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

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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.

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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 n TO CHATA A frail green tree grew lonely by the way On some far mount where winds blew all the day; From morn till night it wrestled with the storm That sought its tender beauty to deform. It found no peace, save in the quiet night When all the dying winds, as if contrite Gave place to gentle zephyrs and lent rest,— For peace unbroken w as its one request. So thus remained the tree for many years — Repose it only found in the dewy tears Of some dark pulsing night, who gave it sleep Upon its breast, and there it ceased to weep. At last some providential wind did blow A little seed and planted it below What cooling shade the tender tree could give That it might grow and with it ever live. The seed, as God commanded, grew and grew And twined about the tree, as friend most true. Its dew-stained tendrils, till at last The tree embraced, felt not the impetuous blast. Thus they remained together till one day Some maddened wind that happ ' ed along that way, Tore from the little tree its only friend And there, alone, it struggled to the end.