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“Muckers”—Something Definitive.

'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.

April 1906]

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"Fair our name has ever been;
May it ever be!"


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Within his tent the Gold King of the North
Sat feasting; merry bits. of Swedish songs
Or solemn, deep-toned hymns of Germany
Broke forth in turn and trembled on the air
Till shouts of laughter drowned their melody.
An hundred torches flaring in their racks
Cast on the warriors' arms a dancing light
And reddened their fair hair and flaxen beards.
A noble, near the entrance, raised the flap

And gazed into the night; then, "See!" he cried,
"The North Wind holds; for Sweden that bodes good.
Success awaits us! Lord, I drink to thee!

Gustavus! Hail, Gustavus, hero-king! 'Cum Deo et victricibus armis !'


The king, with eyes alight and fair cheeks flushed,
Sprang smiling to his feet. "My friends," he cried,
"I thank you. If your arms be but as strong
As your good-will, I fear no Wallenstein.

We shall prevail. I have a talisman

That, while I keep it, shields me from all harm.
When Gustav Vasa at the Mora Stone

Took oath to free our Sweden from the Danes,
A priest, the last who served the old Norse gods,
Gave him a ring on which in ancient runes
Was graven deep, 'Great Odin grants to him
Who wears this ring long life and sure success
As long as he is just and merciful.'
From sire to son this talisman has passed
A precious heirloom for our race, preserved
By mercy and by justice in our rule."
Gustavus ceased and fumbled at his throat.
"My lords," he said, "you shall behold the ring
That fights for me and guards my very life.
As long as I am just and merciful.""
But suddenly there burst into the tent

A soldier with bound hands and naked back;
He pushed his way among the startled lords

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April 1906]

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The Ring of Gustavus Adolphus.

And threw himself before the angry king.
"Oh wise and gracious sovereign, pity me;
Look at these wounds I gained in serving you."
The suppliant raised his head. “As you are just
I pray you give me justice, my dread king."
Gustavus, red with sense of injured pride,
Indignant for his interrupted tale,
Disdained the soldier kneeling at his feet.
"Seize him and drag him forth to punishment,”
He bade the guards who waited at the door.
"And in addition to the sentence passed
Give him a score of lashes with your thongs;
Presumption such as this deserves no less."
The soldier slowly rose to his full height
And stared into the hard eyes of the king
That flashed with thousand points of chilly steel.
"Oh, most just king," he said, and then he laughed,
"Most cruel rather than most just," he sneered.
Wrath choked the king; he swayed upon his feet
And whispered to himself in maddened rage;
Than frantically he tore his doublet's throat
And thrust his trembling hand into his breast.
A moment thus he stood while o'er his face
There spread an infinite astonishment
That gradually congealed to numbing fear;
A weakness seized his limbs and pulled him down.
"The ring!" he gasped. "The ring that Odin gave!
The ring that guards my life and brings success!
'Tis gone! I've lost it! I have lost my ring!"
Then as he sat, The Lion of the North,

His great head bowed between his mighty hands,
There stole into the tent a filmy mist;

It thickened and became a heavy fog
That, rolling on before the damp South Wind,
Hung o'er the field of Lutzen like a pall
And stole between the king and all his lords
Until he seemed a shadow of himself,

A dim, gigantic ghost that wept and wept,
And muttered ceaselessly, "My ring, my ring."


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


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