United Colleges - Vox Yearbook (Winnipeg, Manitoba Canada)

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Furtfaer Research Concermin W. Wordsworth HTHIS is a collection of Wordsworth’s lesser known Lucy poems, following his affair with a French girl, from the very beginning when they met in London after her marriage to an Englishman whose name is never revealed, to the tragic, somewhat sordid ending of Lucy’s life, poisoned by the man who loved her. Wordsworth was much older than Lucy and liked to call himself her “daddy.” Once in an attempt to break off with Lucy, he sent her to Texas with his aunt, but Lucy’s tender heart broke, and she took to drink. Wordsworth called her home at once. On the way back she was the heroine of a shipwreck, and with her indomitable spirits kept up the courage of the survivors. Their love affair, perhaps the greatest in Eng¬ lish literature, was a tender, gay time for both Wordsworth and Lucy. A few clouds of jealousy darkened his sky when rumors of Lucy’s little friendship with Hardy reached London, but on the whole Wordsworth and Lucy were very happy. Wordsworth ' tells us that he used to run up to Lyonesse unexpectedly to see Lucy, but she would have heard of his approach and run off to the next county. This giddy hide- and-seek went on for many years until one or both of two events, one probably fictional, took place. Lucy was sent down to prison and Words¬ worth lost his mind. Literary critics feel Wordsworth must have been a little out of his head, but there is controversy over Lucy’s prison record. When she came home, if indeed she ever left, Wordsworth, beset with notions of her immor¬ ality, poisoned her and buried her in the garden under a rose bush. He writes a pleading, bitter, poem to her unknown lover, asking him why he has not attended Lucy’s funeral. As a mat¬ ter of fact, none attended her funeral. The only other person who knew of Lucy’s death was Lucy’s mother. Helen Brekke, Ph.D., Lift. D. I. To Lucy. With Deep Feeling. Lucy, Lucy of Lyonesse, The flower of the state, Lucy is gone to London Town, Her lover for to mate. Lucy, Lucy of London Town, Once more in Lyonesse, With bruises black and darkly brown, Her marriage was a mess. II. Sorrow in Retrospect. In Lyonesse where Hardy lived There stands a little fountain, Or was it Arnold who lived there? Perhaps it was a mountain? At any rate, there Lucy dwelt, She knew old Hardy well. And yet I never dreamed that she Would fall beneath his spell. III. Immorality Will Out. Lucy went to Chinatown, (A suburb of Lyonesse). She bought a costly silken gown, A lacy summer dress. It matters not h ' ow Lucy’s clad Her morals ever will be bad. Ah, Lucy, stay away from me, At least until eternity. IV. The Travelling Salesman. I took a bus to Lyonesse, My Lucy for to see, But Lucy’d gone to Lancashire, She dreaded seeing me. V. What’s Skin Deep? In Lyonesse, in Arthur’s time, My Lucy was a beauty, The years have passed, I love her still, Great is my sense of duty. Page Nineteen

