Edward Alsworth Ross is nationally one of the best-known men here represented. He was born at Virden, Illinois, in 1866; was graduated from Coe College, Iowa, in 1886; and then continued his education in Berlin and Johns Hopkins. He has been professor of economy, sociology, and kindred subjects at many universities, including Indiana University, Cornell, Leland Stanford, Junior, the University of Nebraska, and, since 1906, the University of Wisconsin. He is the author of many books and magazine articles, among the most noteworthy of the former, perhaps, being "Sin and Society," "Social Psychology," "Latter Day Sinners and Saints," and "The Changing Chinese."The selection here chosen is from the last named book. The style is like the man, forceful, trenchant, and abounding inlife. Mr. Ross's tall, rugged, muscular figure and forceful gestures are familiar to the lovers of lectures in Wisconsin, and all who have been fortunate enough to hear him, whether in regular classes at the University, or in extension or other lecture work, will recall his striking appearance as they read the clear, clean-cut statements in this selection.
Edward Alsworth Ross is nationally one of the best-known men here represented. He was born at Virden, Illinois, in 1866; was graduated from Coe College, Iowa, in 1886; and then continued his education in Berlin and Johns Hopkins. He has been professor of economy, sociology, and kindred subjects at many universities, including Indiana University, Cornell, Leland Stanford, Junior, the University of Nebraska, and, since 1906, the University of Wisconsin. He is the author of many books and magazine articles, among the most noteworthy of the former, perhaps, being "Sin and Society," "Social Psychology," "Latter Day Sinners and Saints," and "The Changing Chinese."
The selection here chosen is from the last named book. The style is like the man, forceful, trenchant, and abounding inlife. Mr. Ross's tall, rugged, muscular figure and forceful gestures are familiar to the lovers of lectures in Wisconsin, and all who have been fortunate enough to hear him, whether in regular classes at the University, or in extension or other lecture work, will recall his striking appearance as they read the clear, clean-cut statements in this selection.
From "THE CHANGING CHINESE." Chapter I. Copyright, 1911, by the Century Co.
China is the European Middle Ages made visible. All the cities are walled and the walls and gates have been kept in repair with an eye to their effectiveness. The mandarin has his headquarters only in a walled fortress-city and to its shelter he retires when a sudden tempest of rebellion vexes the peace of his district.
The streets of the cities are narrow, crooked, poorly-paved, filthy, and malodorous. In North China they admit the circulation of the heavy springless carts by which alone passengers are carried; but, wherever rice is cultivated, the mule is eliminated and the streets are adapted only to the circulation of wheel-barrows and pedestrians. There is little or no assertion of the public interest in the highway, and hence private interests close in upon the street and well-nigh block it. The shopkeeper builds his counter in front of his lot line; the stalls line the streets with their crates and baskets; the artisans overflow into it with their workbenches, and the final result is that the traffic filters painfully through a six-foot passage which would yet be more encroached on but for the fact that the officials insist on there being room left for their sedan chairs to pass each other.
The straightened streets are always crowded and givethe traveler the impression of a high density and an enormous population. But the buildings are chiefly one story in height, and, with the exception of Peking, Chinese cities cover no very great area. For literary effect their population has been recklessly exaggerated, and, in the absence of reliable statistics, every traveler has felt at liberty to adopt the highest guess.
Until recently there was no force in the cities to maintain public order. Now, khaki-clad policemen, club in hand, patrol the streets, but their efficiency in time of tumult is by no means vindicated. A slouching, bare-foot, mild-facedgendarmesuch as you see in Canton is by no means an awe-inspiring embodiment of the majesty of the law.
There is no common supply of water. When a city lies by a river the raw river water is borne about to the house by regular water-carriers, and the livelong day the river-stairs are wet from the drip of buckets. When the water is too thick it is partially clarified by stirring it with a perforated joint of bamboo containing some piece of alum.
There is no public lighting, and after nightfall the streets are dark, forbidding, and little frequented. Until kerosene began to penetrate the Empire the common source of light was a candle in a paper lantern or cotton wick lighted in an open cup of peanut oil. Owing to the lack of a good illuminant the bulk of the people retire with the fowls and rise with the sun. By making the evening of some account for reading or for family intercourse, kerosene has been a great boon to domestic life.
Fuel is scarce and is sold in neat bundles of kindling size. Down the West River ply innumerable boats corded high with firewood floating down to Canton and HongKong. Higher and higher the tree destruction extends, and farther and farther does the axman work his way from the waterways. Chaff and straw, twigs and leaves and litter are burned in the big brick bedsteads that warm the sleepers on winter nights, and under the big, shallow copper vessels set in the low brick or mud stoves. Fuel is economized and household economy simplified among the poor by the custom of relying largely on the food cooked and vended in the street. The portable restaurant is in high favor, for our prejudice against food cooked outside the home is a luxury the common people cannot afford to indulge in.
Proper chimneys are wanting and wherever cooking goes on the walls are black with the smoke that is left to escape as it will. Chinese interiors are apt to be dark for, in the absence of window glass, the only means of letting in light without weather is by pasting paper on lattice. The floors are dirt, brick, or tile, the roof tile or thatch. To the passer-by private ease and luxury are little in evidence. If a man has house and grounds of beauty, a high wall hides them from the gaze of the public. Open lawns and gardens are never seen, and there is no greenery accessible to the public unless it be the grove of an occasional temple.
