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quality of experience in it. And yet it was the laughter of a happy child.
The grey beard and twinkling eyes moved back through the door as the bell tinkled behind the departing customer. In a beam of sunlight a white-haired woman with wide, staring eyes was playing aimlessly with a string of sparkling glass beads, laughing like a happy child.
J. Hall Paxton.
O magical the winter night. Illusory this stretch
Here is nor dawn nor eventide nor any light we know,
That pales the clouds, snow-laden, and blanches all the night,
The wraithlike landscape glimmers, valley, lake and hill,
...So could one stand an hour, a day, a century, Breathless!....What frozen silence. What immobility. As of some grey unfinished world in age-long reverie.
O whither have you vanished, treading the leaves of fall,
What far retreat of being, what ebbing of the flood
And yet, from depths how distant, that tide of green shall rise,
It is indeed easy to discourse glibly of Yale's era of expansion, of the theory of University integration, broadening the scope of the Schools, and what not. But the worthy pilots of University reconstruction should not forget that they are on an uncharted sea, and while it is quite possible to go ahead, missing quite neatly the reefs and shoals, they must follow the guidance of the old stars or miss the destined port.
It is well indeed to sound a strong warning, lest in gaining a new individuality as a University, Yale lose the old individuality of her Schools. For after all, the stamp Yale puts on a man— the mould, if you will, in which Yale shapes his character-is determined, we think, not as much by the curriculum as by the traditions and customs which have largely grown up out of the separateness of the undergraduate schools. There is indeed room for administrative reform; there is room and lots of it for the improvement and broadening of the curriculum; there is need for the abolition of some archaic usages long since past their prime. But in the attempt to improve Yale University the social and cultural entities of Yale College and Sheffield Scientific School should in nowise be ground together in a crucible, as it were, the mutable ingredients of the new whole.
One of the regrets which has for years been current in regard to the LIT. is the fact that it has not in a true sense been a University magazine. It is indeed unfortunate that there have not been more men from the Scientific School registered as LIT. contributors in past years. It is not, however, the fault of the LIT., but rather the fault of the men of the Scientific School, as the magazine has for years been open to the contributions of Sheff. men, as well as members of the graduate schools. The 1921 Board is therefore particularly desirous of giving publicity to its reiteration of the LIT.'s desire for contributions from the northern side of the University. There is every evidence of a
broadening of the viewpoint and of th curriculum of the Scientific School in the recent utterances of its representatives, and we therefore are hopeful that this exhortation may now find ready and willing ears. With the new four-year course established there would seem to be no reason why a Sheff. man's chances in competition for a position on the LIT. Board should be inferior to those of his Academic classmate.
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This year, which has seen such a revival of undergraduate interest in thoughtful subjects, as well as in the practical affairs of the world at large, saw the climax of a season of brilliant lectures in the address of Sir Oliver Lodge in Woolsey Hall on the evening of March 18th. "The Evidence for Survival," reputedly the most popular of the lectures which the eminent English scientist has given on his American tour, was delivered to an audience which completely filled the Auditorium. A wave of interest in speculation as to the possibilities opened up by Sir Oliver's claims for the life after death was the lecture's immediate result. Many of those formerly supposed to be the last persons in the world to take part in philosophical debate became apparently the first to enter the lists at any mention of the subjects of spiritualism, psychic research, and "Death and 'After."
September. By Frank Swinnerton. (George H. Doran Co.)
It has been said that politeness was invented so that two people, who would ordinarily disagree, can live together in peace. The Forsters in their home at Hippeswell were an example of this. Marion Forster, a woman of thirty-eight, beautiful, well preserved and of exceptional intelligence, found none of the pleasures of companionship in the person of her husband, the bucolic, meat-eating type of man, who nevertheless had a certain sense of animal magnetism. They are living together, if not in contentment, at least tranquilly, when Cherry Mant comes to visit them.
Cherry Mant is a combination of youth and sophistication, mixed with a strange impulsiveness which is checked by a hardness in her nature almost before it is expressed. There is a knowledge of her own deficiencies and a desire for good, but withal an overpowering selfishness.
Nigel Sinclair, visiting nearby, is in love with Marian and she, with that autumnal fire in her nature unexpressed, returns it. Cherry sees it all and is jealous-the jealousy of a shallow nature for those finer qualities which it can never possess. She sets out to win Nigel, and the story is the struggle between the two women, Marian ardent yet self-contained, and Cherry with that supreme quality of youth which is her greatest asset.
Mr. Swinnerton is best in his potrayal of characters. He has shown here a depth of understanding and a subtlety of touch which can be surpassed by few of the present-day novelists. In Marian who, although unable to find happiness in her own life, has that rarest of gifts, the understanding and softening of pain in others, he has created a character that makes this book one of exceptional merit. J. W.
Fleur-de-lys, a Book of French Poetry Freely Translated into English Verse...By Wilfred Thorley. (Heineman, London, 1920.)
Fleur-de-lys is a magic garden in which Mr. Thorley has planted the choicest flowers plucked from the lips of French
poets from Charles d'Orléans and Villon to Mendes and Le Bras. On every page bloom blossoms from another land, the lilies of Pierre de Ronsard, the roses of Hugo, or the poppies of Georges Rodenbach.
Whether he treats a rondeau of Charles d'Orléans or some of the more difficult of the verse forms of the Symbolists, he does so with a delicate and sympathetic touch that rivals the hand of the maker. His translations are clear and unforced and they succeed in catching that haunting melody peculiar to French verse. Among them it is impossible to choose; but we might select as our favorites the sonnet by Guy de Tours and the rondeaux of Charles d'Orléans and Pierre de Ronsard. In his versions of Gautier, Thorley exhibits the rhyming genius of Poe, who, of all English poets, has come nearest to French ideals. The one translation from Maeterlinck, "The Seven Maids of Orlamonde," is far superior to Miall's version.
His anthology is not complete; Scéves, Jammes, and Verhaerens, among others, are omitted. But though much that is perfect has been done by Lang, Wyndham, Robertson, and Symons, a collection of this nature has never been attempted. The difficulties of anthologizing the best versions by other men were too great, so Mr. Thorley has been obliged to make his own. translations. His choice has been singularly felicitous and the beauties of the work far outweigh the few errors of omission. In the introduction he has lightly outlined the lives of the most prominent French bards together with a brief history of French poetry.
Translations are held in but slight esteem in our day so this charming collection can not expect to be received with the brass band which is always ready to welcome any ultra-imagist or tinker at rhymes. But to the few that appreciate the difficulties and merits of good translation, Mr. Thorley's book will be a source of constant pleasure.
Limbo. By Aldous Huxley. (Chatto & Windus.)
"Limbo" is a volume of some of the worst short stories it has ever been our misfortune to read. And it is by an author for whom we have the highest respect and is hence the more reprehensible. Its faults are perhaps most perfectly exemplified by