedly, I moved on, and soon arrived at the southwest encl of this mountain of curiosities."
At least, the chap had a sense of humor. Or was he merely being mischieviously kind? vVho can tell how many chaste hearts beat just a trifle faster, that night in lonely cells, because of this handsome heretic's adieu? Quien sabe?
And yet it is in none of these features or aspects, geographica l , sociological, romantic, or religious. that I find the greatest charm of "TI-IE BIBLE IN SPAIN." This charm, for me, lay in Barrow's astonishing philological activities. Or perhaps linguistic would be
the better word. There are those irt authority (gehtlemen, that is, with names buttressed by many an imposing letter), who will not agree that Borrow's linguistic proclivities are to be taken seriously. This in spite of the fact that our author published a dictionary of the Romany tongue, spoken by the gypsies of England, and also translated the New Testament into Gitano, the gypsy dialect of Spain. It is very possible that George Borrow was not acquainted with Darmstetter's Law concerning the fate of final unaccented vowels in open syllables, but it is equally certain that he could order an omelet, a bottle of wine, and a bed "in the principal languages and dialects of the East and West." And this, believe me or no, you will find him doing throughout this book, in no less than fourteen distinct and different tongues, excluding Genoese, of which he writes, "and it is no child's play to speak the latter, which I myself could never master." This alone stumps him. As for the rest,-Portugese, Spanish, French, Gitano, Russian ( he had just spent three years in St. Petersburg), Basque, Irish, Sanscrit, Latin, Greek, Arabic, Hebrew, Polish and German -he was quite at ease. He is constantly encountering the queerest sort of folk: now it's an old Irish woman to whom he talks Gaelic , and who admiringly calls him "the fairy man" now it is the Gypsies who freely accept him as their London brother, so fluently he trips off the Crabbed Gitano . and now he accosts one Dionysius of Cephalonia in Greek. Then there's the Jew of Gibraltar with whom he talks Moorish, and the Russian Jew with whom he had conversed in Polish and German on a Baltic steamer several years before. Now he addresses him in Hebrew. . . . And then, the Manchegen Prophetess. But let Borrow tell this one :
"In passing through La Mancha we stayed for four hours at Manzanares, a large village. I was standing in the market place conversing with a curate, when a frightful ragged object presented itself: it was a girl about eighteen or nineteen, per£ ectly blind, a white film being spread over her huge staring eyes. Her countenance was as yellow as that of a mulatto. I thought at first that she was a gypsy, and addressing myself to her, in-
quired in Gitano if she were of that race. She understood me, but shaking her head, replied that she was something better than a Gitano and could speak something better than that jargon of witches; whereupon she commen ced asking me several questions in exceedingly good Latin. I was, of course, very much surprised, but summoning all my Latinity, I called her Manchegan Prophetess , and expressing my admiration for her learning, begged to be informed by what means she became possessed of it."
Tempting as it is , space forbids a longer quotation. The reader is referred to Chapter forty-five for the complete account of this curious adventure, and the secret of the Manchegan Prophetess.
The incidents mentioned by no means conclude Mr. Barrow's linguistic and other gymnastics in Spain. To quote merely the interesting passages would be equivalent to reprinting the book, this book so vastly readable. For it is a companionable book; a book fit for the fireside o' winter nights, for an autumn stroll , a sea voyage, or a wearisome day in a Pullman parlor car. Theodore Roosevelt took it with him on his trip into the African jungles and when my turn comes to take up residence on that muchbepeopled desert island of literature, I only ask that along with the beans, and the biscuits, and the little leather bag of gold doubloons, there be tossed ashore at least one copy of "THE BIBLE IN SPAIN," preferably the Nelson Edition, that lightweight, reel bound volume which fits so snugly in one's coatpocket.
OOlltapottt, of ~omtn
MARY HALL DRINKARD, '25
We wonder what tempted our grandmothers to squander their pin money. \Ve know it wasn't movies or permanent wavescould it have been cosmetics? Was rice powder advertised boldly in the corner drug store? No. Grandmother lived in a day when the corner drug store wasn't, for the village doctor carried his pills in his saddle bags; and grandmother, if she was very vain, dusted her nose with a little bag of rice powder.