In the houses of the wealthy, although there is much beauty to be seen, the standard of neatness is not ours. Cobwebs, dust, or incipient dilapidation do not excite the servant or mortify the proprietor. While a mansion may contain priceless porcelains and display embroideries and furniture that would be pronounced beautiful the world over, in general, the interiors wrought by the Chinese artisan do not compare in finish with those of his Westernconfrere....
No memory of China is more haunting than that of the everlasting blue cotton garments. The common people wear coarse, deep-blue "nankeen." The gala dress is a cotton gown of a delicate bird's-egg blue or a silk jacket of rich hue. In cold weather the poor wear quilted cotton, while the well-to-do keep themselves warm with fur-lined garments of silk. A general adoption of Western dress would bring on an economic crisis, for the Chinese are not ready to rear sheep on a great scale and it will be long before they can supply themselves with wool. The Chinese jacket is fortunate in opening at the side instead of at the front. When the winter winds of Peking gnaw at you with Siberian teeth, you realize how stupid is our Western way of cutting a notch in front right down through overcoat, coat and vest, apparently in order that the cold may do its worst to the tender throat and chest. On seeing the sensible Chinaman bring his coat squarely across his front and fasten it on his shoulder, you feel like an exposed totem-worshipper.
Wherever stone is to be had, along or spanning the main roads are to be seen the memorial arches known aspailowserected by imperial permission to commemorate some deed or life of extraordinary merit. It is significant that when they proclaim achievement, it is that of the scholar, not of the warrior. They enclose a central gateway, flanked by two, and sometimes by four, smaller gateways, and conform closely to a few standard types, all of real beauty. As a well-builtpailowlasts for centuries, and as the erection of such a memorial is one of the first forms of outlay that occur to a philanthropic Chinaman, they accumulate, and sometimes the road near cities is lined with those structures until one wearies of so much repetition of the same thing, however beautiful.
Professor Showerman is another author-teacher whom Wisconsin may claim as her own. He was born at Brookfield in 1870, was graduated from the University in 1896, and took his doctorate in 1900. He had the advantage of two years' study at Rome, where he was Fellow of the Archaeological Institute of America in the American School of Classical Studies. Since returning, he has been Professor of Latin Literature at his Alma Mater. He is member of many learned societies, and is the author of "With the Professor" and "The Indian Stream Republic and Luther Parker," besides many articles which are familiar to readers of the Atlantic Monthly and other leading periodicals.His style will be noted at once by the careful reader as being different from that of most other prose writers whose works we quote here. It is more leisurely. He brings to the common things about us in Nature the kindly, alert intelligence of one who has seen many things in many lands, but who has the memory to re-create truthfully the days of youth.
Professor Showerman is another author-teacher whom Wisconsin may claim as her own. He was born at Brookfield in 1870, was graduated from the University in 1896, and took his doctorate in 1900. He had the advantage of two years' study at Rome, where he was Fellow of the Archaeological Institute of America in the American School of Classical Studies. Since returning, he has been Professor of Latin Literature at his Alma Mater. He is member of many learned societies, and is the author of "With the Professor" and "The Indian Stream Republic and Luther Parker," besides many articles which are familiar to readers of the Atlantic Monthly and other leading periodicals.
His style will be noted at once by the careful reader as being different from that of most other prose writers whose works we quote here. It is more leisurely. He brings to the common things about us in Nature the kindly, alert intelligence of one who has seen many things in many lands, but who has the memory to re-create truthfully the days of youth.
"IN OCTOBER." From the Sewanee Review.
... On a late October Saturday morning, after a week in school at the village, you take your gun and a favorite play, whistle to already eager Billy, and follow the path to the Brush. You traverse its quiet length by the winding road that is always mysterious and full of charm, however often you tread it, you cross the stubbled barley-field that borders Lovers' Lane, and cross the lane itself and enter the Woods. You feel the friendly book in your pocket, and pat the friendly dog at your side, restfully conscious that you will spend neither profitless nor companionless hours. To be sure, you have in the back of your mind a thought or two about fox squirrels, or even red squirrels, and of a stew-pie—the savor of it is in your sensitive nostrils; but these thoughts are only vague.Your eyes are not greedily watchful—only moderately so; you have already begun to outgrow the barbarous boyhood delight of mere killing. Good will reigns in your breast.
You advance cautiously, the breech-loader resting in the bend of your left arm, every step causing pleasant murmurs among the autumn leaves. When you pause, the sound of your heart-beats is audible. The genial golden tone of Indian Summer pervades the air.
When you have penetrated to the heart of the Woods, you sit down on a familiar log, the gun caressingly across your knees, and drink in the fine wine of woodland enjoyment! Ah, the silence of the Woods! How deep and how full of mystery! And how deeper whenever some note of life emphasizes the stillness—the knocking of a woodpecker, the cry of a sapsucker, the scream of a jay, the caw of a crow aloft on some decayed topmost branch in the distance!
A distant barking note makes you start. There is a fox squirrel over yonder somewhere, beyond the ruins of the old arch. You strain your attention toward the sound. Billy sits bolt upright, with round eyes, questioning ears, and suspended breath.
But just as you are thinking of getting up, a nut drops with a thump on the log beside you and bounds lightly into the leaves at your feet. You know what that means! You look up instantly and catch just a glimpse of a sweeping foxy tail as it vanishes along a big branch and around the thick stem of a tree. He goes up forty or fifty feet, and then, far out on the big oak branch, lies close to the bark, out of sight.
