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RHYME AND REASON 
 
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 A Booklet of Fragments 
 
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 By 
 
 CLYDE BEECHER JOHNSON 
 
 Author of Nothing Else 
 
 1914 
 
 Embellishment by Carrie Meredith 
 Cover Design by Dorothy Dent 
 
 COPYRIGHT 19 14. BY 
 CLYDE BEECHER JOHNSON 
 
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 DEC 23 1914 
 
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 THE decree in Eden that established the relation 
 between sweat and bread has shut most of the 
 poetry out of my life, and demanded the time 
 that I woidd have been glad to devote to the delightful ^ 
 study of literature. 
 
 But there have been compensations. Among my 
 close, personal friends were Biims, Byron, Moore and 
 Scott, and many words of sweetest coimsel and inspi- 
 ration dropped from their lips into the heart of their 
 humble worshiper. 
 
 From time to time in the nooks and crannies of an 
 active Ufe I have written several bits of verse, most of 
 which are entirely lost. But a few friends have been 
 kind enough to ask for copies of some of the fragments 
 that escaped the waste-basket — ^hence this booklet. 
 
 Without any delusions regarding their literary merit 
 and secure in the certainty that their readers will be 
 limited to the author's friends, whose generosity and 
 forbearance have been so often tried, the risk of 
 publishing the following selections is assumed. 
 
 Charleston-on-Kanawha. 
 Jan. 1, 1914. 
 
 C. B. J. 
 
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To the Wife of my youth, whom a kind 
 Providence has spared to crown the 
 years of mature manhood, this Httle volume 
 is lovingly inscribed. 
 
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 MANY years ago when the writer was 
 a teacher he was coming home one 
 night from a country literary society. The 
 world was bathed in the mellow light of a 
 full, October moon, beautiful, soft, but dim; 
 and the thought of the verses here given 
 came unbidden. They were written then 
 and there, by the roadside, by the hght of 
 the moon. 
 
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I sit tonight 
 'Mid Splendors bright, 
 Painted by the moon's soft light; 
 And 'round me creeps, 
 While nature sleeps, 
 The inspiration nature keeps. 
 
 I feel its flow 
 
 Both come and go, 
 As none can feel of those below, 
 
 But those whose feet 
 
 Have trod the street, 
 Made sacred by a love complete. 
 
 It fills my soul. 
 
 As waters roll 
 Upon the sphere from pole to pole. 
 
 Its mellow ray 
 
 Shines on my way. 
 Prophetic of a brighter day. 
 
 Within this nook. 
 
 How sweet to look 
 With longing eyes on nature's book; 
 
 To scan the leaf 
 
 With sweet belief. 
 That days of darkness must be brief. 
 
 As in a trance, 
 
 I long to glance 
 Where myst'ries are — but lack the chance; 
 
 For mortal eyes, 
 
 'Neath earthly skies, 
 Must fail to reach to Paradise. 
 
 Oh, could I stand 
 
 Upon the strand 
 Of an omniscient future land, 
 
 And soar its heights. 
 
 In mental flights, 
 Amid the glare of crystal lights- 
 
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 What mysteriefe oh 
 
 The soul and love 
 That come to us from up a^ove, 
 
 Would then be clear ,WAjjfe, 
 
 As drawing near, """"^ 
 Their dimmer shades would disappear. 
 
 But Oh, how vain, 
 
 The mind to strain 
 For what I ne'er can hope to gain! 
 
 Tis mortals' fate, 
 
 To watch and wait 
 The swinging of the bolted gate. 
 
 Within her folds 
 
 Dim nature holds 
 That which no grasping mind unfolds; 
 
 Nor may they hope 
 
 With these to cope. 
 Who through her moonlight vainly grope. 
 
 But Oh, who knows 
 
 The liquid glows 
 That Nature o'er her student throws! 
 
 His musings surge 
 
 Upon the verge 
 Where infinite and finite merge. 
 
 He steeps his sovil 
 
 In the golden bowl 
 From whence Olympic nectars roll: — 
 
 His soul, on wing. 
 
 Will glances fling 
 Through Nature up to Nature's King. 
 
 I sit tonight 
 
 'Mid splendors bright. 
 Painted by the moon's soft light; 
 
 And fain would pray 
 
 'Neath such a ray. 
 My soul might seek eternal day. 
 
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 (On his fiftieth birthday) 
 
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 "OU'RE fifty, I hear, this present year; 
 
 It surely can't be so. 
 But dear old boy, I wish you joy, 
 
 As the milestones come and go. 
 
 As the years come late they bring their freight, 
 Of work and cares and pleasures; 
 
 Each added weight, decreed by fate, 
 More rapid passing measures. 
 
 It seems but fudge to you, old Judge, 
 
 And "Old Fifty's" caught you napping. 
 
 No single thing that bard could sing 
 
 Would say you'd heard him rapping. 
 
 With blithest sun of joke and fun, 
 
 You've whiled all sorts of weather. 
 
 Until you've fooled the least unschooled, 
 In the years we've been together. 
 
 In writing pleas and long decrees 
 You've earned the title thrifty. 
 
 By work and health you've gotten wealth, 
 And so can welcome Fifty. 
 
 We'll shed no tears! What's fifty years! 
 
 You're only fairly started. 
 May fifty more come to the score. 
 
 Before we're rudely parted. 
 
 As the years unfold, may you find they hold. 
 For you and those that love you, 
 
 The richest things that virtue brings, 
 And the smiles of Him above you. 
 
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Qlllie WMh iEaster Sltlg 
 
 THE flower referred to is the Trillium, 
 but in the country neighborhood 
 where the writer was born it was known 
 as the Wild Easter Lily. It was the 
 favorite flower of his only sister, who died 
 a year or two before the lines were written, 
 and to whom reference is made in the last 
 two stanzas. The verses were suggested 
 by seeing a vase of the flowers at church 
 on Easter Morning. 
 
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 rl sheltered, cool and mossy bed, 
 Whence winter snows have early fled 
 Before spring sunshine softly shed, 
 Blooms Nature's Easter LUy. 
 
 Not all the modem florists, skilled 
 In rarest lotus, new and frilled, J^^\^ 
 The simple place have ever filled. ^i^^^J^ 
 Of Nature's Easter Lily. 
 
 What sought I as an eager child. 
 In April sunshine sweet and mild, 
 When weirdly, strongly called the mid. 
 But Nature's Easter Lily? 
 
 I knew so well, then, where to look. 
 Beside the restless, laughing brook, 
 That gentle dewdrops softly shook 
 On Nature's Easter Lily. 
 
 No other flower with half the grace 
 Of this, that in sequestered place 
 Hides modestly her sainted face; — 
 Sweet Nature's Easter Lily. 
 
 No flowers so sweet on Easter Morn, 
 Did chancel rail so well adorn. 
 As Margerie's from woodland borne; 
 Her sweetest Easter Lilies. 
 
 With purest white turned to the sMes, 
 The risen Lord it typifies, 
 And life in Heaven prophesies; 
 This fairest Easter Lily. 
 
 No cultivated flower can be 
 What this wild jewel is to me; 
 For in its queenly form I see 
 One rare, sweet Lily; — 
 
 Whose life, pure as this fair flower 
 Made me know a sister's power, 
 But, Alas! who vanished in an hour, 
 Like Nature's Easter Lily. 
 
 11 
 
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rr^HE following is a homely account of a 
 ^ trip by the author and three friends 
 from St. Marys, the old home, to Monte 
 Vista Springs, Virginia, in November, 1910. 
 The lines are not uniform in meter, style 
 or spirit, but were written in many moods 
 and tenses — a sort of crazy quilt. 
 
 There are so many purely personal 
 touches and reminiscences woven into it, 
 as well as excursions into local description, 
 that in the absence of notes no very large 
 part can be clear to any one reader. Each 
 one, though, may find a line somewhere in 
 it that twangs a chord — if so the highest 
 hopes will be gratified, however chaffy all 
 the rest of it may seem. 
 
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 WHEN September's term has passed away, 
 And free from clients' exacting sway, 
 The barrister, worn by months of toil 
 'Mid controversy, suit and broil, 
 Bethinks himself of rest well earned. 
 And of the lesson he has learned — 
 That short vacation wisely spent. 
 
 Is but capital to vigor lent; 
 And noting full oft the fearsome twinge. 
 
 That indigestion always brings. 
 He hies himself to Vista Springs. 
 
 Take now the word of one who knows; — 
 
 When on vacation mortal goes. 
 No more important thought can gain 
 
 An entrance to his weary brain, 
 Than what companions he shall take — 
 
 The dire monotony to break 
 Of railway trains and nights in camp, 
 
 And rainy days, dark, drear and damp. 
 Light may we hold the thunder's blare. 
 
 And constant drip in outer air, 
 If round camp fire and table spread. 
 
 The glow of fellowship is shed; — 
 If royal joke be blithely told. 
 
 And story of achievement bold. 
 Of stream and rod, of woods and gun, 
 
 Makes recompense for lack of sun. 
 
 In choice of fellows for the trip 
 
 Dame Fortune gave a happy tip; 
 And in the party gathered four. 
 
 To bring good cheer to loneliest shore. 
 There was Captain Dick, whose rod was tried 
 
 In Ottawa's clear and rushing tide; 
 Who sang of women's work the song. 
 
