University of San Francisco - USF Don Yearbook (San Francisco, CA)

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8 T I! I : I K KS II M A X . of the cellars of the Rheiins champagne vineyards a highly lucrative venture. Chambers—A has! the mercenary motives of our modern times. There is no art save that which works alone for the production of the beautiful. The epic poet of these clays is little thought of. yet it is from him alone that the literature of this Western hemisphere has anything to expect. It is not a trade as are the crafts today miscalled painting and criticism, which are in reality onl means of livelihood. Is there a man among you who puts into his work all the virgin purity of his inspiration? Do you. ah Jcharlatan color-slingcr. put upon your canvas only those figures which your eye has detected as beautiful in nature! Is the taste of the buyer ever divorced from your mind? Would von paint your sea pink if that was the impression its hue gave you. when you knew that the uncultured mind of the low-browed purchaser could see in it only green? You speak of food. Are not the pangs of hunger sweet to him who writes of hunger? This very morning I have composed an hundred verses, each as perfect as ever sprung from the immortal mind of Milton. I have achieved what no man of my time has ever approached, and you would have me glory in the shame of art gone wrong. Tis true. I have not eaten well for years, but feasts of soul have been to me but common diet Each day I dine upon Parnassus with the bards of every age. And you would talk of earthly fare. Lyle (in disgust, lapsing into th vernacular)—Aw. cut out the heroics and get the Swede off the roof. If I keep this money in my pocket much longer I’ll get to love it so well that I will not he able to part with it. Chambers—Alas! 1 fear me that I must yield. The cruel pangs or relentless hunger press me hard, and like the wise warrior retreating before a greater force seems to yield while he does but gather strength: I eat the dead-sea fruit of misused art to stem awhile the flood of weakness nature imposes. When strong again the labor I’ll attack, and as the lean weeks follow the fat ones, again I’ll sink into the divine stupor, and once more properly inspired. I’ll duplicate my former triumph, aye! perhaps surpass it. and once again the world shall know that genius is not dead! Descend, oh mime of Muneker! cringing servitor of the box-office—’tis well that Ilulsmams knows you not. I»v all the laws of beauty and of order, an all-provident government had long ago exterminated you and all vour clan. Xelson (mechanically)—Madame Te trazinni opened last evening— Lyle (impatiently)—Cut out the “shop”! Come on down town ! Eor one night, at least, we live! Xelson—to the largest lions. that ever— The trio starts down stairs. Chambers—And it will take a week to get properly hungry again. Lyle—You had better say that it will take a week to get properly fed again. Xelson—filled a San b'rancisco— Sound of scuffle as critic is squelched bv his comrades. Curtain. Jos. E. Foley.

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T II E E KS II M A N . “ahr ArraDiatifi” As rejected by the leading managers of the I'nitcd States and England. A tale of Bohemia—as it is not. Dramatis Personae. George I-vie—A Good but Dishonest Painter. Vens Nelson—A Scandinavian Musical Critic. Robert C hambers—An Epic Poet. Noth—The above trinity not suggested by Henri Mnrger. Scene—A garret on Montgomery avenue, the home of the Arcadians. There is nothing whatever in the room except the atmosphere of genius and three empty milk bottles. Thus are fulfilled the requirements of Romance. On a pile of rejected manuscripts lies Chambers in an attitude of most poetic dejection. Mis hair, although long enough to satisfy the most punctilious, is very ragged at the edges and lacks the finish which the most successful poets regard as indispensable. The dark and flowing beard which lends such dignity to his visage, is in the same condition as his hair. Mis clothes show signs of having once been well made, but have so fallen into decay that only the most cultivated imagination would be able to infer from their signs of pristine beauty the former prosperous estate of their wearer. Ilis snores fill the attic, but the house is so high that they do not disturb traffic in the street below. A sound of footsteps i heard on the long stair, the door opens with a bang, and Lyle enters. Lyle—Ilola! mes enfants, the poverty-imposed season of Lent is over. The Easter-tide of prosperity is here. We eat! and, bv all the gods of Greece and Rome, it is well! (Sound of violent scramble from the roof where Nelson is hiding from importunate creditors.) Lyle—Behold! I have this day sold my masterpiece, the work of unadulterated genius in which, fool that I am. I had wrapped my mind and soul, and for what, ask you, to advertise the latest brand of hop, and draw the beauty-loving populace of this fair town of ours to an appreciation of a loathsome brand of cabbage-leaf. Ten bones! In this degenerate day what is there that an artist will not do to gain possession of the trifling bit of filthy metal which forms the open sesame to every joy of man? Ten bones! and it is well it was not less, else there were trouble in the busy marts of trade wherein I hawked my treasure like some peddler of peanuts or the agent of The Ladies’ Home Delight.—a house and lot with every new subscription. One man there was. Sutro his name, who thought mv painting looked more like the Pacific building on a rainy day than “Smiling Tobacco Fields of Virginia.’ —its true title. Out on you. foul barbarian. I cried, whereon he. paraphrasing, yelled, “Out with von!” and in a moment I found myself in the darkest depths of the elevator shaft, whither I had been cast by the rude hands of as bloodthirsty a pirate as ever trod the decks of a Brangwvn privateer or poured out his crimson lake life blood after the fashion of the motley I loward Pyle. Pondering upon my evil fate I suddenly descried in the shifting shadows of that subterranean well the color scheme that will make my painting

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T II I F R E S 11 M A X . 9 “‘Xmrlrru ahtrtrrn” (0 |li! gallant fellow Freshmen, 'Trusty sons of right. Let's never cease repeating ( )ur old class slogan “light.” We'll plant upon the heights of fame ( )ur standard white and green. Till all the earth with one accord Acclaims “nineteen thirteen.” Hurrah! Hurrah! for T’reshmen. Hurrah! for the gallant few. The bravest in the college To light for red and blue. I ler llag we’ll keep a waving. Well venerate her name. We’ll give our latest drop of blood To win her glory’s fame. Edward M. (VXeii.i..