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'mucker.' It may be, but I have done so purposely. This "mucker" of subtle ways, and, at times, unimpeachable manners, has not been shown forth under the strong light of inquiry. It takes a good man to look another good man squarely in the eye. Thus this sort of "mucker," the "mucker" of the class-room, is most dangerous, just as he is most petty, most sneaking and most cowardly. "Muckers” may taint the true spirit of athletics, but may not spoil it. "Muckers" may spoil the fair name of a university.— And against them we should turn as Crusaders championing the name Gentleman. Let Yale stand for culture. And let us accord with Matthew Arnold in his definition of culture as "sweetness and light." The "mucker" is out of place among us. They who are strong in their allegiance to the Yale spirit can never be "muckers." Indefinable our Yale spirit undoubtedly is, but it is, nevertheless, the outgrowth of that keen competition which Yale guarantees one and all who would participate in her activity. It is in the competition itself that proneness toward "muckerism" is strongest. Yet Yale spirit stands for this, "Play fair and await the crisis calmly. Win and may we win!-gracefully! Lose if we must and lose gracefully." Around this banner we must all rally, and if once we do so, with all honesty, there will be no “mucker” in our midst.
"Fair our name has ever been;
THE RING OF GUSTAVUS ADOLPHUS.
Within his tent the Gold King of the North
And gazed into the night; then, "See!" he cried,
Gustavus! Hail, Gustavus, hero-king! 'Cum Deo et victricibus armis !'
The king, with eyes alight and fair cheeks flushed,
We shall prevail. I have a talisman
That, while I keep it, shields me from all harm.
Took oath to free our Sweden from the Danes,
A soldier with bound hands and naked back;
The Ring of Gustavus Adolphus.
And threw himself before the angry king.
His great head bowed between his mighty hands,
It thickened and became a heavy fog
A dim, gigantic ghost that wept and wept,
H. S. Lovejoy.
"IN the land of the Phæacians, in the palace of Alcinous,
with walls of brass and doors of gold, with beds of flowers and fountains that never failed, came the servants of the king leading Demodicus holding his lyre." "For the gods had given to him above all others the gift of song wherewith to delight the hearts of men, and much did the muse love him, but she had given him both good and evil. Then did the minstrel sing a song the fame of which had reached heaven, and the heart of Ulysses was melted within him as he listened, and the tears ran down his cheeks."
Bare halls of Norse kings by a northern sea resounded with the songs of bards in later centuries. These songs were of battle and fate, with huge imaginings and whimsical tales of rude, boisterous gods. The grim songster's mission was to keep aflame that Norse spirit of bravery in death or life, and to sing the irrefragable fate of the gods. Such a singer was the wandering Widsith and such the poet of Beowulf.
In a later century to the land of France came the troubadours, the minstrels of Provence, whose vagrant lives and wandering loves have given their name abiding charm. Royal poets they were, royal in lineage and gift, with singers such as Bertrand de Born, Richard Coeur de Lion, and William IX of Poitou, fierce warriors, passionate lovers, gay singers whose songs were care-free, frivolously fanciful, and burdened with love alone.
Seldom do we hear to-day of a poet who, truly bard-like, draws melody and inspiration from flute or harp, who combines the gifts of a great musician with a poet's beauty of expression. In this literal sense, there is no American poet more bard-like than Sidney Lanier. It is a suggestive fact that Lanier had musical ancestors at the courts of Elizabeth and James I, who apparently acted in a capacity remotely
Perhaps it is
allied to that of the vanished troubadours. not too fanciful to imagine that a vein of musical genius, hidden in its descent for over two centuries like a rich mineral strata, long buried and suddenly upheaved, found its brilliant culmination in this southern poet. Lanier was so passionately devoted to his violin that he more than once sank into a trance from the very delight of his music-love. As he lay confined in a dingy war prison, he took comfort in his flute, the comrade of his dreariest hours, with which he never parted through all the bitter struggle. Here truly is a suggestion of the far-away troubadour days. In the Confederate camps, through the battlefields of Seven Pines, Drury's Bluff, and Malvern Hill, in the enemy's prison, and through the after years, hard with encroaching poverty and failing health, Lanier never lost his music-love. Melody seemed a part of the man. It lives in his poetry.
Like a true songster, Lanier's heart was in his song through life, and life enriched his song. He appears as though war, sickness, love, sorrow, brightness and gloom, were to him but rich tones in his great harmony, tones exquisitely tender and sad, tones rapturously soft and sweet, tones forever wonderful and beautiful. As he wandered from place to place fleeing the shadow of early death, fighting with sickness, grappling with poverty, his song became more ethereal and tender, more deep and strong, more rich and strange, like the sound of his own violin with wood well seasoned. Who can know the story of Lanier's life and not know too that out of its very hardness he gained a genuine intimacy, a personal affection, an inspiring love for “the live oaks, the marsh and the main," that the music of the little green leaves came to him in his sleep, and the sad, unceasing song of the sea found in him a sympathetic response? To the trees of his favorite haunts he cries:
"I have waked, I have come, my beloved, I might not abide;
I have come e'er the dawn, O beloved, my live oaks to hide
In your gospelling glooms to be
As a lover in heaven, the marsh my marsh and the sea my sea."
According to dictates of fancy, or perhaps because of Lanier's romantic ancestry, his musical talent and his poetic fer