 When George and Henry were along. 
 His cast the pickerel know alway 
 
 From Temiscaming to Kippeway. 
 His aim at moose was tried and true 
 
 When Bob and Rus ate wild duck stew. 
 The same old Dick, with forehead damp. 
 
 That Eight Mile hollowed into camp. 
 His nerve and metal have been tried 
 
 From North River Dam to Gordon's side. 
 
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And next, with voice both strong and loud, 
 
 Came Oliver to join the crowd. 
 His ruddy face, fresh as a rose, 
 
 His hoary locks, and pigeon toes, 
 His deep, base cough and shrieking sneeze 
 
 We know, but can't describe all these 
 In epic lay, which even now 
 
 Must bring some weariness to the brow. 
 But of O. C. suffice to say, 
 
 He fished McElroy in early day; 
 When John and Ab and Saul and Pat, 
 
 And oftentimes the famous Hat, 
 Were actors in those stirring scenes 
 
 Which now so often form the themes 
 Of tales, which told superb and loud 
 
 At eve, delight the Howard crowd. 
 
 But Jess, we cannot pass from you 
 
 Without, as meed to merit due. 
 Some mention of the happy days 
 
 When, darting through the tangled maze 
 Of mountain laurel, you had the luck, 
 
 On Sunday morn, the Glady Buck 
 To see, as from the ridge he sprang, 
 
 And through the woods your rifle rang. 
 When Harry and Bob came down the hill 
 
 To share your joy o'er the kill. 
 And foimd you empty-handed stood 
 
 In deep recesses of the wood; 
 And heard your many reasons, fair. 
 
 Why buck still breathed the mountain air. 
 'Twas there 'mid Allegheny's peaks, 
 
 Where nature's voice untrammeled speaks, 
 Where lively rang our hunting song 
 
 On Glady's clear, cold, hindmost prong, 
 You proved the metal of your heart, 
 
 And earned the right to be a part 
 Of this blithe party, which now throws 
 
 Aside its burdens, cares and woes, 
 And to Old Dominion leads the way, 
 
 For health and rest and holiday. 
 
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The other member of the band 
 
 Needs little from the rhymster's hand. 
 Wherever sound of drill has stirred, 
 
 Or news of oil and gas is heard, 
 From good old Bradford — now a dream — 
 
 To Oklahoma's golden stream, 
 "Old Prope" is known to all the boys 
 
 As part and parcel of their joys. 
 Though of complexion dark and swarth, 
 
 All love him for his sterling worth, 
 And sorrow settled, deep and dread. 
 
 When news went forth that Prope was dead. 
 Did high and low his death bemoan. 
 
 And chief of these was Clifford Sloan. 
 But doctor's skill and loving wife 
 
 From open grave had snatched his life; 
 And convalescent now at length, 
 
 And with some slight returning strength, 
 He started with us to the Springs, 
 
 Whose praises, loud, the Sea Dog sings. 
 
 And marshalled thus the dauntless four, 
 
 Panted for the appointed hour. 
 In middle of November's moon, 
 
 Which well we found was none too soon, 
 We said good-bye to home and friends. 
 
 And with the zest that travel lends, 
 Took passage on that hoary Road, 
 
 Which of old the hosts of nation trode, 
 And in the warring days of yore 
 
 First linked Ohio to Baltimore. 
 Our steed rushed southward through the lands 
 
 Where roved of old the Delaware bands; — 
 Where Washington, with compass true. 
 
 Coursed these hills and valleys through. 
 As on Ohio's vale we gazed, 
 
 Reminiscent, enraptured and amazed. 
 We marked the moon in silver light. 
 
 Painting the beauties of the night 
 On city and town, and with subtler charm. 
 
 On hill and vale and river farm. 
 'Mid all of this, who could not trace 
 
 The footprints of a conquering race? 
 
 15 
 
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Thus rushing down Ohio's side, 
 
 With pulsing throat and throttle wide, 
 Our steed first marks that city proud. 
 
 Where voice of trade, contending loud. 
 Has greatness stamped, long ere now, 
 
 Old Parkersburg, upon thy brow. 
 Next in great river's bosom set. 
 
 We see historic Blennerhassett: 
 That isle of beauty, jeweled green, 
 
 Lay shimmering in the moonlight's sheen. 
 And imaged memory with ready ease 
 
 Restored among those ancient trees. 
 The palace fair, the sylvan home 
 
 Of noble son of Erin, come 
 With beauteous spouse, of virtue fair, 
 
 To build his home and fortune there: — 
 But died a victim to the wile 
 
 Of ambition's voice and treason's smile. 
 
 Erstwhile to our enchanted gaze 
 
 Comes vision of historic place, 
 Where, by the Great Kanawha's side 
 
 The noble savage. Cornstalk, died. 
 Now to the mind, in somberer strain, 
 
 Come thoughts of mighty change again — 
 Come thoughts of knightly, haughty race, 
 
 That then inhabit this fair place; 
 Who after many fields, and gory, 
 
 Live only in ignoble story 
 Of how these lovely vales and hills 
 
 Were raped by Saxon arms and wills. 
 
 But now we turn to brighter theme 
 
 Than the crushing of a people's dream. 
 For loud the voice of steed has spoke 
 
 And shrill is midnight's stillness broke. 
 Now we see before us rolled, 
 
 Guyandotte's thread of living gold, 
 And near ahead we can descry 
 
 Lights electric flashing high 
 Where she sits in grandeur bright 
 
 That city of the Railroad Knight. 
 
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Our muse here halts — cut short by sound 
 
 Of screaming cabbies rushing round. 
 They whisk us o'er streets, broad and grand 
 
 As of any city in the land; 
 And that railway now we seek, 
 
 Which binds Ohio to Chesapeake; 
 And ere we see the blush of sun. 
 
 Farewell to thee! Fair Huntington! -^ 
 
 Then leaving Cabell's sprightly town 
 
 With windows closed and curtains down, 
 We face — worst nightmare of the earth — 
 
 The horrors of a Pullman berth. 
 But soon despite discomforts bare. 
 
 Of blankets stale and stuj0[y air. 
 Of banging heads and trampled toes. 
 
 And other kindred Pullman woes. 
 We sank into that half repose 
 
 That every weary traveler knows; 
 And the remaining hours of night 
 
 We saw in dreamland's gilded light. 
 Swift passing scenes in song embalmed, 
 
 Historic milestones of the land. 
 
 And first, in shade of shelt'ring hill, 
 
 Came cultured, classic Barboursville: 
 Whose college halls, in days gone by. 
 
 Have moulded men who mounted high. 
 And on the scroll of church and state 
 
 Enrolled their names among the great. 
 Inspiring thought! O, Learning's shrine. 
 
 The truest devotion still is thine! 
 As circling wave, though small it be. 
 
 Sends forth its throb to distant sea. 
 Stirring recess of ocean cave 
 
 Where gems unseen lie in their grave, 
 And generates dynamic force 
 
 That changes planets in their course: — 
 So Learning's seat, mayhap obscure. 
 
 But radiating impulse pure, 
 Stirs human life, to end of time, 
 
 As deep as sounds the plxunmet line. 
 
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 17 
 
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Next is a passing vision seen 
 
 Of Lincoln's spreading fields of green. 
 Old Lincoln, known to bard of old 
 
 Before the "Shoestring" left the fold; 
 When gathering in one mighty clan, 
 
 We fought our battles, man to man; 
 When Major's wish and Sweetland's voice 
 
 Left little room for other choice. 
 Oh, land o'ergrown with Holly tree. 
 
 Plug Wilson's memory hallows thee! 
 Then stretching out to northward lay 
 
 The hills of Putnam, cold and gray. 
 When "Shoestring" battle lines were drawn, 
 
 In those old days of brain and brawn. 
 Old Putnam's vote, in prudence skilled, 
 
 More oft was cast as Andy willed. 
 
 Among these near forgotten themes, 
 That flit across our fitful dreams 
 
 Come memories of a warrior gray — 
 Whose castle, moat and manor lie 
 'Mid Mason's waving fields of rye — 
 
 Relict of a glorious day. 
 
 Who has not heard how Dixie men, 
 Fighting for home and native glen, 
 
 Chose leader from Kanawha's land? 
 Whose battle flag, proud as of yore, 
 Hangs yet above MacCausland's door — 
 
 Unconquered as his band. 
 
 When cause of justice — ^in his eyes — 
 Bade soul of patriot arise 
 
 And face her martial foes, 
 He gave through time of blood and tears 
 The best of manhood's budding years 
 
 To soften Southern woes. 
 
 No sword like his — no eye of fire 
 Flashed fiercer, courage to inspire 
 
 In men to battle led. 
 Where raged the fight in deadly wave 
 His men their eager service gave, 
 
 And marked their line with dead. 
 
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 18 
 
 
 
In after years of peaceful life 
 
 His voice was heard in civic strife — 
 
 A clarion for the right. 
 And now in evening's mellow days 
 He hails with clear delighted gaze 
 
 New Freedom's brilliant light. 
 
 Through all his veins, in fiery flood, 
 There flows undaunted still the blood 
 
 Of Wallace and of Bruce. 
 He knows not how to fly nor yield 
 With issue joined on Honor's field — 
 
 He scorns ignoble truce. 
 