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and write knowing tomes on authors that na¬ ture had graced with virginal dust. It would be foolish to blame the colleges entirely for this production of ethereal intel¬ lectuality; some people will divorce life regard¬ less of law, customs, or religion. It is the waste mounting each year as the more normal and useful of college entrants are ignored in favor of these dust displacers of ancient libraries’ helpless tombs. Indeed much of the intoler¬ ant attitude of the faculty is based on what they would call the historic approach, digging up the past with its so-called glory and offer¬ ing it in all seriousness as a comment on mod¬ ern life. There is a justification for some stress on the historic approach, but there is no justi- faction for the half-hearted appendage of mod¬ ern literature, history, art, philosophy and so¬ cial study at the end of courses, books, and articles. Where contemporary study would be most rewarding, at the junior levels, it is en¬ tirely omitted in favor of poorly taught courses of classical learning. Apparently a young stu¬ dent is incapable of reading contemporary lit¬ erature, but is deemed much more competent to derive sense from classical writings where words have an entirely different connotation from those he is supposed to use in daily dis¬ course. We insist on producing incompetents for dull life and haven’t the guts to produce visionaries capable of a more inspired existence. The present defence of those responsible for education is a shrug, and the suggestion of a dilemma no matter what way they turn. Most students have a home life immeasurably emo¬ tional and insignificantly intellectual. They need some inspiration. Most faculty members are all too anxious to offer their personal ser¬ vices but are presently engaged in the never ending and fruitless task of preparing courses, delivering lectures, marking papers, and at¬ tempting mass disciplinary efforts as a substi¬ tute for interest provocation. When there is closer team work among the faculty members, and a subservience to the interests of the stu¬ dent, by close personal contact, advice, and a decent attempt to realize that the student is filled with a sense of his own importance and capacities, then amazing results will follow. So long as the present comb ination of im¬ potent temper tantrums and terrible attempts at humorous cojolery is employed, the student will labor under artificial stimulation, and the instructor under delusions of success. The most successful lecture is the least educative, and the pleasant manner of some instructors bears testimony to their unfounded conceit. The syco¬ phantic attitudes of the student stenographers who amass reams of notes, no method, little memory, and a marked titubation from left- handed weight lifting, should be enough justi¬ fication for the elimination of formal lectures. The present trend in education is a retrench¬ ment of all the old evils in new guises. A dy¬ namic is sought to replace the Christian ideals, a dynamic which assumes more and more the shape of a stillborn social consciousness. The time is not ripe for this bastard of idealism to appear as the motivating force behind educa¬ tion. If the Christian promise of rewards in the after life is now inadequate to drive men to educative self-discipline, then the driving force of man’s utility to society must be measured by more sensitive galvonometers than the twisted coils of liberal education. The only adequate motive for the present crops of stu¬ dents to grow is the training for leadership. Our need for leaders is apparent in every sphere of life, and those who are presently em¬ ploying themselves as leaders are the industri¬ alists who manage to maintain the only pure motivation in all our complex incaginations of society — selfish lust for power. The laborer is swayed between devotion to an intangible cause and the necessity to keep a constant dribble of pay cheques arriving home. The scientists are confounded by too many con¬ trary theories, and the fact that their training demands they be skeptical while their discov¬ eries demand that they be astounded. The politician has not yet acclimatized his ora¬ torical talents to the needs of a literate public who refuses to be surprised at the most vio¬ lent disclosures, and are more capable than himself of believing the opposition to be all wrong. There is an increasing demand that the graduates from liberal colleges spring to the breaches in leadership, and until society becomes a stagnant mass of equalities, the need for leadership will increase. Nor will this lead to any sort of class distinction, for the graduate will continue to be the son of the people he will be called upon to lead. Page Eighteen

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VI. In Exile. Chorus: Lucy, Lucy of Rancho Grande, I bought a pound of cyanide, Here is a letter from your Old auntie, I baked a cake today, “Leave the saloon and give up likker, Ah, lonely will my life be now, And you’ll get to heaven and daddy much That Lucy’s gone away, quicker.” VII. Shipwreck. O Lucy on the burning deck, Forget you not your duty, Climb up upon the flaming boards, And shout your rooty-tooty. Oh, harden not your tender heart, Get women and children off, Cheer up the sailors’ hearts, my dear, And do not stop to cough. What if the boat is burning bright, Its decks are sinking lower, It is a warming death, my dear, And drowning is much slower. VIII. To the Lost Lucy. I took the train to Lyonesse, My Lucy for to woo, But oh, alas, she was not there, Nor was her suitcase, too. I went to see my Lucy sweet, I had a rose to give her, Alas, ah me, she was not there, They sold her down the river. IX. In Memoriam. Lucy is dead and I am sad, For she was my daughter and I her dad, But her mother is rather glad. X. Ring Out Ring Out (A Sbng). Ring, ring, ye bells, Lucy is dead, Because she ate Some hot, fresh bread. Ring out, wild bells, And toll our doom! Lucy is dead. We can rent her room! XI. Requiescat (To the Unknown Lover) They’ve showered her with roses, But never a word from you, I don’t know you from Moses, Ah, would that she did too. They’ve feted her in dozens And everyone was there, Her friends, her foes, her cousins, But from you, not one stare. Strew on her roses, roses, But never a spray of yew, In peace your heart reposes, Ah, would that mine did too. XII. Lament. The green grass is growing o’er the grave where Lucy lies, Oh, nevermore my love I’ll see, her gold hair and her eyes, I never knew what sorrow was, till Lucy’s soul had fled, And now my heart is squeezing out sad tears of deepest red. Oh woe is me, oh misery, oh dearest heart laid down Amid the dank and chilly sods, what profit in the ground? The little birds are singing o’er the spot where Lucy is laid, In all the earth will ne’er be found a purer, sweeter maid. Her goodness shone from out her eyes, her soul was there to see, How long, how long have I to wait, till I am there with thee? My bitter sobs, my soul-rack’t sighs, alas, to no avail, For she has gone ahead of me down that long, awesome trail. Page Twenty