Billy whines uneasily; he shivers with excitement. You say: "Sit still, Billy!"
There is only the least bit of the foxy tail visible. You tread softly to one side and another, slowly circle the tree, and all the while the owner of the tail subtly shifts his position so that you always just fail to get a shot.
Finally, you resort to stratagem; you pick up a nut and throw it with all your might to the other side of the tree. He hears it fall, and, suddenly suspicious, shifts to your side of the branch. But you are not quick enough; by the time you have raised the gun, he has become satisfied that you are the greater danger of the two, and has shifted back to safety.
And now you resort to more elaborate stratagem. You say: "Sit down, Billy!" and Billy obeys, keeping his eye on you, and dropping his ears from time to time, as he catches your glance, in token of good-will. You circle the big tree again, and as you go the tail shifts constantly.
Finally, when you are opposite Billy, you raise the gun with careful calculation. You call out quietly but sharply to your ally: "Speak, Billy, quick!"
Billy is tense with excitement at sight of the raised gun. He speaks out sharply, at the same time giving a couple of little leaps. The squirrel shifts again to your side, suddenly.
And now comes your opportunity! As he sits there a moment, his attention divided between you and the new alarm, the breech-loader belches its charge. A brownish-red body with waving tail comes headlong to the ground with a crash among the leaves, which rustle and crackle for a moment or two at your feet as you watch the blind kicks of the death struggle. You pick him up, with no very great eagerness, and go on your way—regretfully, for you are enjoying the life of the Woods, and are enough of a philosopher and sentimentalist to wonder what, afterall, is your superior right to the enjoyment, and whether the contribution to the sum total of happiness in the universe through you is enough to compensate it for the loss through the squirrel.
You ask Billy about it and get no help. He simply says that whatever you think best is bound to be all right, and leads the way toward the old arch.
William Ellery Leonard was born in New Jersey in 1876. He has been a professor of English in the University of Wisconsin only since 1909, so he is not, as yet, so closely connected with the state in the thought of the alumni of the University as are most of the men whose works have just been discussed and illustrated. But if what he has produced may fairly be taken as an earnest of his future work, his name will be one which all lovers of our University will be proud to associate with that institution. One needs read scarcely more than a paragraph at almost any point in his published works to realize that Mr. Leonard is a man of keen and kindly interest in all things that he hears and sees, and that he has traveled and studied and lived widely and wisely. He has published several volumes, both of poems and prose,—notable among them being "Sonnets and Poems," "The Poet of Galilee," "Aesop and Hyssop," "The Vaunt of Man and Other Poems," and "Glory of the Morning." The selections given are taken from the last two volumes mentioned.One acquainted with modern English poetry may sense a marked likeness between Mr. Leonard's poems and those of Swinburne, though the former says he is not conscious of any such resemblance. There is a warmth of passion, a fluid quality in the rhythm, markedly like those elements in the great English poet. The selection from "Glory of the Morning" here given begins at that point in the play where Half Moon, the Chevalier, the white trapper, comes back to his Indian wife to bid her farewell and to take their two children with him to his home in France. The reader will feel, even in this brief extract, the sweep toward a climax of emotion, and will be impelled to read the whole play at his first opportunity.(One of the most interesting features of the editorial work of this volume has been the adjustment of the choice of selections respectively of the editors and authors. The editors'choice of the poems from Mr. Leonard's volume, "The Vaunt of Man," was "Love Afar"; the author, on the other hand, tells us that he thought so little of this poem that he even considered omitting it from the volume. His preference is "A Dedication." What does the reader say?)
William Ellery Leonard was born in New Jersey in 1876. He has been a professor of English in the University of Wisconsin only since 1909, so he is not, as yet, so closely connected with the state in the thought of the alumni of the University as are most of the men whose works have just been discussed and illustrated. But if what he has produced may fairly be taken as an earnest of his future work, his name will be one which all lovers of our University will be proud to associate with that institution. One needs read scarcely more than a paragraph at almost any point in his published works to realize that Mr. Leonard is a man of keen and kindly interest in all things that he hears and sees, and that he has traveled and studied and lived widely and wisely. He has published several volumes, both of poems and prose,—notable among them being "Sonnets and Poems," "The Poet of Galilee," "Aesop and Hyssop," "The Vaunt of Man and Other Poems," and "Glory of the Morning." The selections given are taken from the last two volumes mentioned.
One acquainted with modern English poetry may sense a marked likeness between Mr. Leonard's poems and those of Swinburne, though the former says he is not conscious of any such resemblance. There is a warmth of passion, a fluid quality in the rhythm, markedly like those elements in the great English poet. The selection from "Glory of the Morning" here given begins at that point in the play where Half Moon, the Chevalier, the white trapper, comes back to his Indian wife to bid her farewell and to take their two children with him to his home in France. The reader will feel, even in this brief extract, the sweep toward a climax of emotion, and will be impelled to read the whole play at his first opportunity.
(One of the most interesting features of the editorial work of this volume has been the adjustment of the choice of selections respectively of the editors and authors. The editors'choice of the poems from Mr. Leonard's volume, "The Vaunt of Man," was "Love Afar"; the author, on the other hand, tells us that he thought so little of this poem that he even considered omitting it from the volume. His preference is "A Dedication." What does the reader say?)
Copyright, 1912, by the author.
The Chevalier: I will take care of the children. They are both young. They can learn.