 Back to our theme! We must not stray 
 From homely narrative away. 
 
 Our train speeds eastward through the night; 
 And soon, in gleaming silver bright, 
 The Great Kanawha on our sight 
 
 Again in beauty swells; 
 And sweeping on along her shores. 
 Imagination proudly soars. 
 Peering through golden future's doors, 
 
 And glorious history tells. 
 
 The history of a virile race. 
 Reared upon this favored place. 
 Who great achievements proudly trace 
 
 On old Kanawha's escretaire; 
 Of victories won by men of might, 
 Who bravely battled for the right 
 And shed the rays of clearer light 
 
 On life's great thoroughfare. 
 
 Then through our visions clearly come 
 
 The sounds of Charleston's busy hiun. 
 Even through hours of sliimber deep. 
 
 Her factories' rythmic pulses sweep. 
 No rest nor sleep her spirit knows, 
 
 From triiunph unto triumph goes. 
 Until she stands of cities queen. 
 
 That grace the land of mountains green; 
 
 19 
 
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In youthful, haughty pride she stands, 
 
 Surrounded by the richest lands 
 From God's great storehouse, strewn by fate, 
 
 To enrich the bounds of Mountain State. 
 With wealth unbounded, spirit high, 
 
 Herculean task she'll ever try; 
 Surrounded thvis by coal and ore 
 
 Her future well may boundless soar; 
 By railroads, rivers' bank and mouth. 
 
 She sits, the Pittsburgh of the South. 
 
 Then turning to the South Side heights. 
 
 Where palaces gleam with crystal lights, 
 There, almost hid among the trees. 
 
 Enraptured traveller dreaming sees, 
 Where high lights shine and shadows darkle, 
 
 The royal castle of MacCorkle; 
 That canny Scot, fair fortune's child. 
 
 On whom the fickle Goddess smiled. 
 Did we say Scot? He claims the blood; — 
 
 But mark him Irish as a "spud". 
 Such wit, such gallantry and such mind 
 
 None would, forsooth, expect to find. 
 Except in Erin's very own. 
 
 Who bow before the Blarney Stone. 
 
 Whirled from these scenes, with sleepy eyes 
 
 The traveller sees, through mist arise, 
 Montgomerie's plain; — and higher yet 
 
 The vine-clad hills of old Fayette. 
 And so our train that empire gains. 
 
 O'er length and breadth of whose domains 
 The debonair Prince Charley reigns. 
 
 In days of old she bowed in shame 
 Her head at sound of Dixon's name. 
 
 Fayette! Whate'er the sins of yore. 
 That history clusters at your door. 
 
 Your fame is safe while others share 
 The glory of Bayless and St. Clair. 
 
 While on Fayette a rhyme we're makin' 
 We can't o'erlook our new friend Eakin; — 
 
 That paukie thief, with patient arts 
 To soften e'en rebellious hearts; — 
 
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That outlaw — rascal — ^robber — churl, 
 
 That stole the youngest Strader Girl. 
 With greater than a Hornbrook's skill, 
 
 Dispensing capsule, drop and pill, 
 His name is blessed for many a mile 
 
 That radiates from old Carlisle. 
 And so, perhaps, in course of time 
 
 We shall forgive his awful crime, 
 And adopt him in the family yet, 
 
 On equal terms with our own Det. 
 
 With panorama rushing by. 
 As rugged as may greet the eye. 
 
 We gain that elevation high. 
 Where young Kanawha, breaking through 
 
 Great jaws of stone, bvu^ts on the view. 
 One river now, yet seeming two — 
 
 Daughter of Gauley and of New. 
 
 Then threading rocky passes through 
 
 That mark the winding course of New, 
 There comes with waning hoiu^ of night 
 
 The view of tipples on our sight, 
 Where stores of Nature's richest coal 
 
 Their wealth in native coffers roll. 
 Where'er abroad on ocean's tide 
 
 A world's proud bristling navies ride, 
 And warlike banners kiss the breeze 
 
 On bounding wave or glassy seas, 
 There, fuel from our native hills, 
 
 The coaling-ship and bunker fills. 
 Oh! lavish horn, by nature poured 
 
 To furnish bounteous future hoard! 
 Thy gifts are strewn by faithless hands 
 
 "To cheer the hearts of other lands, 
 And wanton, reckless, wilful waste 
 
 Brings day of pinching want in haste. 
 
 But back to form — ^we must not preach. 
 Nor conservation's lesson teach. 
 
 Now rugged Svunmers' classic shade, 
 Dotted with mountain, plain and glade. 
 
 Greets our slumb'rous sense, 
 And brings its memories sweet and rare 
 Of stalwart figures dwelling there — 
 
 Of Miller and of Pence. 
 
 
 21 
 
 
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His scintillating, virile mind, 
 With attributes of heart combined. 
 
 Proclaims him genius- crowned. 
 That genius, stifled by the law. 
 In field of letters freedom saw. 
 
 And noble service found. 
 
 Then rushing on through lands of pine, 
 
 By fertile field and diamond mine. 
 By pastures; rich of Blue Grass sod, 
 
 'Mid wealth of color touched by God, 
 With sunrise ray of living fire 
 
 We hail the realms of old Greenbrier: — 
 A land that flows with milk and honey. 
 
 And wealth of clean untainted money — 
 Home of the patriot and scholar, 
 
 She holds the man above the dollar. 
 Her fine, old family names are proof 
 
 That forebears made the warp and woof 
 Of that statesmanship and chivalry 
 
 That enrich Virginia's history. 
 These names of old were blood and pinion 
 
 To soaring pride of Old Dominion. 
 0, spirit of Greenbrier — undefiled 
 
 Bequeathed by parent unto child. 
 We lay fond tribute at thy feet! 
 
 Thy loyalty with pride we greet: — 
 For in degenerate later days 
 
 Thy sons were kept in honor's ways — 
 In heart and brain aristocratic— 
 
 In politics staunch democratic. 
 
 And since the birth of younger state 
 Thy sons are numbered with the great. 
 
 She chose a governor from thy clan, 
 And a secretary — Major Ran. 
 
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 Your humble bard his tribute pays 
 
 To illustrious sons of later days, 
 Who in his time of active life 
 
 Have led battalions in the strife. 
 As slumber into waking blends 
 
 We catch a glimpse of treasured friends: 
 Of Van Sickler's wit, of Gilmer's mind. 
 
 Of Preston, cultured and refined — 
 Of the Dennis quill — a lightning bolt — 
 
 And the winning smile of Bernard Holt. 
 And permeating aU of these, 
 
 As sun of autimin paints the trees. 
 Comes vision of the courtly Dice, 
 
 Crowned by the grace and wit of Price. 
 
 ^ But here our gilded vision ends — 
 
 Sweet dream of mountain, vale and friends; 
 For through our car the porter sings 
 
 In raucous tones, "White Sulphur Springs!" 
 So from our slimibers thus awoke. 
 
 Our toilet made (?) ere daylight broke, 
 We hurried out to catch the view 
 
 Of Morning on those peaks of blue. 
 And there in wild profusion hurled, 
 
 We saw the Alps of Western World — 
 The rugged peak, the sweeping fold 
 
 Of forest drapery, tinged with gold. 
 Thrown Uke blanket o'er the couch 
 
 Of giant sleeper, at whose touch 
 It trembles, vibrant as he breathes 
 
 With tender breath upon the leaves, 
 Whose autumn brightness has been shed 
 
 A few brief moments on his head. 
 And kisses them down from bough above 
 
 To breast of earth — and mother love. 
 The sun's first ray that early seeks 
 
 The topmost Allegheny peaks. 
 Plants there its passion-kiss of fire 
 
 In ecstacy on wooded spire! 
 What tongue can tell — or pen indite 
 
 The glory of this kindling light, 
 As silent wings of night unfold 
 
 In flight before the Ball of Gold! 
 
 23 
 
 ^^ 
 
 ifiu^*^^ — 
 
 m.i 
 
 ""^"^^SSSSS 
 
 
1 
 
 Oh! who can see the Prince of Day 
 From Allegheny's peaks away 
 
 The clouds and shadows chase. 
 And not be thrilled with clearer sight 
 Of Omar's vision — "Driven night" — 
 
 Its beauty and its grace! 
 
 The Persian Bard in quatrain rare. 
 Paints "Sultan's Turret" passing fair, 
 
 In mesh of "Hunter's Noose". 
 But had his genius caught the view 
 Of West Augusta's peaks of blue, 
 
 How noble were his muse! 
 
 Now swiftly speeding on our way. 
 
 In early hours of full-blown day 
 We leave behind the mountain gorge. 
 
 And stretch our limbs at Clifton Forge. 
 And then aboard James River train. 
 
 Through land of sage and broom, we gain 
 In foothOls of the middle range, 
 
 Quaint Eagle Mountain, where we change. 
 This Eagle Mountain barren seems, 
 
 And scarcely formed for fancy's dreams; 
 But fragrance must be in its air, 
 
 And breath of sweetness everywhere — 
 Else, how could rarest vestal flower 
 
 That ever bloomed in earthly bower 
 Have here found life, and grown to be 
 
 A priceless jewel — fair and free? 
 
 24 
 
 ..Mf. 
 