The corner drug store is a more or less modern institution, which owes its prosperity in a large measure to patent medicines which promise health over night and cosmetics which guarantee "beauty in an instant." The cosmetic industry, in turn, may attribute its success to the chemist who compounds the commodity and the psychologist who names it. What would be the use of the chemist fixing up a complicated formula for producing fragrance, if some one didn't come along to name it "Kiss Me Quick" perfume or "Sheik Lure?" But maybe we shouldn't give all the credit to the chemist and psychologist. Perhaps the flapper who falls for it is the outstanding "reason" for the phenomenal growth of the "beauty business" as a popular periodical names it.
The use of perfumes is a woman's prerogative: under no conditions must a man usurp the right. A little lavender water is permissable after shaving; but odors other than tobacco aren't appreciated by any woman. A man has a prerogative of choosing his own neckties-a woman her cosmetics. Each field is distinct. Valentino may be quoted as an exception to the rule; but all of us must give him credit for marrying into the perfume business.
Perfumes, however, are not the invention of the modern chemist. The earliest written records mention various perfumes and incenses. However, the perfume of the ancients had one distinct advantage over its modern successor-an advantage not in quality, but in quantity. These perfumes were very rare, due
to the costly extraction from herbs, aromatic gums and other material sources. These very rare odors must have been rather lasting since some were found in King Tut's tomb. When we encounter more or less antagonizing perfumes in soap, shoe polish, shampoo and furniture polish, we may know that the chemist is to blame, for it is he who has waved the magic wand, producing perfumes in apalling abundance. Perhaps, we shouldn't censure him too much, for perfumes like chewing tobacco are anti septic in that no self-respecting bacteria or protozoan wll live any wh ere in the precincts of either.
If there is one class of preparations that has a more universal appeal than any others, it is hair preparation, since they are used by those with and without hair. We find that we are able to buy stuff guaranteed to grow , remove , bleach, color, curl. straighten, or slick clown the hair. Hair tonics are made from almost anything, the two most important constituents being glycerine and quinine. The label always says, "Apply with friction," said friction being the m ost valuable ingredient. Deputatorie s are all alike in that they claim to destroy hair growth . However , the razor business is safe for a while yet. Hardware stores will continue to sell razors; and men will continue to swear.
Something should be said about beauty clay, since it is resp onsible for so many tragedies. Consider the care of little Jimmi e who was spanked for tracking mud in the living room, all because his sister had plastered her face with clay; and, unfortunately for Jimmie, the minute she stepped on the Wilton rug, she sneezed . All users of clay packs are very enthusiastic, since it is quite a relief to see one's own face again, no matter how homely it may be!
To the laity, that is, to the gentlemen, cosmetics means rouge and lipstick. Rouge is prepared in a variety of shades ranging from rose to orange, in liquid, greasy, and compact forms. Ther e wa s a time when mercuric iodide was used in rouge; and thi s often produced mercury poisoning. That shouldn't cause much alarm, as it is too expensive for practical use, and what most of us rate is an organic dye. In lipsticks, the desired effect is one that will rub on smoothly and "not come off with the soup." One concern which takes it for granted that the lipstick will survive
even the caf e noir, advertises an absolutely "Kiss Proof" lipstick. Lipsticks are prepared in fruit flavors now; but conservative women are still "taking theirs straight."
Tooth pastes and shaving creams should be mentioned together. since some tooth pastes are really just degenerate forms of shaving cream with peppermint flavor in lieu of perfume. Other dental preparations contain cuttlefish bone, which is also used for canary birds to pick on, although they have no teeth.
Thanks to the "beauty business," it is now possible, when we see a rotten movie to comfort ourselves by calling to mind the fact that the culluloid isn't wasted after all. When the film is worn out, it is cleaned, dissolved in a substance, which is also used for flavoring the banana ice cream served in college mess halls; and the result is liquid nail polish. This nail enamel has many virtues. It not only gives our nails a shine, but can be used as a corn cure, or as a covering for cuts instead of "New Skin."
Surely the corner drug store is legitimate enough ; but the patent medicine industry has been denounced as "The Great American Fraud," and then those who would mete out the same harsh judgment to the cosmetic business. However, we who have shiny noses are glad that someone mixed up some powder with acacia and gave us the convenient compact. Then, too, the vanity case can be called into service as a dance favor or graduation present! When our bangs would fly away with the wind, we are grateful for bandoline. We are thankful too for the rouge box which helps us "keep that schoolgirl complexion" under control. A little convenient color often wards off those kindly queries, which we answer by formula: "No I'm not ill or worried. It's this academic rush of things that is cheating me out of my eight hours per and stealing away the bloom of youth."
