University of Santa Clara - Redwood Yearbook (Santa Clara, CA)

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THE REDWOOD authentic — it follows the notes left by Henry Harland. The title of the boo , which he chose himself when the novel was well under way, had caused hira some forebodings, — he was very ill. But when he had decided to retain it: ' ' Love, ' ' ' he sa d. ' ' is the Royal End. And since I keep the title, that shall he the last line of the book. His wife remembered, and carrying on his intention, concluded with this phrase, which really conveys the consummation, the climax of his Romance. VI Henry Harland ' s life, which was en- riched by a buoyant sense of humour, was a life of sacrifice to his work. Dread disease hovering forever in the wall paper, ready to pounce upon one ' s lungs! he laughed. One has, per- force, to forego half the jolly things of this exceedingly jolly world. And so, although life interested and charmed him at every turn of the road; and, be- cause he was a slow and an immensely painstaking worker, Harland had schooled himself to take his work, in- stead of life, in the spirit of sport, of adventure. He cultivated deliberately, ' ' et cela se voif the light touch . I learned in sorrow what I teach in jest , was a frequent remark of his. When Harland appeared in his drawing-room, late of a Winter afternoon on a dark London day, the escape from labour to irresponsible mirth found the most mad- cap expression. He is certainly the happiest soul alive, his friends said. He was, to a degree, — for he forgot quickly in the stimulus of comradeship, the extent of his physical pain and exhaustion. Condemned to speedy extinction, fourteen years before the fact; how long, he asked of the doctors, may I expect, by a change of climate, to live on? Two years, came the laconic answer. Then I ' ll stick to my last here, said Harland; and he turned his heel upon doctors for fourteen years. Here , was London, where he remained and did the bulk of his work; though the winters and early Spring were, later, passed in France or in Italy. The sense of humour, the sense of romance, the sense of beauty. Take the three together and you have the Divin- ity, said he in The Lady Paramount. Yes, Harland, and you possessed the sense of all three, supremely. One of the roost brilliant and paradox- ical talkers, — Henry Harland, chival- rously tender-hearted, almost too gener- ous, generous to a fault, — loved nothing so well as being utterly and childishly foolish. Once only in a blue moon could he, though, find a mate, a play- fellow, who would bear him out, keep him company in folly. Why, oh why, do you all think it necessary to be consistent and porten- tous and grown-up? he would inquire of his friends in plaintive key, while he sat, cross-legged like the bearded Turk, upon the floor. Come, he coaxed, while he hopped along the floor upon his hands. Come, do come and be a kid along o ' me! But oh, the grief, the grief of that last year! Unable to put his hand to his

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THE REDWOOD as dignified a memorial of his presence, his passage there, as can well be wished for even in that very lovely part of New England. But to get back to Prospero. The scene is Italy again; Italy, her gifts and her enchantments too boundless not to be untiringly rehearsed, and My Friend Prospero, with its heady aroma of Italy, its paradisaical vistas, its Italian pros- pects, introduces Lady Blanchmain, Prospero, Annunziata, Maria Dolores. These people, — acquaintances of a type far too individual and too inspiriting to be lightly made or forsaken, one has no wish or intention of bidding good-bye to when the last pages are reached They linger beside one — or one goes to find them; like distinguished and sug- gestive friends, they endure, they stimu- late for a lifetime. Those who have read and re-read Henry Harland may perceive that he has delivered his message, neither a solemn nor a severe one. He gave it joyously, as would a herald of good tidings; and with a tender sort of yearn- ing; for that loving grateful heart of his needed to pour a little of its own superabundant vision, of its own over- flowing love and burden of knowledge into every other man ' s mind and heart. He who runs may read it: Harland dreamt of marriage As a High Romance, the highest — if one can be faithful unto death. Yet he knew that the Sacra- ment of Marriage, like those other Sac- raments instituted by Jesus Christ, shall reach perfection, to flower in Paradise as the joy of angels, only through the grace of those Sacraments offered by our Holy Mother Church, built upon a Rock. V Then last of all came The Royal End. It is Henry Harland ' s pen and it chants the same paean of Italy. The same virile, luminous and distinguished mind, so sane, so joyous, disports itself, and, faceted, diamond-like, reflects the bea- tific vision of truth. It is indeed as though Henry Harland were reviewing life and showing it to us, from an alti- tude, from a City built upon a Hill. He presents its proportions with a new, an infinite smiling charity, and an in- dulgence for life ' s adorable follies, child- ish presumptions, self-complaisances, frailties. But ah! Sweet though the weather was, fair though the valley , — and Venice and Florence were so fair to consider and to linger in! The Royal End was Henry Harland ' s last work. He had written this novel iu a vein somewhat difi erent, a more philosophically romantic vein, one may say, than its predecesssors. One feels it, one becomes aware of it at every step, the higher still — and higher — vision, the ethereal presentment; his rare and dehcate sense of humour hov- ers over all like the gayety of nations, — amused at what it sees and depicts, and loves. But he did not live to quite terminate the ItaUan Episode of The Royal End. Three years after, it was Henry Harland ' s wife who terminated The Royal End. The American episode is

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10 THE REDWOOD unfinished book, Henry Harland looked into the world; to testify of the truth. continually for a turn in the disease His death took place at San Remo on which would permit him to: Sit up December 20th, 1905, at the age of forty- and work, sit down and slogg. four. His body lies beside his people, I have been lazy too long. Oh, but in consecrated ground. It lies in shall I ever know again the joy of the peaceful, elm-avenued cemetery at writing beautiful words, of chiselling, — Norwich, Connecticut, and a Roman be made a sweeping, tender gesture of Cross marks the spot. And the cross is the hand, like a sculptor modelling his within sight of his old home, clay, — of chiselling beautiful phrases? For this was I born, for this came I THE DREAMUR G. Gl,ASTONBURY. Time plucked for me a single golden flower That God had planted in Eternity. See, said he smiling, I give it thee To do with as thou wilt, this priceless hour. Musing upon it, Shall I purchase power With this— or fame? I thought, or shall it be To duty given— or deathless charity? Or can love lure it from me? Like a shower Of autumn leaves by vagrant breezes blown My thoughts flashed on me,— ah, too fair to choose Among them; i must think, and dream, and muse. It must be some great deed to make me known. This plan, or this; no, that; or shall I use— Nay, cease to plan, said Time, thine hour has flown. M. T. Dooling, Jr. S. F. Bulletin.