Glory of the Morning: They can learn?
The Chevalier: Oak Leaf is already more than half a white girl; and Red Wing is half white in blood, if not in manners—ca ira.
Glory of the Morning (Beginning to realize): No, no. They are mine!
The Chevalier (Reaching out his arms to take them): No.
Glory of the Morning: They are mine! They are mine!
The Chevalier: The Great King will give them presents.
Glory of the Morning: No, no!
The Chevalier: He will lay his hands on their heads.
Glory of the Morning: He shall not, he shall not!
The Chevalier: I have said that I will tell him you were their mother.
Glory of the Morning: I am their mother—I am their mother.
The Chevalier: And he will praise Glory of the Morning.
Glory of the Morning: They are mine, they are mine!
The Chevalier: I have come to take them back with me over the Big Sea Water.
Glory of the Morning (The buckskin shirt falls from her hands as she spreads her arms and steps between him and her children): No, no, no! They are not yours! They are mine! The long pains were mine! Their food at the breast was mine! Year after year while you were away so long, long, long, I clothed them, I watched them, I taught them to speak the tongue of my people. All that they are is mine, mine, mine!
The Chevalier (Drawing Oak Leaf to him and holding up her bare arm): Is that an Indian's skin? Where did that color come from? I'm giving you the white man's law.
Glory of the Morning (Struggling with the Chevalier): I do not know the white man's law. And I do not know how their skin borrowed the white man's color. But I know that their little bodies came out of my own body—my own body. They must be mine, they shall be mine, they are mine! (The Chevalier throws her aside so that she falls.)
The Chevalier: Glory of the Morning, the Great Spirit said long before you were born that a man has a right to his own children. The Great Spirit made woman so that she should bring him children. Black Wolf, is it not so?
Black Wolf: It is so.
The Chevalier (To Glory of the Morning, standing apart): Black Wolf is the wise man of your people.
Black Wolf: And knows the Great Spirit better than the white men.
The Chevalier: Indeed, I think so.
Black Wolf: And the Great Spirit made the man so that he should stay with the squaw who brought him the children,—except when off hunting meat for the wigwam or on the warpath for the tribe.
Glory of the Morning (With some spirit and dignity): The white man Half Moon has said that he believes Black Wolf.
The Chevalier: The white man has not come to argue with the Red Skin, but to take the white man's children.
Black Wolf (In his role of practical wisdom): The Half Moon will listen to Black Wolf.
The Chevalier (With conciliation): If the Black Wolf speaks wisely....
Black Wolf: Neither Oak Leaf nor Red Wing is a mere papoose to be snatched from the mother's back.
The Chevalier: The Half Moon shares Black Wolf's pride in the Half Moon's children.
Black Wolf (Pointing to the discarded cradle-board): The mother long since loosened the thongs that bound them to the cradle-board, propped against the wigwam.
The Chevalier: And when she unbound the thongs of the cradle-board they learned to run toward their father.
Black Wolf: But invisible thongs may now bind them round, which even the Half Moon might not break, without rending the flesh from their bones and preparing sorrows and cares for his head.
The Chevalier: Let us have done, Black Wolf.
Black Wolf: Thongs which none could break, unless Oak Leaf and Red Wing themselves should first unbind them. (To the children.) Will Oak Leaf, will Red Wing unbind the mystic thongs of clan and home? Let the children decide.
The Chevalier: Black Wolf is wise. My children are babes no longer. They can think and speak.
Black Wolf: Let them speak....
Glory of the Morning: Yes. Let the children decide.
Black Wolf: Oak Leaf, do you want to leave Black Wolf and Glory of the Morning to go with Half Moon over the Big Sea Water?
Oak Leaf (Looking up at her mother): OdoI, mother?
Glory of the Morning: I cannot tell. I love you, Oak Leaf.
Oak Leaf (Withdrawing toward her father): Mother, make father Half Moon take you with us too.
Glory of the Morning: The Half Moon has told you that he no longer needs Glory of the Morning.
The Chevalier (Taking Oak Leaf's hand caressingly): Oak Leaf, you are too beautiful to wither and wrinkle here digging and grinding and stitching, though the handsomest brave of the Winnebago bought you for his squaw. Beyond the Big Sea Water you won't have to dig and grind and stitch. And sometime a noble brave of my nation will come in a blue suit with gold braid to the chateau and say: "I love Oak Leaf; will you give Oak Leaf to me?"
Oak Leaf (Gladly): And you'll give me to him, father! ... (Oak Leaf leans against her father, with a half frightened glance at Glory of the Morning.)
The Chevalier: You see, Glory of the Morning.
Glory of the Morning (With restraint): I will say good-bye to Oak Leaf.
Black Wolf: Red Wing, are you going with your sister and with Half Moon over the Big Sea Water?
Red Wing: Sister,areyou really going?—You are always making believe.
Oak Leaf: O, father,—tell him.
The Chevalier: She is going, Red Wing.
Red Wing: There is nothing for me beyond the Big Sea Water.
The Chevalier: Over there your father is a famous chief, and you might wear a sword and fight beside the Great King.
Red Wing: I shall not fight beside the Great King; and I shall not wear the white man's sword.
The Chevalier (Takes his arm, coaxingly): Little chief, why not? Why not, my son?
Glory of the Morning (Coldly and firmly): Because he ismyson.
Red Wing (Standing off; to the Chevalier with boyish pride): Because I am a Winnebago.