 Impatient to be gone again, 
 
 We found Cap Baker left at ten; 
 So in his Pullman's stowed away 
 
 We spent 'most half the autumn day. 
 And finally after endless bumps 
 
 Our train its weary cargo dumps 
 Out in a field, with stubble brown, 
 
 A mile below New Castle town. 
 
 Farewell to Stevens' streaks of rust — 
 
 Now for the boulders, chucks and dust 
 Of rough and clambering country road 
 
 That threaded wood, and glimpses showed 
 Of pastoral beauty, and the charms 
 
 Of life on Old Virginia farms: 
 And ere we saw, with sense depressed. 
 
 The forest trees in splendor dressed 
 By parting ray of sun, that goes 
 
 Behind the mountains where it rose. 
 The Captain's voice to traveller sings 
 
 A welcome warm to Vista Springs. 
 
 -^-.^'^^ 
 
 25 
 
 mil ^u^ 
 
 .4^i\\j^" 
 
THESE lines were the thought and work 
 of a moment. Senator and Mrs. John 
 D. Sweeney, friends of the writer, have a 
 family of beautiful girls, and in the summer 
 of 1913 there was born to them the first 
 boy of the family. When just about to 
 mail a Babyland booklet to little John 
 Daniel two or three blank pages were 
 noticed in the back of it and the thought 
 came to use them for a few lines. 
 
 26 
 

 W- 
 
 MXvBt (SIiriBtmaa. 
 
 THOU loud, imperioiis little man, 
 The latest of the Sweeney clan, 
 We can't so early call thee "Dan", 
 Thou crowin' laddie! 
 But here some Christmas greetings come, 
 In place of rattle-box and drum. 
 And with sincere affection from 
 A friend of Daddy. 
 
 This friend for Baby Man would pray 
 That as he travels boyhood's way, 
 The spirit of this Christmas day, 
 
 The first in Baby's world. 
 May find within the little heart, 
 A throb responsive to the part, 
 And free from every poisoned dart 
 
 lYom harsher sources hurled. 
 
 And as his years like buds unfold. 
 May it be his to firmly hold 
 Only the true and shining gold — 
 
 Stamped with mintage pure — 
 Of his own Mamma's grace and spirit, 
 And Daddy's rugged strength and merit; 
 Then, with sweet sisters proud to share it. 
 
 His future is secure. 
 
 =^^^^iiS2ii_ 
 
 27 
 
 ^^ 
 
 mk<U^ 
 
 ■'^'■^!!S^"' 
 
®1|? Moman ®lfat Worka 
 
 I SING to the woman who works — 
 With her brain, her hands and her heart; 
 Who never quails or weeps or shirks 
 When she's cast for a heavy part. 
 How can we help but adore her — 
 The rare one who smiles 
 As the toil-laden miles 
 Stretch grimly behind and before her? 
 
 O wonderful woman who toils, 
 With her brain, her heart and her hands! 
 Her love-given service ne'er soils 
 The most delicate feminine strands. 
 The heart that hears motherhood's call, 
 
 But even in spite of the grind 
 
 Still radiates graces of mind; — 
 A womanly woman withal. 
 And so with her song and her smile. 
 
 O'er the stony old road, 
 
 She carries her load; — 
 This mother of race worth while. 
 
 yr^ 
 
 28 
 
 ^lA 
 
 
 -^^r \iW^ 
 
 ^\^.- 
 
.^li^^=:x^_ ^fj 
 
 &^.^ 
 
l4 
 
 3(a««arg 
 
 " >VH, my Beloved, fill the Cup that clears 
 ^\^ "To-day of past Regrets and future Fears: 
 "To-morrow! — ^Why, To-morrow I may be 
 "Myself with Yesterday's Seven Thousand Years." 
 
 —OMAR. 
 
 Whether "To-morrow" or another day, 
 What recks it when we sail away? 
 
 The present alone is ours. 
 Then as we tread its doubtful years. 
 Let's smile away our brother's tears, 
 
 And strew his path with flowers. 
 
 31 
 
 "W^ 
 
 Mi 
 
 A 
 
 
 i'-^4 
 
0, Persian Bard! Who cannot see 
 Thy purest of philosophy, 
 
 When, on the River's brink. 
 Thou plantest courage in the heart. 
 And bid'st us ever act the part 
 
 Of him who does not shrink! 
 
 -A-^^il^s^'"^^— . 
 
 ysX" 
 
 32 
 
 ^'^-^^^P' ..,..:„. ;il^,^ 
 
 ?u\ 
 
 P^^:^ ^ ^ ■~^Jf'^' 
 
"As under cover of departing Day 
 J-\ "Slunk hunger-stricken Ramazan away, 
 
 "Once more within the Potter's house alone 
 "I stood, surrounded by the Shapes of Clay." 
 
 —OMAR. 
 
 Have you not felt these "Shapes of Clay", 
 Like specters, gaunt, along the way, 
 
 That see tlu-ough all veneer? 
 They seem to speak by mystic word, 
 With soundless voices that are heard 
 
 By souls attuned to hear. 
 
 They clear the cobwebs from our sight, 
 And set our vision's focus right. 
 
 Where birth's misfortune blinds. 
 O kindly shapes, of ghostly gray, 
 Ben Adhem's tribe doth go thy way. 
 
 And Peace unmeasured finds. 
 
 33 
 
 ■ 't^^S — 
 
 Jf .'• 
 
 ijfj.,\U/i.^' 
 
 
 
" "\TOW the New Year reviving old Desires, 
 W "The thoughtful Soul to Solitude retires, 
 
 "Where the White Hand of Moses on the Bough 
 "Puts out, and Jesus from the Ground suspires." 
 
 —OMAR. 
 
 Not our New Year of frost and snow, 
 When Winter tempers pulses slow. 
 
 Old Khayyam here doth sing; — 
 But of that Orient mating time. 
 Unknown to ruder western clime, 
 
 A fairer, rarer spring. 
 
 When lovely Spring — the Nature Wife- 
 Feels miracle of repeated life. 
 
 And stirs with foetal throb. 
 Then human souls more clearly see 
 Great fact of immortality. 
 
 And grope their way to God. 
 
 y^ 
 
 34 
 
% 
 
 ''--^n ^ 
 
 ^ 
 
 ^^ 
 
 "/^OME, fiU the Cup, and in the fire of Spring 
 ly "Your Winter garment of Repentance fiing: 
 
 "The Bird of Time has but a little way 
 To flutter — and the Bird is on the Wing." 
 
 —OMAR. 
 
 Our years on earth — one little jot — 
 A moment here, then all forgot; 
 
 How much we're bound to miss! 
 Hurry! Hurry! Brood o'er no follies past; 
 Hurry! Hurry! Quaff pleasures while they last — 
 
 Freight life with every bliss. 
 
 
 ul.^ 
 
 
 ^l'-\':''/t 
 
• A book of Verses underneath the Bough, 
 /^ "A jug of Wine, a Loaf of Bread — and Thou 
 "Beside me singing in the Wilderness — 
 "Oh, Wilderness were Paradise enow!" 
 
 "And Thou!" "And Thou!" On tenderest tune 
 That heart of lover sings in June! 
 
 No chilly western flood 
 Can plumb the deeps of "Thou" to Bard 
 Of Persia's blistering sands and sward, 
 
 Where passion boils the blood. 
 
 But "Thou" for two dear friends of ours 
 Has in it such alchemic powers, 
 
 That it to "Heaven" transmutes 
 A spot remote, of comforts bare. 
 Of plain but wholesome country fare: 
 
 And the "Most Fastidious" suits. 
 
 -2;^ -^ 
 
 mh 
 
 
 '*^. 
 
 
 ""-"^f-il! 
 
 
 S %»/- 
 
"AND fear not lest Existence closing your 
 /\ "Account and mine, should know the Like no more; 
 J. M. „rpjjg Eternal Saki from that Bowl has poured 
 "Millions of Bubbles like us, and will pour." 
 
 "Millions of Bubbles like us!" Mistaken quite! 
 Who says Old Khayyam here is right? 
 
 He's wrong — ^we'U prove him so! 
 Ask "Her" if man e'er lived before, 
 And "Him" if beauty to adore 
 
 Both answer promptly "No!" 
 
 '*'^^<'M& 
 
 37 
 
 lli^^^*-— 
 
 ^^*^^r^^ 
 
'T Tf TOULD you that spangle of Existence spend 
 Y y "About THE SECRET— quick about it, Friend! 
 " ' "A hair perhaps divides the False and True — 
 "And upon what, Prithee, may life depend? 
 
 —OMAR. 
 
 
 Tell us, O Persian, old and wise. 
 From mystic home beyond the skies, 
 
 Which is the "False" and "True"? 
 Do not thine eyes, unblinded, see 
 That rigid line can never be. 
 
 To separate these two? 
 
 The "True" and "False", like Right and Wrong, 
 Are prated much in Priestly song; 
 
 But ever still the germs 
 Of each are in the other found. 
 And men bewildered by the sound 
 
 Of these uncertain terms. 
 
 By every race, in every clime. 
 By every nation, every time, 
 
 A rule of right is given. 
 But ere the yearning horde is showed 
 The new and only righteous road, 
 
 The deadly sword is driven 
 
 Full to the hilt in dogma old; 
 
 And doctrine rank and new and bold. 
 