No, the devotees of the dorine will never condemn the cosmetic industry, even though it does ask us a dollar for a nickel's worth of borax, masqueraded as Egyptian Bath Crystals.
Oh the "beauty business" has its uses! It gives the preacher something to preach about, the teacher something to teach about, and after all chemists must live; and they can't all be college professors!
~Ima Jlflater
PETER DALE
cheering and chaos rats noise confusion fear insidious gnawing fear new friends frats rushing compulsory athletics bosh and bunkum
inevitable bull sessions who is christ new viewpoints new dirty stories and new obscenity
calf love and further sex friendship beautiful noble friendship blah true friends rarely four or more years of the same useless grind straggle by sheepskins and further blah
more years pass many more and now it is dear old alma mater
Qtrogg
=Dorb ~UHlt=itug
W.H. S.
I had just recuperated from a very serious attack of that deadly Chinese disease, Mah Jong, and my dreams had almost returned to normal. Only once or twice a week now did I take a track period running from a curly-cue tailed green dragon, or did the winds injure the tender and valuable flowers while Chu-Chin Chow glared with baneful yellow eyes at me from behind the wall. My pulse beat almost regularly again and my friends began to congratulate me on my recovery when one day, by chance, I read th e daily paper and contracted the dread and serious cross-worditus. The doctors have given me up in despair, nightly I pac e the floor deliriously saying, "a Chinese coin in three letters starting with a y-yab, yac, yan, yeb, yec, yen. Ah that is it." 1 pounce with delight on my puzzle while my room mate gazes with pitying eyes on the wreck of her old lady and amusingly says:
"They say that a sure symptom is talking outloud to oneself."
I have more interest in the daily papers than all current events clubs and history classes could ever give to me. I rush to intercept all my fellow sufferers and gloat with joy when I get there first, the proud possessor of the daily cross-word puzzle. My dictionary, which has been in the family four years, and which last week shone beautifully new, now exhibits earmarks and thumbings so as to resemble the original copy of Shakespeare.
My vocabulary has increased immensely. I have learned the very important fact that em is a printer's measure and that men's names are as a rule Ted and women's Anna. My book on abbreviations, their uses and importance will put me in the hall of fame forever, and the organization of the Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Obsolete Words will keep me ever bright in sympathetic minds. Have you thought of the extreme heartlessness of that? They drag shamelessly from their shelter in dusty tombs, words that have hibernated for ages. And indeed unless this is stopped immediately our vocabularies will grow so large that we
will never understand each other. We may not be working on the same cross-word puzzle book.
So I am sending my regrets to all my friends, including the faculty, and am going to shut myself up in a closed room, with a crate of cross-word puzzles, a barrel of apples and a library, and perhaps by next year I'll be well on my way in mastering esquimau marbles or South American Chile Con Carne and be cured forever of Cross-Word Puzzle-itus !
Wo .fflp ii,tar
THELMA PHLEGAR
Dear, when you/re gay the silent earth awakes
To tnusic that unlocks her age-old bars; The tender song a moon-child's finger makes With threads of laughter strung upon the stars. And though the world be dumb beneath her scars, Y ct in her heart the lyric rings and breal?s
To shining fragments.
Dear, when you are still
The turmoils of the thoroughfares quickly cease, And minds unqwiet withdraw to drink their fill
Of radiant calmness. Then life grants releaseCool shadow places deep in rest and peace, / Ind sun-warmed plains beyond a purple hill.
It was a cold clear February nigh . The skies w,e clear and • ' t not a trace of a snow cloud was in sight. Th~moon, .that , ,ni_z.ht, seemed to be trying to equal her partner of i: @ ay in bri~iia c and beauty. She shone on the earth with that mellow light that ~is so bewitching and yet beyond description. That night the moon was destined to see a touching scene in the neighborhood of Oyster Bay. In the cemetery at Oyster Bay the moon shone on th e stones making a gruesome and almost uncanny scene , the scene that strikes one with awe and brings him nearer his Maker. All was silent except the occasional call of a night bird.