From "THE VAUNT OF MAN AND OTHER POEMS," p. 75. Copyright, 1912, by B. W. Huebsch.
I dare not look, O Love, on thy dear grace,On thine immortal eyes, nor hear thy song,For O too sore I need thee and too long,Too weak as yet to meet thee face to face.Thy light would blind—for dark my dwelling place—Thy voice would wake old thoughts of right and wrong,And hopes which sleep, once beautiful and strong,That would unman me with a dread disgrace:Therefore, O Love, be as the evening star,With amber light of land and sea between,A high and gentle influence from afar,Persuading from the common and the mean,Still as the moon when full tides cross the barIn the wide splendor of a night serene.
I dare not look, O Love, on thy dear grace,On thine immortal eyes, nor hear thy song,For O too sore I need thee and too long,Too weak as yet to meet thee face to face.Thy light would blind—for dark my dwelling place—Thy voice would wake old thoughts of right and wrong,And hopes which sleep, once beautiful and strong,That would unman me with a dread disgrace:
Therefore, O Love, be as the evening star,With amber light of land and sea between,A high and gentle influence from afar,Persuading from the common and the mean,Still as the moon when full tides cross the barIn the wide splendor of a night serene.
O how came I that loved stars, moon, and flame,An unimaginable wind and sea,All inner shrines and temples of the free,Legends and hopes and golden books of fame;I that upon the mountain carved my nameWith cliffs and clouds and eagles over me,O how came I to stoop to loving thee—I that had never stooped before to shame?O 'twas not Thee! Too eager of a white,Far beauty and a voice to answer mine,Myself I built an image of delight,Which all one purple day I deemed divine—And when it vanished in the fiery night,I lost not thee, nor any shape of thine.
O how came I that loved stars, moon, and flame,An unimaginable wind and sea,All inner shrines and temples of the free,Legends and hopes and golden books of fame;I that upon the mountain carved my nameWith cliffs and clouds and eagles over me,O how came I to stoop to loving thee—I that had never stooped before to shame?
O 'twas not Thee! Too eager of a white,Far beauty and a voice to answer mine,Myself I built an image of delight,Which all one purple day I deemed divine—And when it vanished in the fiery night,I lost not thee, nor any shape of thine.
(For a privately printed collection of verse.)
Ye gave me life for life to crave:Desires for mighty suns, or high, or low,For moons mysterious over cliffs of snow,For the wild foam upon the midsea wave;Swift joy in freeman, swift contempt for slave;Thought which would bind and name the stars and know;Passion that chastened in mine overthrow;And speech, to justify my life, ye gave.Life of my life, this late return of songI give to you before the close of day;Life of your life! which everlasting wrongShall have no power to baffle or betray,O father, mother!—for ye watched so long,Ye loved so long, and I was far away.
Ye gave me life for life to crave:Desires for mighty suns, or high, or low,For moons mysterious over cliffs of snow,For the wild foam upon the midsea wave;Swift joy in freeman, swift contempt for slave;Thought which would bind and name the stars and know;Passion that chastened in mine overthrow;And speech, to justify my life, ye gave.
Life of my life, this late return of songI give to you before the close of day;Life of your life! which everlasting wrongShall have no power to baffle or betray,O father, mother!—for ye watched so long,Ye loved so long, and I was far away.
Thomas Herbert Dickinson was born in Virginia in 1877, and after a wide and thorough scholastic preparation was made associate professor of English in the University of Wisconsin in 1909. Mr. Dickinson is known to thousands of the citizens of Wisconsin as a friend of the drama. He believes that the drama is one of the most legitimate and natural means forthe expression of the sentiments, tendencies, activities, and ideals of any people. No doubt he has done much to raise the standard of dramatic judgment and criticism among the citizens of Wisconsin. However, he would not want it said that he is trying primarily "to raise people's dramatic ideals." His mission rather has been to encourage communities to express themselves legitimately and wholesomely through their own dramatic productions. He has won much distinction both as an editor and an author of plays, but perhaps his greatest service to Wisconsin in this direction is his work in editing the little volume, "Wisconsin Plays," containing one play each by Zona Gale, Professor Leonard, and himself.The following selection is taken from his play, "In Hospital," in the volume just mentioned. It depicts just such a scene as takes place in our hospitals every day of the year. The wife is about to undergo a serious operation. The husband is trying to keep cheerful in anticipation of the ordeal. That is the sort of scene which, Mr. Dickinson wants us to realize, can be wholesomely and pleasantly represented by the drama.
Thomas Herbert Dickinson was born in Virginia in 1877, and after a wide and thorough scholastic preparation was made associate professor of English in the University of Wisconsin in 1909. Mr. Dickinson is known to thousands of the citizens of Wisconsin as a friend of the drama. He believes that the drama is one of the most legitimate and natural means forthe expression of the sentiments, tendencies, activities, and ideals of any people. No doubt he has done much to raise the standard of dramatic judgment and criticism among the citizens of Wisconsin. However, he would not want it said that he is trying primarily "to raise people's dramatic ideals." His mission rather has been to encourage communities to express themselves legitimately and wholesomely through their own dramatic productions. He has won much distinction both as an editor and an author of plays, but perhaps his greatest service to Wisconsin in this direction is his work in editing the little volume, "Wisconsin Plays," containing one play each by Zona Gale, Professor Leonard, and himself.