 Is Orthodoxy true. 
 So call it what you can and will. 
 The "True" and "False" are merging still — 
 
 The Old into the New. 
 
 ^ 
 
 
 lV^JV 
 
 ^y\ 
 
 J^ 
 
 38 
 
 
m 
 
 B^pUmher 
 
 " A ND when like her, oh Saki, you shall pass 
 /-\ "Among the Guests Star-scattered on the Grass, 
 
 "And in your joyous errand reach the spot 
 "Where I made One — turn down an empty Glass." 
 
 —OMAR. 
 
 i*iv/ 
 
 0, thou implacable monster — Time! 
 I charge thee with the foulest crime — 
 
 The theft of youth, alas! 
 But compensation sweet is found 
 In rest decreed beneath the mound. 
 
 "Turn down the empty glass." 
 
 So when my ashes have been urned, 
 And down my glass at banquet turned, 
 
 Banish all thoughts of woe; 
 Let song and laughter blithely reign, 
 And memory of my lighter vein, 
 
 A smiling visage show. 
 
 39 
 
 ^^ 
 
 
 <J5\ 
 
 S-^^ 
 
 
(§ttahn 
 
 " yiWAKE! For the Sun, who scattered into flight 
 /A "The Stars before him from the Field of Night, 
 J. M. "j^rives Night along with them from Heaven, 
 
 "The Sultan's Turret with a Shaft of Light." 
 
 —OMAR. 
 
 Ak 
 
 Oh, who can see the Prince of Day 
 From stately mountain tops away 
 
 The clouds and shadow chase, 
 And not be thrilled with clearer sight, 
 Of Omar's vision, "Driven Night" — 
 
 Its beauty and its grace? 
 
 P 
 
 riN/-5v- 
 
 40 
 
 ""' —^^Jr.\Mw 
 
 ^jJilL^ ^ S&P/P^^^ 
 
/sS-vi 
 
 % 
 % 
 
 ■*T T THEREAT some one of the loquacious Lot — 
 V V "I think a Sufi pipkin — waxing hot — 
 ' ^ "All this of Pot and Potter— Tell me, then, 
 
 'Who is the Potter, pray, and who the Pot?" 
 
 —OMAR. 
 
 "Who is the Potter, pray, and who the Pot?" 
 Can we be sure of the workman's lot. 
 
 Who may himself create? 
 Does the Power, in excess of life and love. 
 Imbue us with the essence from above, 
 
 And decree us a common fate? 
 
 41 
 
t&..^ 
 
 ^^4l/f J 
 
 Mic 
 
 jmcl^ k ^^y^-i 
 
 ^-— ~^-^i/]/j, . 
 
^i^i 
 
 v. 
 
 OIIjriatmaB QIarb HrrBpa 
 
 WITH every new-born Christmas cheer 
 That comes with each succeeding year, 
 I'm surer of a Santa Claus: 
 Because he whispers in my ear 
 Sweet memories of a friendship dear, 
 That time but tighter draws. 
 
 Not nineteen hundred years ago. 
 Where Orient olive orchards grow, 
 
 Was the Christmas spirit born; 
 But oldest age when friend to friend 
 Felt moved his incense sweet to send. 
 
 Marked Yuletide's earliest morn. 
 
 Not e'en the power of Galilee 
 
 Can Christmas make for you and me, 
 
 Nor bring its gracious glow; 
 But hearts like ours, that strongly feel 
 The pleasant bond of "hoops of steel". 
 
 Their own sweet Christmas know. 
 
 43 
 
 W, 
 
 jilii. i\U^ 
 
v^ 
 
 ^ 
 
 p 
 
 aV\ 
 
 (For Her Old Friends) 
 
 TO you the Season's greetings. 
 My heart sincerely sends; 
 Though far apart our meetings 
 We'll ever be good friends. 
 
 (For Her New Friends) 
 
 "I was a stranger and ye took me in." 
 Sweet thought — the Master gives it: 
 How passing sweet she only knows 
 Who in experience lives it. 
 
 sS^^a^^ 
 
 f 
 
 r 
 
 
 i\)-«^k 
 
 ^^1^ 
 
 ^^.-^ 
 
Now, Doctor Eakin, don't forget, 
 And neither you, my charming Det, 
 Your honeymoon is shining yet — 
 A Prince of Yearlings. 
 And it's many years too soon 
 To give up such a precious boon 
 As this same good old honeymoon — 
 My sonsie darlings. 
 
 -'^^^i<^<^gg^^ 
 
 45 
 
 . .iHlii^;--^' 
 
 MliliA^^- 
 
 
••■IIIHIBIWMi"™ -*"•-*■■■- '■'*""" 
 
 THE following is an excerpt from an 
 oration delivered on the occasion of 
 the funeral of the late President McKinley, 
 September 19th, 1901. 
 
 
 46 
 
 iw 
 
I 9 
 

 4 • 
 
 MtUtam mt^xxihxs^ 
 
 FOR the third time within less than half a century, - 
 the Republic is called upon to mourn the loss of a 
 president laid low by cowardly murder. When the 
 news flashed over the wires on the sixth of this month 
 that President William McKinley had been shot and 
 wounded by a treacherous assassin, the country was 
 shocked and dazed by the sudden and unexpected 
 crime. The immediate effect was as if a v/hole nation 
 were caught in the throes of an epileptic fit. 
 
 For almost a week the reassuring tone of the bulletins 
 from the shores of Lake Erie stimulated the hope that 
 the murderous assault of the anarchist would be frus- 
 trated. Not until the headlines of last Friday morning's 
 paper announced that the Stricken President was 
 "passing through the valley of the shadow", and that 
 his death was a question of but a few hours did the 
 nation fully experience the force of the blow that had 
 been dealt it. It seemed impossible for us to realize 
 that the President, so recently in the bloom of health 
 and vigorous manhood, was doomed to die; and when 
 the news went out from the bedside that the patient 
 sufferer was no more, a weight of genuine sorrow settled 
 like a pall over the whole country, and the Ught has 
 not yet begun to break. 
 
 .»=?^ 
 
 kVi I ■* 
 
 President McKinley was a liberal and broad-minded 
 man, a loyal friend, ardent in his support of the prin- 
 ciples in which he believed, and a generous opponent. 
 That he enjoyed the confidence and love of his fellow 
 citizens, regardless of party, in a degree rarely equaled 
 is demonstrated today when seventy-five millions of 
 people sink all party and political differences, and bow 
 their heads in grief at the national calamity that has 
 deprived the nation of an able and honest President 
 and a great and good man. 
 
 The sharply-fought contest which resulted in his 
 second election to the presidency is still fresh in our 
 minds, but in this hovu- of universal sorrow all acrimony 
 is compensated for by the fact that under our system 
 of government when the verdict of the people had been 
 recorded, he was my president as well as yours, not 
 the representative of any class or party, but the freely 
 chosen Chief Executive of the whole people. 
 
 
 47 
 
 ^""^ 
 
K^i 
 
 m - . 
 
 i&is.. 
 
 When the mellowing "iifiluences of time have, to 
 some extent, softened the sorrow we feel today, and 
 relieved the tenseness of the times, then will William 
 McKinley take his true place in history, which in its 
 cold, unguilded light will record him as one of the great 
 men who have occupied the executive chair; — great 
 in constructive statesmanship and in the new principles 
 and policies he applied to government, great in com- 
 prehensive grasp of momentous public questions, and 
 in prompt and decisive action in great crises, great in 
 the confidence and love of his fellow citizens who 
 delighted to honor him, and perhaps greater than all 
 in the beautiful Christian character which will ever 
 be an inspiration to every citizen of the country he 
 loved so well. 
 
 Our hearts are touched by the story of his tender 
 love and care for the invalid wife, who for thirty years 
 was his constant companion. How our hearts bleed for 
 her in her bitter bereavement! The beautiful home 
 life of the President proves to us that he had lost none 
 of the true dignity of manhood in the pursuits of the 
 scholar and statesman. 
 
 What shall we say of the despicable doctrine of 
 anarchy to which he fell a victim, or of the vile wretch 
 who struck the blow? Language furnishes no words 
 strong enough to denounce either. The people 
 universally demand such legislation as will free the 
 country forever from anarchy in all of its forms, which 
 aims directly at constitutional liberty. We will be 
 satisfied with nothing less. To the murderer himself we , 
 can apply no deadlier curse than the poet Moore 
 pronoimces upon the fire-worshiper trator: — 
 
 "Oh, for a tongue to curse the slave 
 
 "Whose treason like a deadly bUght 
 "Comes o'er the councils of the brave, 
 
 "And blasts them in their hour of might. 
 "May life's unblessed cup for him 
 
 "Be drugged with treacheries to the brim: 
 'With hopes that but allxire to fly; 
 
 "With joys that vanish while he sips 
 'Like Dead Sea fruits, that tempt the eye, 
 
 "But turn to ashes on the lips. 
 His country's curse, his children's shame, 
 
 "Outcast of virtue, peace and fame: — 
 May he at last with lips of flame, 
 
 "On parched desert, thirsting die; 
 
 /^ 
 
 48 
 
 "^■■'~~-^^r,iilJ^\,, 
 
3^ M 
 
 [^ 
 
 "While lakes that hung in mockery nigh 
 "Are fading off, untouched, untasted, 
 
 "Like the once glorious hopes he blasted. 
 "And when at last his spirit flies, 
 
 "Just Prophet, let the damned one dwell 
 "Full in the sight of Paradise, 
 
 "Beholding Heaven and feeling Hell." 
 