Up the white gravel path which leads to the cemetery, a solitar y figure was winding its way. It proved to be a man, a man of about sixty years of age, presumedly. And yet his appearance placed him in the category of men of questionable age, but he was past middle age. He wore a large black sombrero, as is worn by men of the out-of-doors; his suit was of dark serviceable material. and of a style as questionable as his age; his trouser s were tucked into the tops of his leather boots . As he plodded up the gravel path, his shoulders were noticeably stooped ; not with age , but as though under the pressure of great sorrow and care. His left arm hung limp and lifeless at his side. He plodded onward, looking neither to the left nor to the right. His goal seemed to be a certain grave in the moonlight cemetery and his whole attention wa s focused on this one grave . On and on he walked and as he neared the grave he seemed to tread more carefull y as though walking on sacred ground. On arriving at the grave he sank down on his knees and assumed the attitude of one in communion and prayer with God.
While the stranger was praying there came up the path another fjgure. This time it was a young man who carried his head erect upon l,is squared shoulders. He had the unconscious erect carriage of a soldier. His face was calm with traces of great sorrow.
He too seemed to have his attention riveted upon one particular grave. It was the grave of his father, Colonel Theodore Roosevelt. This second man was the Colonel's eldest son, Colonel Theodore Roosevelt, Jr. The young colonel drew near to the grave of his father and as he rounded the head stone he was startled by seeing a man, a stranger, kneeling and praying at the grave of his father. The surprise was so great that he remained immovable for several moments. As he stood there he could hear the kneeling man softly weeping, apparently not cognizant of the younger man's presence. In shifting his position the younger man's foot struck a stone, the sound caused the kneeling man to start and raise his head. When they saw each other neither man moved. Each remained as he was the moment before, staring at each other and not knowing what to do or say. Under ordinary circum stances it is disconcerting to be surprised by the unexpected appearance of a total stranger, but to come upon each other in a locality sacred to both was almost unbearable. After some moments of silence the kneeling man regained his voice.
"To me this is the most sacred ground on earth ," said he. "Here lies the greatest man America has ever seen. He was her most unselfish statesman who always thought of his fellow-countryman before he thought of himself."
The young man was amazed and confounded when he heard this praise of his father from the lips of the stranger. He stood silent and turned it over in his mind again and again.
"What makes you speak so?" finally asked the younger man, very respectfully. "What makes you love him above all of America's statesmen, especially Washington?"
"Yes, America has had many wonderful statesmen," replied the kneeling man, "but I'll tell you of a great service that this man once did for me ." In saying this he pointed to the man in the grave.
"This is my story. It happened while the Colonel and I were hunting in Africa. I was one of the expedition that went to Africa with him . Vve had just crossed the Lugungwa River and
stayed overnight in a small friendly village which was in the English territory. It was a neat trim little settlement for an African negro village. The natives were very hospitable people who treated us very kindly. Most Africans treat white men with respect because the negro is afraid of the white man's 'magic' and the white man's 'shoot gun.' We took a native supper and after this we sat around the fire questioning the old men about the lay of the land. At about 9 :30 we retired. We slept well that night and rose very early as was the Colonel's custom. That morning we made time to pass by cleaning guns, inspecting packs , and getting further information about the land round about. At about 10 :00 o'clock we heard a great uproar. It took the Colonel and I several minutes to reach the center of the village, as our hut was on the outskirts. We hurried along to see what all the commotion was about. As we entered the village street ( it is more cow path than street), we saw a huge crowd before the chief's hut. They were jabbering to the chief who truly looked worried to death. The natives saw us coming down the street and our appearance seemed to give them new strength for they shouted louder than ever before. The Colonel warned me to have my pistol in readiness as there might be a fight with these frenzied men. Having made sure that they were in readiness we proceeded in our run up to the chief's hut. As we neared the hut the chief rushed out and thrw himself at the Colonel's feet and started to talk to him in his jabbering tongue. vVe could understand nothing but the appealing look in his eye told us that we would not have to use our pistols to fight these negroes. I called our interpreter who had a long conversation with the chief. After several minutes of rapid conversation he turned to us to deliver the chief's message in our own tongue. He told us that a man-eating leopard had killed the bravest warrior of the tribe. The chief begged that the 'wonderful white man' rid him of this menace which the gods had so unjustly sent upon him. Now in all British Africa when a man-eater is loose in the country, the nearest white man is compellecl by law to go and kill the animal, as you know the natives are forbidden the use of fire arms except an inferior brand of shot gun. The Colonel grasped the situation at once. Without
