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and financier in South America. The amazing defection during the war Parlia- same sad ceremony, the same line of Wards had five children. The eldest ment was petitioned to change the boy's stretcher-bearers, carrying to the cemeson, Captain Charles Ward, of the name to Rodney, so that there should be tery the bodies of those who had died Grenadier Guards, one of the finest lads no difference in the name "Roddy," by in the hospitals during the night. I ever knew, had been a champion boxer which he has always been called. Of the Sad enough it was, and rendered even of Christ Church, Oxford. He repre- two daughters, Sarita, the elder, her more touching by the accompaniment of sented Oxford University against Cam- mother's namesake, is the wife of Sir orphan children from Sæur Claire's bridge. His popularity was shown when Colville Barclay, British Minister to orphanage near by, dressed in black hats he knocked out an adversary in the first Sweden, while her sister, Frances, is the and capes. What could be more fitting,' round of one of the heats. The adver- wife of Eric Phipps, Councillor of the Sæur Claire said to me, 'than for these sary came to, and Charlie, bending over British Embassy in Brussels.

children who were already parentless to him, said, “I hope you will soon be all Herbert Ward died (1919), a willing represent the new orphans and to follow right." The other, looking up, recog- and conscious sacrifice, from excessive the lonely bodies of the soldiers to the nized young Ward, and, though feeling exertion and injuries received in the war. grave?'” badly shaken, said: “Oh, I'm all right. Having voluntarily given his splendid But to return to the Smithsonian exI do hope you'll win." And Charlie did. property at Rolleboise for hospital uses, hibition. It portrays the primitive He was to fall at Neuve-Chapelle (1916). he gave himself. His unit, “Number 3 African-indeed, the soul of a very Another son, Captain Herbert Ward, on Convoy," an English Red Cross section primitive Africa-these gaunt bronzed the outbreak of hostilities joined the serving with the French, became one of figures, many of eloquent solemnity, Royal British Flying Corps direct from the best-known units in any army. He pathos, and dignity, surrounded as they Eton. He was shot down in 1915, badly was its heart and soul. His book "Mr. are by the broad knives and other wounded in an aerial duel over the Poilu" (the proceeds from which were weapons of what seems to us a cruel enemy's lines, and taken prisoner by the given to the French Red Cross) is a civilization or lack of civilization. CerGermans, but, after six months of cap. notable tribute to the French soldier tainly the collection shows what the tivity in German hospitals and prison and to the French woman in the war. Savage was who lived and fought and camps, managed to escape to Switzer- As an instance of the latter he told died before the moderns vulgarized him. land. The third son was named for me about Sour Claire, of Gérardmer, As Ward said to me about them: “I Ward's early co-laborer in the Congo, Sir and about what happened every morn- fraternized with every one I met, and I Roger Casement, but on Sir Roger's ing at dawn when "there occurred the soon found that there was a fund of good humor in the African's composition. In this free and easy way I entered into the lives of the natives. Commencing in a casual manner, I became imbued with a profound sympathy for African human nature. My sympathy was with them in the beginning, and it ripened with time. They appealed to me because of their simplicity and directness and lack of scheming or plotting, and by the spontaneity of everything they did. Hence my efforts to learn their language in order that I might know them better. I have tried to explain this somewhat in my book 'A Voice from the Congo.'

Ward's sculpture is expert sculpture. Take his "Warrior.” In showing it to me he said: “You know, as a rule, war. riors in sculpture have their arms flung out. They are full of movement. But I have been present at a good deal of fighting, and I have noticed that the man most intent on killing some one is so intent that he keeps himself in, knitted together, like a modern boxer.”

His figures are more than mere sculpture. They tell us something about a mysterious, savage, suffering world of which we know little. People ask me,” Ward once remarked to me, 'Why do you do these ugly Negroes? Why not do things that can be put into a drawingroom?' I reply that if I do these and know what I am doing, some day a man will come along who will understand. I love the native Negro because he is the unspoiled son of nature. He is with. out what you might call modern vice. He may be cruel, he may be childish, but he learns this from nature. He has innate dignity."

