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There is a place, a great big place, just as there is a place for McClure's or Ainslee's. And the undergraduate world would know it too, if only we had half the active interest, a quarter of the active interest, in our undergraduate publications which we have in our athletics.

I do believe that we should not treat this matter too lightly. Yale suffers from the reputation for a lack of literary atmosphere. She has graduated no very noted writers, with the possible exception of James Fenimore Cooper, and he was not graduated. Moreover, she has extremely few representatives among the host of novelists and short-story writers of to-day. But Longfellow, Emerson, Whittier, Holmes, were all Harvard men. vard did not produce them, they happened there, so to speak for if she did, why does she not continue to produce literary men of the same calibre? Nevertheless, of the two universities, Harvard is the literary, the scholastic; Yale is athletic, splendidly so, indeed, but only athletic—such are reputations.

True, Har

I do not mean to say that a compulsory Freshman Rhetoric course is going to produce a Longfellow or an Emerson. But I do believe that it will go far towards producing a good, wholesome interest in undergraduate literature. And perhaps when that has come to pass it will not be the exception for a Yale man to choose the fine art of writing for a vocation.

S. M. Harrington.

66

FROM THE JOURNAL OF A MEDIAEVAL

BUT

DIPLOMAT.

UT why not, your Highness?" said I, in an uncommonly high and strident voice. "You will need a firm hand beside you to govern your state; the nobles will be quick enough to deprive you of all power. Can you not comprehend that if you are married to some strange prince, our little state immediately loses its freedom?-your Highness, if you wedded me it might all be saved. I am not so low-born as you think I could rule-" here, in my overeagerness, my voice, which always escapes my control in moments of excitement, rose and broke. The Princess

looked at me coldly, and gathered up her robes. "The princesses of Wegenwald do not marry clerks," she said haughtily, and started from the apartment.

I cringed. I knew I had no family, but one shudders to have it flung in his face. No, I was low-born, but I had ability, and she should know it 'ere long. I could not refrain from shaking my fist at the retreating figure; ah, there are ways of getting power besides a noble birth, and I could feel myself glow with a mad desire to humble her. Gott, how I hated her at that moment!

I had two forces at my command to bring the Princess to her knees; brains, and wealth-for my years in the service of the old prince were not spent in vain. The years of my struggle from a scrivener recording the taxes and keeping accounts to the post of Minister of Finance and State in Wegenwald were to have their recompense now that the prince was dead. I was still young. Forty is the prime of life. My ambition was for the crown, nor would I brook resistance from a proud girl. There must be a way to remove her from my path or force her to marriage, and I would find it. Perhaps it was something in her appearance when the Princess left me after my first suggestion of

marriage that infused me with the idea, for I was suddenly struck with wonder at that delicate profile and black hair when her bluff Saxon father had been blonde and fat, and her mother also. Moreover, her sister, the half-witted Teresa, was plump and yellow-haired. I determined to investigate the records of the daughters' births.

First I betook myself to the great cathedral, and there in a musty old tome I read the records of the births of twenty odd years back. It took no great time to find the one I searched for, occupying as it did an entire page of the discolored volume. "Frieda, Grafin von Zorn, Niedlinger, etc., first-born of Prince Sigismund and his consort Maria of Saxony," and on another page further on, "Teresa, second daughter of Prince Sigismund and his consort Maria of Saxony," with another group of titles. No assistance there. There was doubtless a first daughter Frieda; I must discover if the present princess were truly that daughter.

The bishop was my next object of investigation. For this man I have always felt a contempt, for he spends his time mumbling prayers and performing ceremonies and supplying the rabble and beggars with various needs, so that he has neglected the welfare of his diocese, and it is far surpassed in power and splendor by many another with lesser advantages. But he had christened the princess and doubtless would know the truth of her birth—whether or no I could wring it from him was the question.

As I pondered upon my problem, I became more and more certain that Frieda was no daughter of old Sigismund. Whence her fluent use of the French tongue, so difficult for a full-blooded Teuton as she should have been? Why the eagerness of her father to confirm by documents her right to the throne? I recalled many little acts and words of the dead prince and his wife which tended to confirm my suspicions, and I strode confidently into the presence of the prelate to make one grand attempt to obtain proof. If any man in Wegenwald knew, it was he.

The bishop dislikes me. I can see it through his attempt to hide it. In the councils we have many differences of opinion, and it is usually too troublesome for me to hide my scorn of him. This time, however, I had a purpose, and was all politeness. He begged me to be seated, and I soon brought the general conversation to the point I wished.

"I have just been noticing," I remarked, "what delicate features and glossy black hair the princess possesses.”

The old man glanced at me quickly.

"It is most remarkable," I continued, "especially since her father and mother were so stout and fair, as is her sister Teresa. It would seem to a sharp observer,” I went on, musingly, but with a quick eye furtively watching the bishop, "that she were not the real daughter of our late and beloved prince."

A frightened look came over his face. I could see his fingers twisting nervously. He was ever a little wary of me, and he knew I was at his secret. It was the moment for my master stroke.

"My lord," said I, facing him suddenly, "I have a piece of serious news for you. First, I will tell you I am in the secret of the princess' birth. I know she is not Sigismund's daughter, for I was his trusted friend, and he told me!" The bishop started. "Then you know she is Heinrich's daughter!" he cried.

My heart leaped exultantly. I was correct! Heinrich was Sigismund's brother, and his marriage with the French Lady Anne and their subsequent tragic death at the hands of Swiss brigands was a household story. I could surmise the rest the real Frieda had died in her early infancy, and the orphan niece had been secretly substituted for her by the old prince, who was a man given over to the affections of family in a way which was undignified in a ruler, and which took much time from his duties. So far excellent; but the game was not yet played. I had no actual proof. "Yes, my lord," I went on, "and I have guarded the secret as well as you, but I have heard whispers that certain

knights have also have perceived through the princess' dark coloring that she is not princess by right, and are secretly plotting to get the papers which will prove it. As soon as I learned it, I came to you, for I understand that you know where they are kept, and I could not see the princess harmed." This was a wild shot, and missed the mark, I soon found, for the prelate replied:

"There are no papers. The secret is safe with you and me. Only one other knows, and I believe she is dead." I pondered a moment.

"The old nurse, you mean?" He nodded. I had made another good shot. With many protestations of friendship and assurances of loyalty, which were made with a pious and devout face, for I was ever good at drawing a pious countenance, I departed. The guileless old churchman was in my hands.

It was no great difficulty to trace the old nurse, and I found to my intense pleasure she was still alive; and as she had been neglected by the court in her old age, it was a simple matter with a little gold to persuade her to do my will at the proper time.

Only one thing more remained. In my official capacity as minister, I opened negotiations for a marriage with the brilliant Prince of Denmark, for the beauty of Princess Frieda made such aspirations possible. The Prince seemed not unwilling, and at last my net was completing its folds. I would humble her once and for all time, and in such a manner that she would be glad to marry me or any other man. The hours of satisfaction I had as my plans neared completion repaid me many an hour's pain in other failures. The Prince arrived. He was a fine appearing man, but I hated him the moment my eyes fixed his. They were blue and steely and my gaze fell before them; while something in me shrank from him, and I felt my physical defects as I never had before. But what has a man of forty to think of as to his looks. My brain would conquer him and his fine muscles with ease, and that is enough. The time for

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