an instant's h~sitation the Colonel started to run down the street calling to me to follow. We ran at top speed all the way to our hut and got our most powerful rifles. When we returned to the chief's hut there were two negroes to guide us to the place of the killing. To get to the scene we had to walk along a path in single file. The path led along the edge of a ten-foot embankment. On the left of this embankment was the Lugungwa River; and on the right was the forest, impenetrable at this time of the year, with its heavy foliage hanging over the path. We plunged into the path. I leading the way followed by a negro, the Colonel was third and he was followed by the other negro. In this formation we crept along the path, expecting every minute to see the man-eater. As we neared the place of the killing the natives became very restless. In this fashion we crept along for about sixty yards when I was struck on the head and shoulders by a great weight. This blow was immediately followed by shrieks, a report, and an angry snarl. It came upon me in a flash, I immediately understood the situation. For an instant I was paralized with fear, then I screamed, 'My God-the man-eater.' I felt that the end was near. The events of my past life ran riot in my brain. The Colonel's shot had merely given the leopard a flesh wound on the shoulder. As soon as the native, who was marching between the Colonel and me, had seen whc1:thad happened turned and ran past the Colonel. As he ran past he knocked the Colonel's gun into the river. ·with the loss of the gun I now gave up hope of rescue. By this time the beast had hold of my left arm and was dragging me towards the forest, where he could eat me undisturbed and at his leisure. The Colonel did not falter for an instant; after losing his gun he drew his skining knife and sprang upon the animal. There was a fierce struggle, each contestant had his life at stake. We fought for ten minutes before the Colonel could get the opening that he was seeking. At last it came; the man-eater exposed his chest into which the Colonel pushed his knife until it pierced the animal's heart. The beast had a few convulsions and stretched out dead at our feet. We paid dearly for this fight; the Colonel received a cut from the animal's claw which confined him to his bed for three weeks and only the expert treatment of Dr. London, who
traveled with the expedition, saved the Colonel from blood poison. I had to have the arm which the leopard had bitten amputated and now I wear a cork one. When we returned to the village with the dead man-eater we were given a great ovation for having saved the tribe (as they thought) from ultimate destruction. We remained at the village for a month to recuperate. During our stay we were held in awe by the natives, who looked upon us more as gods than as men. We were made, the Colonel and I, a kind of advisory board to the chief, with whom we ruled and sat in state. When a month had elapsed we left the village and continued our hunt. When we returned to the States the Colonel and I parted, never to see each other again in this life, although we kept a steady correspondence."
When the stranger finished his narrative both men found themselves kneeling at the grave. The young Colonel had his head buried in his hands.
"Now here he lies dead while I still live," said the stranger, "I owe my life and everything to him. Every year, at this time, I make a pilgrimage to this hallowed spot to pay my simple homage to my rescuer and to offer up a prayer to Him for his soul. Now, my friend, don't you think that he is the greatest and most unselfish American that has ever lived ?"
The young Colonel could not answer, he was weeping those manly tears of filial love. He knew how unselfish and big-hearted his father had been. He was too overcome with grief to speak, the stranger saw this and did not press him for an answer. After a moment of silence, broken only by the son's sobs, the stranger rose and descended the white gravel path. The young Colonel followed him with his eyes until he was out of sight. They met unknown to each other, and so they parted. The stranger left the father and son. The son to pray; the father to rest.
The bright winter moon shone down upon a lonely grave beside which was the kneeling son. The night birds called each other and all was at peace expect the lonely kneeling figure in the cemetery at Oyster Bay.
J~ J,i~torp;sunk?
Mr. Henry Ford says that it is. And Mr. Ford is no mean authority . . on some subjects. Whether or not history is one of them has not yet been definitely determined. The intelligentsia smile scornfully , and direct our attention to the gentleman's Peace Ship of 1915, and to his recent hysterical attack upon the Jews. Mr. Ford were better employed, say they, in devising new methods for increasing the production of his notorious motor car. On the opposite side is that great number of people, who, having witnessed the astonishing success of Henry Ford in industry, and being properly impressed by his millions, can find no fault with his beliefs or actions, whether of a social, economic, or political nature. Also, the vague, rather incomprehensible war which Mr. Ford is constantly waging with Wall Street endears him to the masses. Therefore, when Henry Ford states that history is bunk the assenting echo, if not critical, is at least of formidable proportions. Who, then, is right? Ford or the doctors of philosophy? And who is wrong?