 And now as a last farewell to the great citizen, soldier, 
 statesman and president, whose kindly heart is stilled 
 forever, and whose mortal remains are now laid in their 
 last earthly resting place amid the flowers and tears of 
 a bleeding nation, let us say to William McKinley: 
 
 "With the storied brave, 
 
 "America has nurtured in her glories' time, 
 "Rest thou; there is no prouder grave 
 
 "Even in our own proud clime. 
 "For thou art Freedom's now, and Fame's; 
 
 "One of the few immortal names 
 "That were not born to die." 
 
 ^^. 
 '^^ 
 
 49 
 
 ■\1, r 
 
 m, 
 
 %aA, — 
 
 
 
f 
 
 THE following is one of a series of 
 essays on the characters in "The 
 Merchant of Venice", written for a Reading 
 Circle in the writer's home town during 
 their study of the play. This paper on 
 Portia is the second of the series, the first 
 place in the comedy being, of course, given 
 to Shylock. 
 
 y-^ 
 
 50 
 
 'k _ ,^r 
 
 i\hjlf ,| 
 
 fOJ^V- 
 
 :>l^(i'S. 
 

 w 
 
 THE second place in the play goes to this gracious 
 Lady of Belmont. This rare daughter of an 
 Italian nobleman, by birth, education, instincts 
 and wealth an aristocrat, yet eagerly accepting citizen- 
 ship in the democracy of Love. 
 
 I challenge the world's literature to present another 
 Portia. Other women may be shown as pvu-e, virtuous 
 and lovable, but in each one some essential of Shakes- 
 peare's creation is lacking. 
 
 Virtue, loyalty, truth, heart, intellect, accomplish- 
 ment, wit, humor and repartee unite to embellish this 
 queenly character. 
 
 The student of Shakespeare must be impressed with 
 the weakness and laxity of most of his female characters. 
 A few are strong, but dissolute, while by far the greater 
 part are without individuality, and are presented solely 
 as devotees of the divine passion. The gentle sex is 
 not flattered, nor her standards elevated, I think, by 
 the Shakespearian conception of womanhood, to take 
 his works as a whole. I suggest that we would not 
 gladly measure the mothers of the world by Lady 
 Macbeth, the Windsor Wives, the Queen of Denmark, 
 Cleopatra, Juliet, or even Lucrece. But in passing 
 judgment upon the creator of Shakespeare's women 
 we must remember that he wrote at a time when the 
 world's conception of women was not so high as at 
 present. The voluptuous appealed to the reading and 
 play-going public of the sixteenth century more than 
 the aesthetic and intellectual in womanhood; and 
 Shakespeare, like all other great writers, is largely 
 colored by the times in which he lived. 
 
 But may we not believe that this giant intellect, 
 who struck with the hand of a master every chord of 
 human emotion until it yet vibrates, held an ideal of 
 womanhood, pure and high, far beyond his time, and 
 that he gave that ideal form, breath and voice in the 
 one matchless character of Portia? I like to believe 
 pleasant things of people; so I am determined to measure 
 the man Shakespeare by his best woman character, 
 instead of by the majority of them. 
 
 Portia is introduced to as at a time when she yet 
 has that priceless possession — youth. The death of 
 parents has left her mistress of herself, and of wealth 
 and estates rivaling a small empire, and she is not spoiled. 
 
 51 
 
 ^-V 
 
 -I'i^l^—--'''- 
 
 >6S' 
 
 
The rigorous and dan|erou!s lottery fixed by her 
 father's will has deprived her of the right to choose 
 a husband. This is a harsh, cruel condition, and she 
 could easily disregard it with none to say her nay, but 
 her father's memory will not permit her to do so. 
 
 She appears in the first act in a free, careless, 
 unrestrained talk with her maid on the subject of six 
 suitors who are at Belmont. She gratifies Nerissa's 
 curiosity about how she feels toward these, and dis- 
 poses of each of them in turn with a vivacity and 
 merciless wit that are unequaled. The Prince from 
 Naples with his horse-talk, and the weeping philosopher 
 of a Palatine are quickly out of the running: — 
 
 "I had rather be married to a death's head 
 with a bone in his mouth than to either of 
 these." 
 Of the Frenchman she says: — 
 
 "God made him, and therefore let him pass for 
 a man," 
 
 She cannot talk with the Baron of England, as he 
 knows neither Latin, French nor Italian, the three 
 languages in which she can converse. EngUsh was 
 not spoken in continental Europe, and in fact is not 
 at this day, except to a very limited extent in hotels 
 and restaurants. She did, however, notice how oddly 
 Faulconbridge was dressed, and by her description the 
 Briton of that day was just what he is now — the worst 
 dressed man in the civilized world. 
 
 Portia comes near disappointing tis in one place. 
 Do you remember her conversation with the negro 
 Prince of Morocco? She tells him: — 
 
 ^i 
 
 P 
 
 « 
 
 kV^ 
 
 "The lottery of my destiny 
 "Bars me the right of voluntary choosing. 
 "But if my father had not scanted me, 
 "And hedged me with his wit, to yield myself 
 "His wife who wins me by the means I told you, 
 "Yourself, renowned prince, then stood as fair 
 "As any comer I have looked on yet, 
 "For my affection." 
 
 A cursory reading of these lines made me fear that 
 Portia looked with some degree of favor upon this 
 suitor from an inferior race, but more careful study 
 |. cleared her from the charge. In the lines just quoted 
 
 y-^ 
 
 52 
 
 •t&-.jL; 
 
^^ 
 
 d 
 
 ■-^^ 
 
 ^^^ 
 
 she simply means that none of her suitors pleased her 
 in the least; therefore, the negro as much as any. It 
 seems a little strange that she even considered him 
 eligible to try the caskets, but her estimate of him is 
 plainly shown as she rejoices over his choice of the 
 wrong one: — 
 
 "A gentle riddance: — Draw the curtain, go; — • 
 "Let all of his complexion choose me so." 
 
 The love story that runs through "The Merchant of 
 Venice" adds a deUcious spice to the play. The drama- 
 tist makes it very clear in the first act that Portia does 
 not look upon her train of suitors "In maiden medita- 
 tion fancy free". The observant Nerissa, after the 
 fashion of all ladies' maids, has shrewdly guessed the 
 secret of her mistress' heart, and is not hitting wild 
 when she asks her: — 
 
 "Do you remember, lady, in your father's time, 
 a Venetian, a scholar, and a soldier, that 
 came hither in the company of the Marquis 
 of Montferrat?" 
 
 Note the naive reply of Portia: 
 "Yes, yes, it was Bassanio; — as I think he was 
 so called." 
 
 We now have the secret of both Portia and Bassanio, 
 and all the world loves a lover. This makes us a little 
 nervous and anxious that the lottery of the caskets 
 shall not miscarry, but Nerissa reassures us with the 
 opinion that "Hanging and wiving goes by destiny". 
 
 It is a delicate situation that is here created, and a 
 soul-trying test, but the loyalty and obedience of 
 Portia to her father assert themselves as the strongest 
 sentiments of her heart, when she says: — 
 
 "If I live to be as old as Sybilla, I shall die as 
 chaste as Diana, unless I be obtained by the ^. 
 manner of my father's will." .I^^ 
 
 But what man or woman ever read the play and did ^ ,,_^ „ 
 
 not rejoice with Portia when the princes of Morocco and - - =^=-»«s£.* 
 Arragon have chosen the gold and silver chests and lost?. 
 
 53 
 
 n 
 
 ,^,^'^kMi^ 
 
 V 
 
 '^'^^k 
 
 
"Thus hath the candle singed the moth. 
 
 "O these deliberate fools! when they do choose, 
 
 "They have the wisdom of their wit to lose." 
 
 May I dare to say that one of the strong points of 
 Portia is that she is not a prude? With all her intellect, 
 culture, refinement and modesty she was not afraid to 
 speak of things as they are. Don't be frightened, I 
 am not going to quote her expressions, but you all 
 remember them. It is only in the mediocre mind that 
 prudishness passes for virtue. 
 
 The forcefulness and commanding qualities of Portia 
 are shown in her frank wooing of Bassanio, more than 
 in any other part of the play. You know the right 
 of the woman to do the active courting has always 
 been a prerogative of queens. Not alone queens of 
 nations, but as well queens of the realm of brains. Of 
 George Eliot and Sarah Bernhart, as well as Victoria 
 of England and Wilhelmina of Holland. 
 
 Portia quotes the old Draconian law that "A maiden 
 hath no tongue but thought", and straightway proves 
 her queenly stature by wooing the man who has found 
 favor in her eyes. None of the world's queens has ever 
 done it better. Listen! 
 
 "I pray you tarry; pause a day or two 
 "Before you hazard; for, in choosing wrong 
 "I lose your company; therefore forbear a while: 
 "There's something tells me (but it is not love) 
 "I would not lose you; and you know yoxu^elf, 
 "Hate counsels not in such a quality." 
 
