Bryn Mawr College - Bryn Mawr Yearbook (Bryn Mawr, PA)

Page 27 text:

and left New Zealand then once and for all, because I was on a tour around the world and did not want to get involved in any such plot. They all came to the boat to see me off, and my black bangs were flying in the wind, and Mr. Thackeray most gallantly pre- sented me with a pocket mirror. I caught the allusion on the wing, and so did the rest of them, and we laughed until the ship sailed. At Sea: Two of my fellow But New Zealand was only a prelude, a faint whiff of passengers drowned. Both excitement. Little did I know when I heard the ship poets. Dreadful! blowing its horn out of the harbour how close I was to the real stuff of life and death. I went to my cabin and started to relax when there was a faint scratching at the door. I opened it, and out- side stood a rather wan young man to whom my heart immediately unfolded itself. It must have been some quality of soul that I sensed. He stumbled in, regarded me strangely, then burst into a torrent of words. He said he was feeling death to be near, and could I possibly give him a copy of Cymbeline. All this was palpably absurd to me, but even more so when another knock sounded on the door, imperiously, loudly. I opened. A tall figure entered. I am Byron, it said, I have come to find my co-partner in mad- ness and exile. I realized all at once that it was Keats sitting on my bed, and then I began hunting eagerly for Cymbeline among my belongings, but could find no trace of it. I must have lost it, I sighed. You would! Dumpy! uttered Byron, and I shrank into myself at his cutting words, they were so witty, full of that famous European savoir faire. But it was a good copy! I apologized. Byron silenced me superbly by remarking that he wouldn ' t be found dead with it; and at that Keats sprang to his feet and rushed from the cabin. He ' s after that belle dame again! Poor idiot! cried Byron. At dinner I was all right again, with my bright eyes observing all. Byron was not far away from me, and I noticed his deathly pallor, and I said to myself that I had learned something true in college after all, and that undoubtedly his private life was in a ghastly turmoil. I wondered if he had perhaps kidnapped the one Woman who inhabited New Zealand (I never forgot her), because that would have borne out the best theories on the subject. But she was nowhere to be seen. Well, to be brief, both the dear Keats and the naughty Byron managed somehow to get drowned. It was a bad thing, I had my eye on the wan one ; when I saw him one of ternoon with that fatal drama in his hand, my bangs stood out straight from my head. Adieu, adieu, I said, the tears coming to my eyes, thy plaintive anthem fades, and indeed it did fade, drowned deep in the cold, cold sea, and only the seagulls over his grave. It was fated that way; all of us on board had felt an ominous thrill of disaster. But Byron, of course, drowned differently. It hap- pened at the crack of dawn; he had meant to die in Missolonghi, but something slipped, and he found himself joining the great mother sea instead of the Greek rebels. The sailors shot off the gun, he made his last salute, and down he went. Ours not to reason why, because we knew already that the gods kill the things they love, and if God does not love a poet well enough to kill him by land, by sea is the next best thing — or what ' s a heaven for? 21

Page 26 text:

The mediaeval doctrine of usury, they whispered, was a written contract and money paid back or death. A lord was entitled to anything on his own estate, but the money-lenders extorted 300-400% interest and the mediaevals considered this one of the cardinal sins, especially since produce was demanded from land worked by peasants. This was too much for the House, which went raving mad with brain-fever, so there was nothing for the young women to do but leave. They waved goodbye to the Secretary of the Treasury, who was balancing his paper dollar on the scale with infinitesimal grains of gold dust out of his beard, and seemed to be finding it a difficult task. It is significant, however, that as they left, their owl flew into the Treasury beard, as a symbol of the enlightened thinking which had been revealed to the House. oAlice B. Witless Makes the Qrand Tour (Editor ' s Note: Miss Witless has done us a great favor by expanding for us the diary notes she kept on her cruise. The original notes will be printed in the margin.) New Zealand. Met celebri- When I was in New Zealand we had quite a party. I ties living there, especially A can assure you it was no amateur affair. D. H. Law- Woman. Most remarkable rence told me that it was the best event of the year, and to find one on the island. although I never could quite believe anything he told me, yet I had it from his wife and several other reliable sources after he died. It was too bad he died; he was enjoying so much the company of Rider Haggard, who said to me that very same evening: Isn ' t it jolly to have old Thackeray with us again? I said I supposed it was. On the whole, I think that Rider Haggard enjoyed Thackeray more than he did Lawrence, which was a shame, because D H. was mortally afraid of Captain Cook, who kept hurtling around street corners (they do have streets in New Zealand, please) with a cuirass in hand, and Lawrence thought Rider Haggard the most suitable to protect him. For, after all, Stevenson had a bad lung, and Browning was — well, you know Browning — and A Woman, no matter how mysterious, whether she be the dark lady of the sonnets or the fair lady of the octava rima, is in the end a woman, and no protection against a cuirass. It was at the party that I found out the whole truth about New Zealand. Fielding told me, he took me off in a corner and explained that Captain Cook was king of the island (at the same time cutting a fine literary figure, of course) and that everything he said went, and had gone very well until one day D. H. Lawrence burst upon this paradise of male writers, arriving inopportunely with sons, lovers, and A Woman. The cuirass habit had started then, and the situation was becoming daily more grim. I asked Fielding why he didn ' t do some- thing about it, a man of his parts, and he said that after one more scene he was going to whip out Tom Jones and finish the whole thing off in the grand manner. I said Bravo! 20

Page 28 text:

Greece. Missolonghi. Tavern I followed the trail of Livingston to Missolonghi be- scene. How the mighty fell! cause I heard of a revival meeting they were having Impossible interviews. Brawl- there. But it turned out to be one of those nights ing. Very disappointed. i n a n old tavern. Ben Jonson was there, as spruce as ever. He told me himself, as soon as I came in, that having worn out his influence on the romantic poets (tremendous, since he never wrote plays) he was travelling through Europe in search of a Boswell. He wanted to mend his fame, he said, so he went to Greece. But alas, he found many there in the old tavern already, all slowly dying of war or the world ' s neglect. He found Kipling holding out the last drop of water to Gunga Din, while Rupert Brooke wept silently upon the cool white tablecloths. The night I was there, things came to a sorry pass; in fact I was the only one who survived to tell the horrid tale. For Burns swaggered in somewhat tipsy and red about the ears, followed by Beaumont, of Beaumont and Fletcher Limited. There were not enough chairs, and insults began to fly, with the result that both Kipling and Gunga Din (who really was, by the way, the better man) collapsed; and Rupert, after writing on the tablecloth his last wish — to be buried under English sod, in a corner lot, if possible — expired, shot in the heart, gallantly pursuing the barmaid, a lover to the last. Ben and I were sitting pretty; presently Burns and Beaumont began squabbling with each other — the latter becoming officious about his business connections. Burns, who was anything but a snob, could not tolerate smugness, however delicate, however gentle- manly, the wine had been flowing freely, and they were both men for all that. Rumor says that each fired at the same instant; I shut my eyes; but I think that Burns missed his aim, and Beaumont, after killing Burns, feeling a bit Jacobean, and quite drunk, shot himself also, willing his famous house to Gilbert and Sullivan. This left the old tavern for Ben and me; as we sat there sipping the good grape, exchanging Scotch memoirs, I began to feel rather puffed up until — and this is the climax of my visit to the tavern — Boswell appeared, slowly walking, meditating visibly into his notebook. It ' s Boswell! I whispered naively, and let me hint to you that in my dreams I too had hoped for immortality, and here was the main chance, the only chance — here I was between a Boswell and a Jonson ! But woe to the English language, that one small letter could start a brawl. For when, with the greatest aplomb, yet with the air of an old acquaintance reviving friendship, large-hearted Ben produced his calling card, what should the great commentator do after reading the name but pronounce audibly to the air: The upstart! He has dropped the H ! Aitch be damned! cried Ben, I ' ll make you itch for this, you fraud, you eighteenth century darling! Thus the fray began; they both died fight- ing, out-Marlowing Marlowe in their disreputable performance. I decided to forswear literary men forever. 22