The following selection is taken from his play, "In Hospital," in the volume just mentioned. It depicts just such a scene as takes place in our hospitals every day of the year. The wife is about to undergo a serious operation. The husband is trying to keep cheerful in anticipation of the ordeal. That is the sort of scene which, Mr. Dickinson wants us to realize, can be wholesomely and pleasantly represented by the drama.
Copyright, 1909, by the author.
A Wife.A Husband.A Surgeon.An Interne.A Nurse.
Wife: Tell me about the children.
Husband: Oh, they are getting on—so, so.
Wife: I know they will.
Husband: But you should see them! (Turning toward her. She nods without speaking.) They're trying hard to be good, but it's a stiff pull for the little rascals. Well, I don't blame them. Freddie put me in quite a hole the other day. "What's the use of being good when mother's away?" he asked. (She smiles.) For the life of me I couldn't think of an answer. What would you say?
Wife: I'd be as bad off as you were.
Husband: But Robert wasn't. He had an answer."So mother will be happy when she comes back," he said. Wasn't that good?
Wife: Just like Robert.
Husband: I don't know what we should have done without Robert. He serves at the table. He answers the door and the telephone. He ties the baby's bib. How he thinks of everything I don't know. I—I'm so helpless. Why didn't you ever teach me to take charge of the house?
Wife: Fancy teaching you anything you didn't want to learn.
Husband (After a moment's deep silence): All the kiddies send you their love.
Wife: Even Freddie?
Husband: Oh, Freddie, to be sure. Guess you know about what he's doing. Upstairs and downstairs. Outdoors and in.
Wife: I hope he won't get hurt.
Husband: Trust him for that. But how do you keep him in aprons? They're all dirty already. Yesterday he got all scratched up trying to put Kitty to bed and make him say his prayers. He has fallen in the flour bin, put the telephone out of commission, pulled the table-cloth and dishes off the table. There isn't anything he hasn't done. Freddie will welcome you back with a dish-pan band, when you come home.
Wife (Closing her eyes): Yes—
Husband (Pretending not to notice, though it is clear that he does): Did I tell you about night before last?
Wife: No.
Husband: Well, that night he slept over at Cousin, Ruthie's house. All his nightgowns were dirty so Aunt Ella made him wear one of Ruthie's. But she had thehardest time making him wear it. The next morning he said to me, "I'm glad I ain't a woman, ain't you, Paw?" "Yes, I suppose so," said I. "Why?" "Oh, they're all right, I guess," he said, "but before I'll wear another of those women's nightgowns, I'll go to bed raw."
Wife (Smiling): Little man. Does he ask for me much?
Husband: Just this morning he said, "Pop, you tell mamma to come back quick or I'll elope with the ice man."... Well, they're good children. I don't think any one ever had better. And that's something, isn't it?
Wife: That's everything. They make me very happy.... You know, dear, I have been doing a good deal of thinking since I came here. I've seen things very clearly, clearer than even at home. I think I've been able to tell why I've been so happy. You find out what's really worth while in a time like this, don't you? (Husband nods.)
Wife: I won't say anything about you. You know. But the children. (She smiles.) Yes, I know why I've been happy.
Iowa and Illinois may rightly contest the claim of Wisconsin for a proprietary interest in Mr. William Jonathan Neidig. He was born in the first-named state, and is at present living in Chicago, where he is engaged in business, though he still finds time for an occasional story or poem. He was a member of the faculty in the English Department of the University of Wisconsin from 1905 to 1911, and it was during approximately this period of his life that his literary activity was greatest. "The First Wardens," which was nominated for the Nobel prize in idealistic literature, was published in 1905, and several critical works that attracted wide attention came from his pen during his Wisconsin residence.The one poem which we quote here shows an evenness ofpower and an assurance of touch that mark real poetry. It also would be generally recognized, the editors feel, as having been written by a University man.
Iowa and Illinois may rightly contest the claim of Wisconsin for a proprietary interest in Mr. William Jonathan Neidig. He was born in the first-named state, and is at present living in Chicago, where he is engaged in business, though he still finds time for an occasional story or poem. He was a member of the faculty in the English Department of the University of Wisconsin from 1905 to 1911, and it was during approximately this period of his life that his literary activity was greatest. "The First Wardens," which was nominated for the Nobel prize in idealistic literature, was published in 1905, and several critical works that attracted wide attention came from his pen during his Wisconsin residence.
The one poem which we quote here shows an evenness ofpower and an assurance of touch that mark real poetry. It also would be generally recognized, the editors feel, as having been written by a University man.
From "THE FIRST WARDENS." Copyright, 1905, The Macmillan Co.
Bell! Bell!Bell that rideth the breakers' crest,Bell of the shallows, tell, O tell:The swell and fall of foam on the sand,Storm in the face from sea to land,Roar of gray tempest: these, O bell,What say these of the West?Tell! O tell!Bell! Bell!Crowding the night with cries, O tell:What of the moorings in the silt?What of the blooms that drift and wilt?What of the sea-chest wrenched wide?Is it safe harbor by thy side?Bell that rideth the breakers' crest,What say these of the West?Tell! O tell!Bell! Bell!It is a dirge the bell is tolling,A dirge for the silent dead,—With the cold sea rolling, rolling, rolling,Rolling each restless head.Bell that rideth the breakers' crest,O, when will they lie all quietly,Untossed by the slow sea-swell:Nor breakers brave on the great sea-beach,Nor ceaseless crash of the cresting sea,Nor booming headland's sullen knell,Nor bell, for elegy?When is the last tide out of the West,And the last restless dream for each?Tell! O tell!Toll! toll! toll!Toll for the ebbing tide:Toll for the lives that outward ride:Toll for the deep-delved cold sea-seat:Night in the West at every beat!Toll! toll!