 "But lest you should not understand me well, 
 "I would detain you here a month or two, 
 "Before you venture for me. I could teach you 
 "How to choose right, but then I am forsworn; 
 "So will I never be: So you may miss me; 
 "But if you do, you'll make me wish a sin, 
 "That I had been forsworn." 
 
 "One-half of me is yours, the other half yours, — 
 "Mine own I would say; but if mine, then yours, 
 "And so, all yours; O these naughty times 
 "Put bars between the owners and their rights." 
 
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 How fine and forceful this! No assumed shyness or 
 coyness here. She speaks with proud mien and haughty 
 word as a queen sxmimoning to her side a prince-consort. 
 The soft and gentle side of this rare girl is seen when 
 Bassanio turns to her to ratify his choice of the lucky 
 casket, and she simply and unaffectedly answers: — 
 
 "You see me, Lord Bassanio, where I stand, 
 
 "Such as I am; * * * 
 
 "* * * yet for you 
 
 "I would be trebled twenty times myself; 
 
 "A thousand times more fair, ten thousand times 
 
 "More rich. 
 
 "* * * but the full sum of me, 
 
 "As an unlessoned girl, unschooled, unpracticed; 
 
 "Happy in this, she is not yet so old 
 
 "But she may learn; happier in this, 
 
 "She is not bred so dull but she can learn; 
 
 "Happiest of all is, that her gentle spirit 
 
 "Commits itself to yoiirs to be directed, 
 
 "As from her Lord, her governor, her king. 
 
 "Myself, and what is mine, to you, and yours, 
 
 "Is now converted." 
 
 For tender devotion and complete abandon these words 
 of Portia are unrivaled in literature, unless by the 
 beautiful declaration of Ruth to Naomi. 
 
 Right at this point in the third act is an evidence 
 of the practical side of Portia's character that deserves 
 a tribute. You know most women could not be con- 
 vinced that any occasion could be important enough 
 to justify a husband leaving his wife on his wedding 
 day. Most brides would either get angry or weep. 
 Not so Portia. She is practical and reasonable, and 
 sees that it is her husband's duty to go to Venice and 
 save Antonio. So she says: — 
 
 "***** away to Venice to your friend; 
 "For never shall you lie by Portia's side 
 "With an unquiet soul. 
 "* * * * dispatch all business and be gone. 
 
 This, however, is in keeping with her character as 
 Shakespeare creates it. Who could imagine Portia 
 bursting into tears and telling Bassanio that he does 
 not love her or he wouldn't go? J 
 
 55 
 
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But, from a dramatic standpoint, by far the most 
 effective appearance of Portia is in the court scene. 
 Her conception of the idea of assuming the part of a 
 lawyer, and defending her husband's friend, shows 
 originality, resourcefulness and courage. In assuming 
 male attire, and impersonating a doctor of civil law, 
 she took upon herself a part most difficult of 
 performance. 
 
 And she had evidently devoted some thought to the 
 characteristics of the animal man, too. Her satire is 
 keener than a two-edged sword when she tells Nerissa 
 what she will do to act like a young man. She says: — 
 
 "I'll * * * speak of frays, 
 
 "Like a fine bragging youth: and tell quaint lies, 
 "How honorable ladies sought my love, 
 "Which I denying, they fell sick and died; 
 "And twenty of these puny lies I'll tell, 
 "That men shall swear I have discontinued school 
 "About a twelve-month: I have within my mind, 
 "A thousand raw tricks of these bragging jacks, 
 "Which I will practise." 
 
 Somehow these lines were never a very flattering 
 unction to my soul. 
 
 Before the difficulty of Portia's part in this court 
 scene can be fully measured, a word is necessary, ex- 
 planatory of the law and courts of that day. At the 
 time the drama is laid, all of Italy, including, of course, 
 the free city of Venice, was under the system of law 
 known as the Justinian Code. It was the basis of what 
 is known as the Civil Law, now in force in most countries 
 of continental Europe, including Italy, France, Spain, 
 Austria, Germany and some others. It also forms the 
 basis of the laws of one American state — ^Louisiana. 
 
 The English system of law was known as the Common 
 Law, in contradistinction to the Civil Law. The 
 common law forms the basis of law in all English Speak- 
 ing countries, with the sole exception of Louisiana. 
 
 Under the Civil Law as it was then the courts, or 
 judges, rather, were not supposed to be lawyers at all, 
 but, by reason of political positions, such as princes, 
 and dukes, they held court and administered the law. 
 In cases of any difficulty they had to have the help 
 and advice of some one learned in the law. This need 
 called into existence a very exclusive class of men known 
 
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 56 
 
 
 
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 as Doctors of the Civil Law, or by the shorter title 
 of Civil Doctors. They mastered the study of 
 the Civil Law either by private instruction or in the 
 universities, passed an examination, and received their 
 Doctor's degree from the state. These doctors were 
 paid a salary by the state, generally, and it was their 
 duty to advise and assist these governing dukes, princes 
 and kings in the decision of cases, and the interpretation 
 of the law. They were really public officers. 
 
 In the light of this we can easily understand why the 
 Duke in the fourth act says: — 
 
 "Upon my power, I may dismiss this coiut, 
 "Unless BeUario, a learned doctor, 
 "Whom I have sent for to determine this, 
 "Come here today." 
 
 This cousin of Portia was a civil doctor, probably her 
 father had been, and it is certain that she, herself had 
 been taught the Civil Law as a part of her excellent 
 education. Her cousin Bellario evidently had confi- 
 dence in Portia's ability correctly to advise the Duke 
 in Antonio's case, for he gave her a letter of introduction 
 in the name of a man, Belthasar, supposed to be from 
 Rome. He also sent her the robes and garb of a Civil 
 Doctor. 
 
 Portia dons this garb that is new to her, presents 
 her letter to the Duke, and boldly undertakes to put to 
 practical use for the first time her knowledge of law, 
 and in a most difficult case. Think of the bravery it 
 took to do this! There is not a lawyer in America who 
 would have undertaken his first appearance under such 
 conditions. 
 
 Portia must know the law of the case, and be able 
 to keep the Duke from making any mistake. Yes, 
 and she must do something else, infinitely more difficvdt. 
 She must act the part of a man and a lawyer so well 
 that she will not be suspected. She was an accom- 
 plished actress, and none but a star of the first magnitude 
 has ever been permitted to take her part in this great 
 comedy. 
 
 People have always been fascinated by great criminal 
 cases from the trial of Jesus to now, and the lawyers 
 taking part in such trials have absorbed much attention. 
 I have no doubt this case of Shylock versus Antonio 
 was the first case of its kind that had ever been tried 
 
 57 
 
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 in Venice — a case in which a money lender demanded 
 judgment for a pound of the flesh of a prominent and 
 popular merchant of the city and produced a contract 
 for it, signed and sealed. 
 
 It was generally understood that the Duke, under 
 the laws of Venice, could not refuse to give the Jew 
 judgment, and that the judgment would be collected 
 by Shylock right there in court. Of coiu^e, Antonio 
 could not live through the ordeal, and you have marked 
 that morbid craze of people to get to where somebody 
 is expected to be killed — how they crowd to a public 
 hanging. Then Portia must have faced a crowded 
 court room when she walked in with her letter of 
 introduction, and took charge of the case. It would 
 have tried the mettle of a man, and an experienced 
 lawyer at that. 
 
 Portia sweeps into the court room with that air of 
 self-confidence that always, everywhere, means mastery. 
 From the moment she shakes hands with the Duke she 
 is in undisputed control of the situation. If she feels 
 any embarrassment or trepidation she does not show it. 
 She has her plan of action thought out in advance; 
 does not once hesitate in word or action, but directs 
 proceedings with all the decision and certainty of the 
 finished lawyer with his case well in hand. 
 
 The Duke asks her if she knows the natvu-e of the case 
 before the court, and with the self-sufficiency of the 
 "Man who knows" she repUes, — "I am informed 
 thoroughly of the cause." Then she plunges boldly 
 into the case. We can see that commanding figure, 
 with proud head and flashing eye, and can hear the 
 dominant voice of the young doctor as she looks upon 
 the litigants, and inquires: — 
 
 "Which is the merchant here, and which the Jew? 
 
 * * * * 
 
 "* * Is your name Shylock? 
 
 * * * * 
 
 "Of a strange nature is this suit you follow." 
 
 This is at once followed by a statement that the law of 
 the case is with the Jew. 
 
 Then turning to Antonio: — "You stand within his 
 danger do you not?" Antonio admits it, and confesses 
 the bond. The principles of the Venetian law as 
 applied to this demand for judgment have ah-eady been 
 declared and the confession of the bond seems to settle 
 the case in favor of Shylock. 
 