Ward used to illustrate this by a story which you may find much expanded in Hopkinson Smith's “Armchair at the Inn:” “Once circumstances made it necessary for me to make an expedition into a district inhabited by cannibals and typical savages so far as morals and habits were concerned. Manioc was about their only food. The women tilled it-in fact, that which protects her from being sold as food is her value as a worker. Four days' march led us to a hilly country where the villages were few. As no food was to be had, I was obliged to push on. We met a new kind of native tribe; they spoke one of the dialects I knew, however. The fifth day we had spent trying for game. At nightfall I sent my men ahead and pushed along myself until I caught sight of another village, the first one I had seen in that day's march. The inhabitants were squatting in front of their rude huts and stared at me in wonder, for I was the first white man they had ever seen. One man threw his arm around his wife as if to protect her; she crouched close to him, and both were naked as the day they were born. I used this pair in a group I exhibited some time ago, under the title, 'They Have Eyes and See Not'—you may remember it. When I got in the middle

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of the village, I had a sudden desire for received all the honors France can give
a pipe. I felt for my match-box. Then to a foreigner.
I remembered that I had given it to one Herbert Ward was more than a mere
of my carriers to start our morning explorer and sculptor. He had another
blaze. I now looked for some sign of life-work-to bring about international
a fire, and finally in the very last hut friendship. No one labored more tell-
discerned the glow of a heap of embers. ingly than he to engender understand-
Huddled over it were two figures-a ing and sympathy and friendly feeling
man and a woman. I walked into the between England and France, England
hut and made the sign of peace and and America, France and America. “As
asked in Mabunga for a light. The man to France," I heard him say once, “in
started and sprang to his feet. He my opinion, it comes nearer being a real
looked at me in amazement, but re- democracy than England or America.
turned my greeting and touched his There is no such caste in France as in
forehead in acquiescence. The woman England and there is no such aristoc-
made no gesture. I leaned over to pick racy of wealth as in America. In France
up a coal, but, needing to steady myself, you have the aristocracy of intellect."
involuntarily laid my hand on the wo- How pervasive Ward's influence was
man's shoulder. It was cold and it was may be gathered from the “Armchair
as hard as wood. I looked at her closer. at the Inn." "Monsieur Herbert,"
She was a dried mummy. Then the namely Herbert Ward, is the principal
man said: 'She was my woman. I loved character. The Inn is the Guillaume
her. I could not bury her.'”.

le Conquérant at Dives, Normandy, near
There is something about the Ward the English Channel, and not far from
collection of sculptures which mirrors Houlgate and Trouville and Cabourg.
not only African primitive life, but hints The Chair is an old Florentine affair
of the primitive life of all men, and at with carved heads on the top. “Nothing
a long-ago, elemental universal brother- like a chair," affirmed Lemois, the land-
hood. It carries out the principle I lord, and the prince of major-domos,
heard from Ward, "Great art is along “for stirring up old memories and tradi-
universal lines. It expresses the human tions." He continued:
heart, no matter what the period or the

And do you see the carved heads nationality.”

on the top? I assure you they are No wonder that these bronzes have alive! I have caught them smiling

or frowning too often at the talk around my table not to know. ... You don't believe it? You laugh. Ah, that is just like you modern writers; you do not believe anything, you have no imagination. You must measure things with a rule. You must have them drawn on the blackboard! It is because you do not see them as they are. You shut your eyes and ears to the real things of life. It is because you cannot understand that it is the soul of the chair that laughs and weeps. Monsieur Herbert will not think it funny. He understands these queer heads-and, let me tell you, they understand him. I have often caught them nodding and winking at each other when he says something that pleases them. He has himself seen things much more remarkable, ... Since he was fourteen years of age he has been roaming around the world doing everything a man could to make his bread-and he a gentleman born, with his father's house to go home to if he pleased. Yet he has been farmhand, acrobat, hostler, sailor before the mast, newspaper reporter, four years in Africa among the natives, and now one of the great sculptors of France with his works in the Luxembourg and the ribbon of the Legion in his buttonhole! And one thing more; not for one moment has he ever lost the good heart and the fine manner of the gentleman.