Bell! Bell!Bell that rideth the breakers' crest,Bell of the shallows, tell, O tell:The swell and fall of foam on the sand,Storm in the face from sea to land,Roar of gray tempest: these, O bell,What say these of the West?Tell! O tell!
Bell! Bell!Crowding the night with cries, O tell:What of the moorings in the silt?What of the blooms that drift and wilt?What of the sea-chest wrenched wide?Is it safe harbor by thy side?Bell that rideth the breakers' crest,What say these of the West?Tell! O tell!
Bell! Bell!It is a dirge the bell is tolling,A dirge for the silent dead,—With the cold sea rolling, rolling, rolling,Rolling each restless head.Bell that rideth the breakers' crest,O, when will they lie all quietly,Untossed by the slow sea-swell:Nor breakers brave on the great sea-beach,Nor ceaseless crash of the cresting sea,Nor booming headland's sullen knell,Nor bell, for elegy?When is the last tide out of the West,And the last restless dream for each?Tell! O tell!
Toll! toll! toll!Toll for the ebbing tide:Toll for the lives that outward ride:Toll for the deep-delved cold sea-seat:Night in the West at every beat!Toll! toll!
In this group of young writers, the editors present what seems to them to be the best work done by students or young graduates of the University while unquestionably under her influence. They wish there were work by more such writers to present. Possibly there is more that has not yet been brought to their attention.Berton Brayley has written extensively for newspapers. He has facility in rhyme and the knack of "hitting off" a verse that well fits an occasion. One has the feeling, however, that there is a power and seriousness to the man that have not yet found adequate expression. Perhaps in the next ten years the qualities of ease, leisureliness, and reflection will assert themselves more in his poetry. But from the first there has been a wholesome tone about his work.Horatio Winslow, son of Chief Justice J. B. Winslow, showed marked ability while an undergraduate. He was a collaborator in the writing of a play which was presented by University students. As with Mr. Brayley, we would say of him that his best work has not yet been published. There is power and strength and grace latent in him that have not yet found expression, but that are unmistakably foretold in the things he has already produced.Howard Mumford Jones is the youngest of these three men, and comes from the spirit-haunted region of the Mississippi. While his poems have not yet attained absolute surety of touch and evenness of movement, yet of those presented in this group they probably evince the most grace and music, together with the highest and warmest poetic feeling. "When Shall We Together" has real sweep and atmosphere and glow. It is the production of a poet who loved the subject he was writing about.
In this group of young writers, the editors present what seems to them to be the best work done by students or young graduates of the University while unquestionably under her influence. They wish there were work by more such writers to present. Possibly there is more that has not yet been brought to their attention.
Berton Brayley has written extensively for newspapers. He has facility in rhyme and the knack of "hitting off" a verse that well fits an occasion. One has the feeling, however, that there is a power and seriousness to the man that have not yet found adequate expression. Perhaps in the next ten years the qualities of ease, leisureliness, and reflection will assert themselves more in his poetry. But from the first there has been a wholesome tone about his work.
Horatio Winslow, son of Chief Justice J. B. Winslow, showed marked ability while an undergraduate. He was a collaborator in the writing of a play which was presented by University students. As with Mr. Brayley, we would say of him that his best work has not yet been published. There is power and strength and grace latent in him that have not yet found expression, but that are unmistakably foretold in the things he has already produced.
Howard Mumford Jones is the youngest of these three men, and comes from the spirit-haunted region of the Mississippi. While his poems have not yet attained absolute surety of touch and evenness of movement, yet of those presented in this group they probably evince the most grace and music, together with the highest and warmest poetic feeling. "When Shall We Together" has real sweep and atmosphere and glow. It is the production of a poet who loved the subject he was writing about.
Sometimes I long for a lazy isle,Ten thousand miles from home,Where the warm sun shines and the blue skies smileAnd the milk-white breakers foam—A coral island, bravely setIn the midst of the Southern sea,Away from the hurry and noise and fretForever surrounding me!For I tire of labor and care and fight,And I weary of plan and scheme,And ever and ever my thoughts take flightTo the island of my dream;And I fancy drowsing the whole day longIn a hammock that gently swings—Away from the clamorous, toiling throng,Away from the swirl of things!And yet I know, in a little while,When the first glad hours were spent,I'd sicken and tire of my lazy isleAnd cease to be content!I'd hear the call of the world's great game—And battle with gold and men—And I'd sail once more, with a heart of flame,Back to the game again!
Sometimes I long for a lazy isle,Ten thousand miles from home,Where the warm sun shines and the blue skies smileAnd the milk-white breakers foam—A coral island, bravely setIn the midst of the Southern sea,Away from the hurry and noise and fretForever surrounding me!
For I tire of labor and care and fight,And I weary of plan and scheme,And ever and ever my thoughts take flightTo the island of my dream;And I fancy drowsing the whole day longIn a hammock that gently swings—Away from the clamorous, toiling throng,Away from the swirl of things!
And yet I know, in a little while,When the first glad hours were spent,I'd sicken and tire of my lazy isleAnd cease to be content!I'd hear the call of the world's great game—And battle with gold and men—And I'd sail once more, with a heart of flame,Back to the game again!
