WONDERLAND. Far over the swell of the sunlit foam Safe hid from the reach of a human hand, Or the ken of an earthly eye. What shall we see in Wonderland? Rose of the rising dawn, Noon of the dimpled wavelets that lisp on the snowy strand, Glory of sunset, magic of moonlight thrilling the spicy lawn, And never a blow nor storm nor snow, in the wolds of Wonderland. No labor nor longing shall enter there For the purple gates retire; But late at night when the flame-sprites flare And the heart is full of secret lore Thy spirit shall fly to the distant shore On the wings of a hushed desire. Whom shall we meet in Wonderland? All that the painter found, All that the poet sang of—a gay and a gallant band. Warriors, dragons, fairies, enchanters, ladies in glamour bound, The strife of the strong in tale and song, in the wolds of Wonderland. No world like ours, with its wasted powers Aud hurry and strife and strain, The strength of wrong and the scorn of song For there none fall by the wizard's might What shall we find in Wonderland? Hope that is ever new, W. B. Hooker. NOTABILIA. If the Editors of the LIT. may be pardoned for discussing the affairs of the magazine in this department, they wish to enter a protest against the totally insufficient competition for Chi Delta Theta among the members of the Senior class. Whether the number of honorary elections given will be five, three, or one, rests entirely with the contributors. The editors are unwilling that the elections, which stand for so much in Junior year, should be awarded in Senior year unless they are deserved, and take this opportunity of reminding contributors from 1901 that but two numbers remain before the competition is closed. Chi Delta Theta has an honorable record, and the supplementary elections are designed to prevent a cessation of interest in the LIT. after the editors for each class are chosen. Therefore it is certainly incumbent on members of the graduating class who desire the distinction of connection with this oldest of Yale literary organizations to do work for the remaining numbers which shall merit such connection. The Musical Clubs have completed the most remarkable trip ever taken by a college organization of this sort, and congratulations are due the management for the successful crossing and re-crossing of the continent. In addition to this, however, there is a very special significance to such a trip at this time, and the moral is that there is no spot between the oceans so remote that graduates living there can consider themselves outside the pale of Yale interests, when their Alma Mater calls for aid. PORTFOLIO. THE CHILD'S EYES. Twin tiny heavens builded azure blue, And stainless souls of flowers come to rest- PAOLA AND D. L. James. -It is a delicate task to tread ground that has been hallowed by the footfalls of the immortals. To do so it is necessary that one walk in a spirit of the deepest reverence and adoration. The story of Francesca di Rimini, wildly sweet and solemn as the strains of a violin echoing from afar, comes wafted down to us with the name of one whose very touch was golden, and at the mere thought of a modern using the theme of the Italian master we are horrified for a moment as we would be horrified at seeing a vandal hand attempting to restore that god-like marble of the Winged Victory. And yet it cannot be gainsaid that in his tragedy of "Paola and Francesca" Stephen Phillips has done exceedingly well. Like "Marpessa," Phillips' earlier work, "Paola and Francesca" possess a strange beauty, all the pale perfect beauty of lilies. But it possesses something more than beauty; a genuine dramatic fire, a living, breathing, full-blooded forcefulness. The characters ring true. They are real people of flesh and sinew. About Francesca there is both sweetness and light; magically commingled fire and dew. Her nature at first appears timorous and shrinking-she is another lily maid of Astolatbut towards the end, transformed by the alchemy of a surpassing love, she evinces a courage than which the courage of Juliet itself is not stancher and she is willing, nay eager, to "take up her fate and smile." Quite different from this girl with the flower-soul is the character of Lucrezia, the cousin and familiar friend of Giovanni. She is a woman of many sorrows and acquainted with grief; a widow born to nurse through life the vain love for children. She is forever yearning to hear the childish prattle at her breast and the musical laughter of little ones upon the floor. Though deprived of the rights of motherhood she is a woman still and she envies the mother her last look upon the cold and coffin'd form. All day she sits alone silent and darkling, but in the watches of the night when the dreams come flitting down to earth she hears the ringing silver of childish voices, laughs back the love into a thousand eyes of blue: "Have I not in my thought trained little feet To venture, and taught little lips to move, I am long practised! O! those children mine!" What a mad joy it is which surges up in Lucrezia's breast when Francesca, fearful of the doom toward which her feet are all too surely rushing, throws herself into the shelter of her bosom crying out, "O! woman, woman, let me be your child. Take me to you, woman, and hold me!" Something flames into sudden life in Lucrezia's breast and clasping Francesca ever more tightly to her she sobs out wildly unto the skies, "And now I have conceived and have brought forth, And I exult in front of the great sun, And I cry out with riches in my lap!" In "Paola and Francesca" as in the old Greek tragedy, there is an ever-approaching doom, swift-footed and relentless. After the prophecy of blind Angela there is scarcely a gleam of hope to pierce the starless night of gloom which settles slowly and inexorably over the scene. As each event occurs we feel that it could not have been otherwise. Every link forged in the chain is terribly inevitable. Even the luckless Giovanni seems to have felt that Paola and Francesca were but helpless pieces in the game of the gods, for when the forms of those two who loved and loving died, are borne in upon a single bier, he bends over and kisses them reverently on the forehead. For a long while he gazes at them without speaking, all the iron of the man melted down to tears; then he says quietly, "I did not know the dead could have such hair, D. L. James. L'AIGLON. -The curtain has fallen on the last act of L'Aiglon ;-the young duke has just sunk backward into the arms of his mother, and Metternich, with his heartless "Clothe him in the uniform of an Austrian colonel" has thrown an afterlight of cold, cynical reality over the burning pathos of the Eaglet's death. Doubtless Metternich was right from the point of view of history. Napoleon's son was a diplomatic impossibility;—but realities are not what we are thinking of at this moment, and in an instant the historic searchlight has faded, and we are back again in Austria, wondering and sorrowing at the bitter hopelessness of such a life. One could scarce conceive of a character more intrinsically tragic in all its suggestion. The charm, the fire, the forcefulness of the Corsican blood all rendered futile by that sinister taint of Bourbon self-distrust and introspection. Surely there is hardly a personality that could so arouse at once our pity and enthusiasm. Primarily in its brave, but unavailing struggle for self-mastery each one of us may find a glimmer of his own experience, and we are but too ready to allow him every excuse of environment or heredity. But gradually the thrill and the atmosphere of romance have faded from our imagination. There must, of necessity, have been power in the drama that could so have stirred them,— but now it is time for more dispassionate review and estimate. What shall be our judgment in retrospect? Has Rostand realized the promise of his earlier work? Is L'Aiglon equal, in point of genius, to "Cyrano de Bergerac?" On the whole we are forced to admit that it is not. The two plays are intrinsically different; alike only in that they are both tragedies. "Cyrano" is a romantic poem; L'Aiglon a dramatic character study. Cyrano, the hero, calls forth only our fascinated admiration, even in his death-scene; Reichstadt, even when nearest triumph, we pity as we would a child, an eager, feeble spirit trying to fill a place in history that is too large for him, and dying of the failure. To be sure we can hardly say that because the former arouses a more lofty emotion, it is the greater play. Beyond the emotion itself, there is the method, the manner of its elicitation, and here it is that Cyrano excels. The desired result is secured by purer and more delicate treatment of the theme. In L'Aiglon,-if we care to detect flaws in a master |