FISHIN'

BY LOUISE AYRES GARNETT

E 'Postles dey went seekin' fer to ketch a mess o' men,

Fishin', fishin', fishin' in de sea.
Dey thoo deir nets out patient, en dey drug 'em in again,

Fishin', fishin', fishin' in de sea.
De waters dey wuz seekin' wuz de waters ob de worl,
En dey ketch a heap o' nuffin' fo' dey eber seen a pearl,
But dey nevah git discourage' en deir nets dey allers hurl,
Fishin', fishin', fishin' in de sea.

Postles, 'Postles,
Fishin' in de sea.
Yore nets am fuller sinners
En yo' done kotch me.

One night a mighty storm come up w'en dey wuz in a boat,
Fishin', fishin', fishin' in de sea.
En Thomas he wuz quakin' en 'is faith he couldn' tote,
Fishin', fishin', fishin' in de sea.
Den glory halleluyer! may I nevah own mah grave
Ef'n blessed Massa Jesus didn' walk out on a wave,
En ca'm dose ragin' waters, en dose skeery 'Postles save,
Fishin', fishin', fishin' in de sea.

'Postles, 'Postles,
Fishin' in de sea.
Yore nets um fuller sinners
En yo' done kotch me.

James he kotch a sinner man, en Petah kotch a t'ief,
Fishin', fishin', fishin' in de seri.
But Judas wuz a yaller man en founder on a reef,
Fishin', fishin', fishin' in de sea.
De 'Postles' nets git boolgy wid a monst'ous hefty weight,
Fer dey fish w'en it wuz sunup en dey fish w'en it wuz late,
En dey lan' dis pore ole sinner lak a minner, sho' ez fate,
Fishin', fishin', fishin' in de sea.

'Postles, 'Postles,
Fishin' in de sea.
Yore nets am fuller sinners
En yo' done kotch me.

ONE LYRE: LOST, STRAYED, OR STOLEN

BY HERMANN HAGEDORN

I

OETS are generally solemn crea And all our excellent and precious tures. Even their ecstasy springs

things, out of gravity and disports itself

The youth that fades, the glory that not unconscious of a cloud of sidereal

endures, witnesses. Poets with a sense of humor

The love that keeps men's hearts --not the comic fellows who fill the joke

alive, she flings

For tokens to her idle paramours. papers, but those shapers of airy verse

We cannot see to heaven from this who combine imagination with their

dark land, gayety--are rarer than roses in Janu Ever our dull eyes rest on bog and ary. Don Marquis is one of them, Ar

fen-thur Guiterman at his best is another; Yet even now, would she but underand fifteen years or more ago at Har

stand, vard there was one who belongs in their

And give us leave to live and be as

men, company.

How would we serve her, cherish her, His name was Charles Tripp Ryder.

adore! He was an undergraduate, of the class

She never will be worthy-hope no of 1906; a long, thin, sallow individual

more. with an overlong neck, a sharp nose, and large inquisitive eyes set wide apart Even as one who, hand to hand witli behind spectacles. He roomed with

death, Henry Bellows, who has since won dis Has stood at bay before him all the tinction as Professor of English at the

night, University of Minnesota, as poet, as

And, lying with Sripped hands and editor of the "Northwestern Miller," and

grating breath,

Suddenly feels the sweet first touch as head of the Minnesota National

of light, Guard, but at that time was famous

Searching and soothing every woundmainly for his airy and somewhat super

od part, cilious brilliancy and the question he And all the infinite courage of the day asked President Eliot on a historic occa Flows like a tide into his withered sion. It was at the Signet (lub, and all

heart. of Harvard's literati had gathered to And death and fear of death are pay their respects to the aged head of

driven away; the University. “Don't you think, Presi

So we, down-creeping toward a

shameful grave, dent Eliot," asked Bellows in a pause

Breathed of the air that blew before of the general conversation, “that the

the sun, elective system has been a complete

Fresh, clean, invigorating, strong to failure?"