—Berton Braley.Saturday Evening Post, January 15, 1916.
Current Opinion. Volume LIV. Page 497. (First published in The Coming Nation.)
We're the men that always march a bit beforeTho we cannot tell the reason for the same;We're the fools that pick the lock that holds the door—Play and lose and pay the candle for the game.There's no blaze nor trail nor roadway where we go;There's no painted post to point the right-of-way,But we swing our sweat-grained helves, and we chop a path ourselvesTo Tomorrow from the land of Yesterday.It's infrequent that we're popular at home,(Like King David we're not built for tending sheep,)And we scoff at living a la metronome,And quite commonly we're cynical and cheap.True—we cannot hold a job to save our lives;We're a dreamy lot and steady work's a bore—'Til the luring of the Quest routs us out from sleep and restAnd we rope and tie the world and call for more.Well, they try to hold us back by foolish words—But we go ahead and do the thing we've planned;Then they drive us out to shelter with the birds—And the ravens bring our breakfast to our hand.So they jail us and we lecture to the guards;They beat us—we make sermons of their whips;They feed us melted lead and behold the Word is said.That shall burn upon a million living lips.Are we fighters?......By our fellows we are fanged.Are we workers?......Paid with blows we never earned.Are we doctors?......Other doctors see us hanged.Are we teachers?......Brother teachers have us burned.But through all a Something somehow holds us fast'Spite of every beast-hung brake and steaming fen;And we keep the torch on high till a comrade presses byWhen we pass it on and die—and live again!
We're the men that always march a bit beforeTho we cannot tell the reason for the same;We're the fools that pick the lock that holds the door—Play and lose and pay the candle for the game.There's no blaze nor trail nor roadway where we go;There's no painted post to point the right-of-way,But we swing our sweat-grained helves, and we chop a path ourselvesTo Tomorrow from the land of Yesterday.
It's infrequent that we're popular at home,(Like King David we're not built for tending sheep,)And we scoff at living a la metronome,And quite commonly we're cynical and cheap.True—we cannot hold a job to save our lives;We're a dreamy lot and steady work's a bore—'Til the luring of the Quest routs us out from sleep and restAnd we rope and tie the world and call for more.
Well, they try to hold us back by foolish words—But we go ahead and do the thing we've planned;Then they drive us out to shelter with the birds—And the ravens bring our breakfast to our hand.So they jail us and we lecture to the guards;They beat us—we make sermons of their whips;They feed us melted lead and behold the Word is said.That shall burn upon a million living lips.
Are we fighters?......By our fellows we are fanged.Are we workers?......Paid with blows we never earned.Are we doctors?......Other doctors see us hanged.Are we teachers?......Brother teachers have us burned.But through all a Something somehow holds us fast'Spite of every beast-hung brake and steaming fen;And we keep the torch on high till a comrade presses byWhen we pass it on and die—and live again!
Author of "The Masque of Marsh and River."Copyright, 1915, by the Author. Pages 13-14.
When shall we togetherTramp beneath the sky,Thrusting through the weatherAs swimmers strive together,You and I?How we ranged the valleys,Panted up the road,Sang in sudden salliesOf mirth that woke the valleysWhere we strode!Glad and free as birds are,Laughter in your eyes,Wild as poets' words are,You were as the birds are,Very wise.Not for you the prisonOf the stupid town;When the winds were risen,You went forth from prison,You went down,Down along the riverDimpling in the rain,Where the poplars shiverBy the dancing river,And againClimbed the hills behind youWhen the rains were done;Only God could find youWith the town behind youIn the sun!Don't you hear them calling,Blackbirds in the grain,Silver raindrops fallingWhere the larks are callingYou in vain?Comrade, when togetherShall we tramp againIn the summer weather,You and I together,Now as then?
When shall we togetherTramp beneath the sky,Thrusting through the weatherAs swimmers strive together,You and I?
How we ranged the valleys,Panted up the road,Sang in sudden salliesOf mirth that woke the valleysWhere we strode!
Glad and free as birds are,Laughter in your eyes,Wild as poets' words are,You were as the birds are,Very wise.
Not for you the prisonOf the stupid town;When the winds were risen,You went forth from prison,You went down,
Down along the riverDimpling in the rain,Where the poplars shiverBy the dancing river,And again
Climbed the hills behind youWhen the rains were done;Only God could find youWith the town behind youIn the sun!
Don't you hear them calling,Blackbirds in the grain,Silver raindrops fallingWhere the larks are callingYou in vain?
Comrade, when togetherShall we tramp againIn the summer weather,You and I together,Now as then?
No one who reads this book is unfamiliar with "The Sweet Bye and Bye." But how many of us, as we sang that song, realized that both its words and music were written by a Wisconsin man,—Joseph P. Webster?He was born in New Hampshire in 1819, but he lived most of his life at Elkhorn, where he died in 1875. He was a member of many musical societies, and was the composer of many other songs, the best known of the latter being "Lorena."
No one who reads this book is unfamiliar with "The Sweet Bye and Bye." But how many of us, as we sang that song, realized that both its words and music were written by a Wisconsin man,—Joseph P. Webster?
He was born in New Hampshire in 1819, but he lived most of his life at Elkhorn, where he died in 1875. He was a member of many musical societies, and was the composer of many other songs, the best known of the latter being "Lorena."
Composed by Joseph Philbrick Webster, February, 1868.
I.