The answer, as with most questions, is to be found at neither pole. Mr. Ford's assertion is, perhaps, a bit sweeping, and a cautious person would not care to endorse it. On the other hand it is barely possible that, from a certain view of the question, Mr. Ford is in the right. It will not do to dismiss him lightly upon the theory that all topics with which we have but slight acquaintance are necessarily bunk. As the old-time copy-books used to say. "There are two sides to every question." Therefore , let us see if we can glimpse this matter from the side of Henry Ford. Just what were the factors which influenced him to deliver this apparently ill-considered judgment? Or was it, after all, an illconsidered judgment? Had Mr. Ford, on the contrary, pondered this question seriously, and thus honestly come by his opinion that "History is bunk?" A brief glance into the history of Mr. Ford's own life may prove of service in uncovering the answer.
First, however, it will be necessary to determine just what is meant by the word "bunk." Scarcely a day goes by in which we
do not encounter this explosive, little monosyllable, and like so many other every day carelessly employed words we meet with no little trouble when we attempt to define it. In this particular instance the dictionary affords us no assistance. The thickest and heaviest of them all does not give to "bunk" any meaning remotely connected with the idea we are pursuing. A "bunk," we are informed, is the small, shelf-like bed upon which sailors sleep in forecastles. "To bunk," verb intransitive, is to sleep upon such a bed. Close at hand, however, we observe two words which are more to the purpose, possessing, as they do, an outward appearance of relationship. The first is a noun, bunkum; the second a verb, bunco. An unprofessional estimate ( we will not pretend to philological skill) would be that "bunk" is a shortened, colloquial form of one of these words, or of both of them. To bunco is defined as, to victimize, to flim-flam. Bunkum is more generously endowed with meanings. A few to the point are: empty talk, pointless speechmaking, balderdash. And balderdash, to carry our research further, is defined as: senseless jargon. Of such, then, is history? Senseless, empty, pointless? Bunk? These are harsh indictments. And can they be justified? Apparently no. Still, as the old-time copy-books used to say, "there are two sides to every question." Let us continue.
The next point to be determined is just what sort of history Mr. Ford had in mind when he uttered his stinging phrase. Here, I believe, may be found the key to the whole business. No intelligent person will deny that several varieties of history exist. The most striking fact which the student encounters as he enters an institution of higher learning, is the vast amount of historical information acquired in school, which he must begin to unlearn. He finds that the brand of history retailed in the little red schoolhouse on the hill ( or in the big brick schoolhouse on Main Street), will not easily stand the test of an impartial inspection of events and peoples. This is clearly evident in the yearly rows over textbooks which embellish our daily newspapers, and honest historians despair of ever seeing their works in the lower schools. Successful history texts are prepared on the good old plan of : "Give the people what they want." And just here, perhaps, we can make
use of Mr. Ford's expression, for the type of history usually demanded by the "peepul" is chiefly, and violently, bunk.
This condition of affairs, it is true, is slowly improving. But if you have any doubts as to the popular taste in history, please to examine any of the texts used ten, fifteen, or twenty years ago. Not only the texts used in district schools, but in secondary education, and even in universities. And could you inspect the histories with which Mr. Ford was familiar, those in use thirty and forty years ago, your judgment of his historical estimate would, at the very least, be somewhat reserved. For it was this type of history which Mr. Ford had in mind,-the sort of history dispensed at the little red schoolhouse upon the hill. The sort of history which was responsible for a certain young Southern woman reaching the age of twenty-seven years before learning that "dammyankee" was two words. Mr. Ford, having been busily, profitably, and usefully engaged in perfecting his motor car has had very little time to pursue the study of history, and quite naturally, when this word is flung at him, on the witness stand or elsewhere, he immediately thinks of that particular brand of history with which he is acquainted, and, in the light of his matured intelligence, he cannot but conclude that history is bunk.
But, say you, even though Mr. Ford has not done graduate work in history, he, at least, has read the newspapers; he, at any rate, has studied current history and events in our national periodicals. This only proves the gentleman's case. Should this be the source of his historical information, then no one can accuse him of wrongfully applying the word "bunk." Here public opinion is solidly behind him. Out of every ten men, nine will tell you that they do not believe one-half of what the papers print.
And so, considering Mr. Ford's remark from the viewpoint of his historical sources ( the little red schoolhouse upon the hili, and the daily journals), one can not fairly condemn his smashing employment of the devastating little vocable "bunk."