save; The reply of the system's sponsor has Then we rose up to win what could not come down to posterity, but that

be won, doesn't matter.

Sought out the life that morning land Ryder and Bellows were a gay and

could give, : irreverent pair; and both of them wrote

And heard her blessed, "Enter in and

live." verse. Bellows's verse was excellent as

II undergraduate verse went; but Ryder's

Land where our dead lie buried, when glowed, and he tossed it off with the

the day ease and the fecundity of genius. In the

Ebbs down our western meadows, and spring of 1905 "The Immigrant” was

on high given as the subject for the Lloyd The stars, beginning faint and far McKim Garrison Prize in poetry. The

away, night before the competition closed

Float to the surface of the deeper Ryder made up his mind that he could

sky, use that hundred-dollar prize, dashed

Oh land that bore us, in that chas

tened hour off three sonnets, and absurdly outdis

We look to thee with new and purer tanced his rivals, of whom the writer

eyes, of these words humbly records himself

That see the crouching dread behind to have been one; and, oh, what hash

the power, his own laborious effort was! Ryder's And all the woe beneath the purple poem has echoes in it of other songs,

guise. but, after all, in its pity, its rich imagi

Then do our pitying hearts go out to

thee. nation, its self-control, its impassioned

Unmindful of thine errors manifold clarity, has any other American poet

And the bad past with all its miseryever done better with the theme?

For thou indeed hast suffered, and

art old. THE IMMIGRANT

Our hearts go out at eventide-and

yet Ilow heavy a fate has overtaken us! We bear thy stripes, and cannot quite Faith is a crust, allegiance is a lie,

forget. For she that bore and has forsaken

But “The Immigrant.” after all, was us Wears the king's purple while her solemn, and Ryder was not often solchildren die;

emn; not at least when he took his pen

in hand. A year later the Garrison Prize Committee (which was invariably solemn) chose “The Stadium" (a new addition to the solemnity of Harvard at that time) as one of the subjects for the competition. Ryder snorted and set to work, but the poem which he wrote did not this time win the prize. The judges loved it, but their sense of responsibility bestowed the prize on a solemn ode to Serge Witte which does not make exciting reading to-day.

This was Ryder's poem, and the only annotation it requires is a word to explain that Mr. Keezer was Harvard's most famous old-clothes man:

THE STADIUM
Tell me not in mournful numbers

That the Stadium is crass,
For I've witnessed in my slumbers

Strange mutations come to pass.
Now, I know, it's an abhorrence,

No more classical than Cork-
But the pickle-jar's of Florence

Are the vases of New York.
Time-devoutly let us thank it

Who affect antiquity---
Gently draws a purple blanket

Over every crudity:
Consequently I am certain

Some one in the year three toll-
sand will draw aside the curtain

Of the golden days of non.
He will tell of triumph marches,

Sing of glory, sweat and blood, -
Praise the beauty of the arches- -

(Made of artificial mud).
Like a second Walter Prater

He will make his readers hear
"Ave Keezer Imperator!”.