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 Then follows the most powerful appeal for mercy 
 that has ever been uttered in a court of justice. This 
 address of Portia to the Jew is unrivalled in the English 
 tongue for elegance of expression, power and oratory, 
 and has been quoted by great criminal lawyers more 
 often than any other passage in our literature. The Jew, 
 flushed with victory, and with the scent of vengeance 
 in his nostrils, demands to know why he must be merciful. 
 PVom the tense and breathless silence of that packed 
 court room the clear voice of Portia has rung through 
 the intervening centuries: — 
 
 "The quality of mercy is not strained; 
 
 "It droppeth, as the gentle rain from heaven, 
 
 "Upon the place beneath: it is twice bless'd; 
 
 "It blesseth him that gives, and him that takes: 
 
 "'Tis mightiest in the mightiest; it becomes 
 
 "The throned monarch better than his crown; 
 
 "His scepter shows the force of temporal power, 
 
 "The attribute to awe and majesty, 
 
 "Wherein doth sit the dread and fear of kings; 
 
 "But mercy is above this sceptered sway, 
 
 "It is enthroned in the hearts of kings, 
 
 "It is an attribute to God himself; 
 
 "And earthly power doth then show likest God's 
 
 "When mercy seasons justice. Therefore, Jew, 
 
 "Though justice be thy plea, consider this — 
 
 "That in the course of justice, none of us 
 
 "Should see salvation: we do pray for mercy; 
 
 "And that same prayer doth teach us all to render 
 
 "The deeds of mercy." / 
 
 Portia here seems to fear that her plea might move the 
 Jew, and that would entirely spoil her plans. So she 
 adroitly counteracts her appeal by turning his mind 
 back to the justice of his judgment on the bond. She 
 says: — 
 
 " * * * I have spoke thus much 
 "To mitigate the justice of thy plea; 
 "Which if thou follow, this strict court of Venice 
 "Must needs give sentence 'gainst the merchant 
 there." 
 
 Portia shows the trained mind of the jurist in her 
 recognition of the value of precedent. She makes it 
 very clear that what the law is should be certain, fixed, 
 
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 definite; and that it must not be departed from lightly, 
 or because in some one case it happens to operate, 
 harshly. When Bassanio, in his anxiety for his friend 
 pleads that she — 
 
 "Wrest once the law to your authority," and 
 "To do a great right, do a little wrong;" in other 
 words, to change the law in this one case, the young 
 doctor answers with the argument stare decisis; — 
 
 "It must not be; there is no power in Venice 
 "Can alter a decree established: 
 "'Twill be recorded for a precedent; 
 "And many an error, by the same example, 
 "Will creep into the state: it cannot be." 
 
 Shylock is now loudly demanding judgment for his 
 pound of flesh, and Portia quietly "Craves Oyer" of 
 the bond, demands to see it. While she reads the bond 
 Antonio, discouraged and tired of the delay, joins in 
 the request that judgment be rendered quickly. Portia 
 then announces the judgment of the court; — 
 
 "***** -y^y then, thus it is: 
 
 "You must prepare your bosom for his knife." 
 
 "For the intent and purpose of the law 
 
 "Hath full relation to the penalty 
 
 "Which here appeareth due upon the bond." 
 
 "Therefore lay bare your bosom." 
 
 And to Shylock: — 
 
 "A pound of that merchant's flesh is thine, 
 
 "And you must cut this flesh from off his breast; 
 "The law allows it, and the court awards it." 
 
 Shylock gleefully steps forward with his sharpened 
 
 ^^^knife and scales to cut and weigh the flesh. This is a 
 
 ^dramatic moment; Antonio has said his farewells and 
 
 S*^ bared his breast for the death which this judgment 
 
 means. But before the blade draws blood the hand 
 
 of Portia goes up in commanding gesture, and she says — 
 
 "Tarry a little; — there is something else." 
 
 Can you see the craned necks, anxious to hear every 
 
 ,,,, 'Word, to grasp at any straw of hope that might thwart 
 
 ^*^^^i^lus- bloody judgment? I think I can hear the released 
 
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 60 
 
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"This bond doth give thee here no jot of blood; 
 
 "The words expressly are a pound of flesh; f 
 
 "Then take thy bond, take then thy pound of flesh; 
 
 "But in the cutting it, if thou dost shed 
 
 "One drop of Christian blood, thy lands and goods 
 
 "Are by the laws of Venice, confiscate 
 
 "Unto the state of Venice." 
 
 Shylock, convinced that this is the law, quickly decides 
 to accept the offer of three times his three thousand 
 ducats, and Bassanio tenders the money. But Portia 
 is not improvident, and does not want to see her good 
 gold paid out needlessly, so she stops her husband from 
 the payment, with, — "Soft." 
 
 "The Jew shall have all justice; soft; no haste; 
 "He shall have nothing but the penalty," 
 
 Then to further soften Shylock by fright she bids him;— 
 
 "* * * Prepare thee to cut off the flesh. 
 
 "Shed thou no blood; nor cut thou less nor more; 
 
 "But just a pound of flesh: if thou tak'st more 
 
 "Or less, than just a pound, — be it but so much 
 
 "As makes it light, or heavy, in the substance, 
 
 "Or the division of the twentieth part, 
 
 "Of one poor scruple, — nay, if the scale do turn 
 
 "But in the estimation of a hair, — 
 
 "Thou diest, and all thy goods are confiscate." 
 
 Shylock now is willing to accept the principal of his 
 loan, but is reminded that he refused it in open court, 
 and is told he can have nothing but the justice he so 
 loudly demanded, and his bond. "Nothing but the 
 forfeiture to be taken at his peril." 
 
 Seeing his vengeance thwarted and his money gone, 
 and feeling the net drawing tighter around him, the 
 poor old Jew says, — "I'll stay no longer", and starts 
 to leave. But this young Nemesis is not yet done with 
 him, and as he turns to escape the court room he again 
 hears the voice of the triumphant Portia:— 
 
 "* * * Tarry, Jew; _^ 
 
 "The law hath yet another hold on you. 
 
 ' '• " — rnr iii i —ri in ni 
 
 61 
 
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"It is enacted in the laws of Venice, — 
 
 "If it be proved against an alien, 
 
 "That by direct or indirect attempts, 
 
 "He seek the life of any citizen, 
 
 "The party 'gainst which he doth contrive 
 
 "Shall seize one-half his goods; the other half 
 
 "Comes to the privy coffer of the state; 
 
 "And the offender's life lies in the mercy 
 
 "Of the Duke only, 'gainst all other voice. 
 
 "In wMch predicament, I say, thou standest." 
 
 Thus Portia's ability and masterly interpretation of the 
 law, and her skillful manipulation of the trial won her 
 case, and completely humbled the Jew. 
 
 The difficult role is finished; the responsibility of a 
 case involving a man's life is off her shoulders, and 
 Portia turns her thoughts toward Belmont. Before 
 she leaves Venice, though, the lighter and fun-loving 
 side of her nature asserts itself in the practical joke she 
 plays upon Bassanio about the ring. 
 
 With the details of the Jew's deeds finished, this 
 incomparable woman turns from the business of con- 
 ducting the supreme court of her state, to the delights 
 of home and a new husband. She is a real flesh and 
 blood woman. Flesh— silken, pink and warm— none 
 of your cold insensate marble statues. Blood — ^rich 
 and red — no ice water circulated in Portia's veins. 
 
 Our last view of her is in her own home at Belmont 
 where she sits as queen, radiating the grace, fellowship 
 and welcome that naturally flow from a brilUant mind 
 and a gentle heart. With Shylock's daughter let us 
 all agree 
 
 "If two Gods should play some heavenly match, 
 "And on the wager lay to earthly women, 
 "And Portia one, there must be something else 
 "Pawned with the other; for the poor rude world, 
 ''Hath not her fellow." 
 
 Where in all the world is such another woman enshrined 
 in the pages of literature? The woman of wealth, 
 education and many-sided development — ^yet unspoiled. 
 The woman with every gift, every virtue, every 
 grace, every accomplishment — and without a blemish. 
 Imperial Portia! 
 
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 62 
 
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NEW Castle is one of the few untarnished examples 
 remaining of a type that is fast vanishing. Will 
 you pardon just a line or two about it? 
 It is an old county-seat town, founded in the early 
 part of the last century, and nestles in the narrow 
 Craig Valley at the foot of the Allegheny Mountains. 
 The court-house, most of the three or four churches, 
 and many of the stores and residences were built before 
 the Civil War, and are of a type distinctive of the Old 
 South. The raib*oad station is clear outside, and as 
 you view it from that distance the town looks more 
 like the picture of a Swiss village, or a town lifted right 
 out of one of Mary Johnston's novels than anything 
 you have ever seen. The old brick and mortar build- 
 ings are mostly low, and some of them have the Colonial 
 columns. 
 
 We dined at a hotel that had been operated since 
 before the war, and found that the landlord was also 
 the town butcher and sheriff of the county. Sitting 
 about in the hotel office were a number of men past 
 middle life who were introduced to us as "Judges", 
 "Colonels" and "Majors", all of whom had seen service 
 in the armies of the Confederacy. The short time we 
 had to converse with these men brought forth some 
 interesting reminiscences of the "Army of Vahginiah, 
 under General Lee, Suh". Excellent men these were — 
 men of honor, culture and refinement — but living in a 
 generation that is past and gone. You may see them 
 in any town of the Old South. Loyal citizens of the 
 republic, yet dropping an occasional tear over the 
 ashes of the only national ideal that ever commanded 
 their enthusiasm. That occasional tear has in it much 
 of fragrance and no germ of danger. All honor to the 
 heart that beats true for the living and yet sheds its 
 gentle incense over the grave of the dead love. 
 
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COPYRIGHT 1 91 4 
 
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 DEC 88