Thundering from tier to tier.
He will gabble countless verses

Claimiing speechlessness the while
On how intinitely worse is

Every custom then in style.
Thus will he attain Parnassus,

Just as you and I would do,
Should we see a ruined gas-house

That we took a fancy to.
For, from Merrimac to Humber,

All old truck, however crass,
Is the literary lumber

Of the literary ass. Ryder was always gunning for cant and humbug and shams of all descriptions, and when a highly respected citizen of Cambridge announced that he had found the place on the shore of the Charles where Lief Erickson had landed in the year 1000 A.D., and went so far as to build a fence about the place, Ryder burst forth into “The Saga of Lief Erickson:"

Beside the silent river, beyond the

city dump,
The passing wanderer beholds a little

grassy hump,
Hoop-skirted with iron piping, and

beset with weeds and things,
And round that bit of masonry an

old, sad legend clings. The appeal of the legend is local, but the speech which Lief delivers to his

mariners on their arrival in Cambridge They dressed him in his finest gown, then a long illness and years of consomehow does not lose its freshness: And put him on a special car,

valescence in Colorado. It is the hope

Bound for the most remote fixed star. "O men," he said, adopting the classi

of those who knew him as the most And so, far up above the skies cal address,

brilliant and courageous of the literary

The garrulous old angel lies, “I've got a lot to brag of, and some

group at Harvard in the first decade of Droning away through endless years, thing to confess; And no one cares-for no one hears.

the twentieth century that the sword I've made the North Atlantic re-echo

which struck so sharply at a hundred to my cheers;

One speaks of Ryder in the past tense, shams and the flame which glowed so And beaten out Columbus by thirteen

for all these things were written sixteen brightly in response to beauty may, thousand years."

or seventeen years ago and printed in (A slight exaggeration or hyperbole,

when the time comes, strike and glow of course,

the “Harvard Monthly." They are not once more, for the sake of a world which But it didn't sound improbable when

to be had between covers, and Ryder needs vision and courage, and has not bawled in ancient Norse.)

has published little or nothing since. too much of loveliness and clean laugh“I've been extremely seasick on all First there was the Medical School; ter.

the Seven Seas, And had my name misprinted in countless histories;

THE NEW BOOKS For eighteen years I have not slept without my coat and vest,

FICTION

criticises, and condemns. He does not And my soul is very languid, and HIDDEN PLACES (THE). By Bertrand W. regard them in any of their forms as fain would be at rest.

Sinclair. Little, Brown & Co., Boston. impracticable ideals; quite the reverseI'm getting mighty weary of the

$1.90.

unsound in philosophy, unsupported by Roosevelt type of life,

A war hero supposed to be dead comes And so by Thor and Wotan I think back to Canada, to find his wife remar

history, disproved by experience. As an I'll take a wife!

indictment of Marxian Socialism the ried and his money gone. He falls in And there beside the river, three uffas

book is to be commended; its defect as love with a girl who is temporarily from the town,

a treatise on Socialism is its failure to blind and cannot see his shockingly I mean to build a chicken coop and

indicate any remedy for the acknowlscarred face. Then he finds that his softly settle down.

edged evils of our present industrial Plain living and high thinking is wife is living near by. What should he

system. what appeals to me, do; what will he do? Mr. Sinclair is

TRAVEL AND DESCRIPTION And I've got the plainest living-she's a practiced writer (his "Poor Man's a Radcliffe Ph.D." Rock" is a capital story) and he deals SEA AND SARDINIA. By D. H. Lawrence.

Mustrated. Thomas Seltzer, New York. $7. Ryder, like most of the Harvard with these problems carefully and well.

An unusually entertaining book of poets of the present (and the preceding)

RIDER OF GOLDEN BAR (THE). By William travel, spirited alike in description and

Patterson White Little, Brown & Co., Bos generation, studied versification under

illustration. The critical author's com

ton. $1.707. that most whimsical, wise, and lovable

Another spirited cowboy and rustler

ments on the incidents of travel are · of teachers, Dean Briggs. The exercises

story with politics, gun-play, a stage

diverting, if a trifle caustic at times. in the course consisted almost entirely hold-up, and a murder mixed in. It

As might be expected by readers of his of the writing of imitations of the poets more than moves, it gallops. Mr. White

fiction, he has an excellent eye for the from “Piers Plowman" to Robert Brownis a skilled hand at this sort of thing,

notable characteristics of his fellowing, and were dutifully ground out and and here he has turned out a first-class

travelers and a fluent pen; and his comsubmitted and read and thrown away. slap-dash article.

ments are well matched by the colorful But it was not Ryder's way to leave any.

pietures of an exponent of the new TONERS OF THE TRAILS. By George Marsh. thing that he touched unsinged by the

Mustrated, The Inn Publishing Company,

school of illustration. divine spark. Gower had been punish l'hiladelphia. $2...0,

MISCELLANEOUS ment to read, and in writing his imita Stirring short stories of the Canadian

('ITY HOMES ON ('OUNTRY LANES. By Willtion of the fourteenth-century spend- wilds that make the reader's heart beat

iam E. Smyther. The Macmillan (company, thrift of jambic four-foot couplets the fast till the end is reached and the bat No-w York. $9.50. bored sophomore took his revenge. tle is won. The book is a handsome one Here is a very inspiring and practical GOWER and has illustrations that fit the text. book for the garden lover. The author

considers such rather unusual features When poor old Cower gave up the WINNIE O'WYNN AND THE WOLVES. lix ghost

Bertram Atkey. Little, Broun of Co., Ros as hens, rabbits, squabs, goats. He con

ton. $1.75 His spirit joined the angel host

siders the mechanics of the garden-home That hovers round the throne above,

Bad inen are wolves; they hunt inno

and gives some helpful pages on “thie ( 'hanting strong hymns of power and cent maidens; don't let them get you.

garden-city." As he justly says, Amerlove. Thus, in effect, Winnie's old sport of a

ica's recent advance in the culture of The blessed concourse welcomed dying father warns her. So Winnie

gardens is due chiefly to the National Gower, hunts the wolves. Ingenuous and sweet

War Garden Commission. In that inAnd gave him harp and vocal score:

to look upon, she is wise and smart. Loud hallelujahs round him rang--

stance “the finest public spirit leaped to She whitemails the blackmailers, and “Sing, brother, sing"-and brother

meet a great emergency, without waitlong before the book is over is rich. | Sang,

ing for one line of legislation or asking The Lover's Balm for Broken Hearts, The episodes are clever and funny, but

a penny from the public Treasury." A poem in one thousand parts, the story doesn't end, it just stops.

FORTY-ODD YEARS IN THE LITERARY Without a pause, without a jerk, One endless, pointless, piece of work. HISTORY AND POLITICAL ECONOMY

SHOP. By James 1.. Ford. E. P. Dutton

& Co., New York. $.7. In vain Saint Peter stormed and

WHAT IS SOCIALISMO By James Edward Le
Rossignol. The Thomas Y. Crowell ('on-

Mr. Ford has had experience of many swore, pany, New York. $2.

years as newspaper worker, dramatic It made no difference to Gower; He still continued to declaim,

The words “Socialism," "Socialist," critic, and play writer. He has known Through prayers and pauses. just the and “Socialistic" are frequently applied almost every one in New York's art, same,

to those schemes and their advocates dramatic, and literary circles. He Much patience has the heavenly band, that assume the present wage system, knows how to tell a good story so as to But Gower was more than they could

with its two classes of capitalists and bring out its point cleverly. His stand,

laborers, to be inherently wrong and de- memoirs here included make excellent And saints and angels, everyone,

mand a radical remedy. The author of reading. They are written in a free and Decided something must be done.

this volume deals almost exclusively easy and somewhat bohemian manner, At last they thought of a device. To bring back peace to Paradise:

with the various forms of Marxian and sometimes personal feeling leads They packed his harp and golden Socialism, which trace their genealogy the author a little further than one crown,

back to Karl Marx. These he defines, could wish in invective and sarcasm.

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